Boo!

Scared? Probably not. I was never very good at this whole Halloween thing. I think it's because no matter what kind of costume I put on, I look pretty much like Slim Goodbody, of eighties public television fame. (Some argue that I more closely resemble Richard Simmons. Those perceptive few are treated to a swift kick to their no-no special place.)

I must admit (and you must be tired of hearing this), I am not the biggest fan of Halloween. I never really understood it, to be honest-- once a year, you have to dress up like some sort of monster or cartoon character and traipse around your neighborhood begging for candy, even though you know perfectly well that your mom is sitting at home in your front door with a big bowl of candy you could just as easily take sans face paint and grovelling. By the end of the night, your dignity is gone, your feet are wet, your mask is all sweaty and slime coated on the inside, and all you have to show for it are two mini-Twixes and five hundred and thirty of those gross black and orange wrapped candies, which your mom makes you throw away because someone could have very easily injected them with some sort of poison designed to kill naive little kids such as yourself. At least, that's the way it happened at my house.

I was never anything cool for Halloween, anyway. Everyone else had their Wonder Woman costumes, their He-Man and Skeletor costumes, and what-not. Me? I was Raggedy Ann. Every year. Except the year I was George Bush. But I'd rather not talk about that.

It doesn't help that my father is the King of Halloween, a self-bestowed title that enables him to ruin my life for a good three months before the Big Day by forcing me to participate in Halloween ceremonies, such as the construction of the Halloween Village (which consists of three hundred thousand little light up ceramic haunted houses and a handful of brightly colored plastic monster figures he procured somewhere, perhaps from Satan.)

He is also obsessed with having the best handouts possible, which is really a moot point since we live in the middle of a cul-de-sac and get maybe ten kids a year. At my house, there's not just candy, oh no, but little trinkets, which my dad spends a good portion of the night worrying will somehow end up lodged in the nose of some unsuspecting trick-or-treater, causing massive lawsuits and financial ruin. (Apparently these are the risks you run when you are the King of Halloween.) I think the best year so far was the Year of the Big Plastic Ears, which, because there was no possible way to get them lodged up your nose, my dad gave out with wild abandon. Every once in a while the ears surface around town; they remain, in his mind, his single greatest contribution to society thus far.

I personally am glad that my trick-or-treating days are over; one can only appear in public as Raggedy Ann so many times before she goes insane and kills many innocent bystanders with her telekinetic powers. However, I have no problem with everyone else doing it. In fact, I highly recommend you look up my dad. And then, shove whatever you find in the goodie bag he gives you straight up your nose.