Tag Archives: Halloween

Ground control to Major Scarp…

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Captain’s log, Star date -312836.81 (November 1, 2011, 8:15 P.M., Earth, Eastern Standard Time) I have found myself somewhere in the Fort Lauderdale quadrant of a strange peninsula called Florida. I’ve been to this planet before and am acquainted with some of their customs, but a great many of them still escape me. I’ve just entered a bizarre, although familiar, enclosed commerce location.  I must navigate my way through large shelving structures with assorted food items on them, without calling too much attention to myself.  The inhabitants of this alternate universe are particularly social and well-dressed tonight.  Since I have not applied my cosmetic disguise, I am certain that I am going to run into a life form I have met on a previous voyage; that I most definitely would not like to see right now.  My intended destination: The Deli, I must initiate the Prepared Submarine Sandwich Interface at warp-speed, my crew members and I are hungry and too lazy to make our own sustenance.

“Can I help you find something?” a being wearing what appears to be a hair-net and a paper hat asks me. He doesn’t have any hair, so I can only assume he is wearing these headpieces as a sign of allegiance to his clan or tribe.  He is pushing a large bin of recently deceased animal carcasses around a refrigerated coffin.  They have been mutilated and displayed on tiny foam trays enclosed in a thin, transparent plastic coating.  “This creature is obviously dangerous; he kills and then humiliates his victims by arranging their flesh in meal-sized portions. He even weighs them and then marks their bodies with adhesive coated strips of paper tombstones that read “On Sale”.  I must avoid his advances, or I fear I may be next”. I had to be quick on my feet. “I’m actually looking for adult diapers,” I say stealthily, knowing that this will keep me from having to answer any more questions and I will be able to escape unharmed. The life form looked at me quizzically and then communicated that these devises are located on aisle 12.  I thanked him and then quickly walked away. “Ground Chuck is on special tonight” he called after me as I reached a safe distance.  “Oh, God! Which one was Chuck? What did he do to meet such a horrible demise?” I think, briefly considering warning the others, but they seem totally comfortable surrounded by eminent danger. “You fools!”

I made my way towards aisle 12, to keep the savage I just encountered at bay. Yes, he may be a twisted murderer, but he is damn good with directions. The adult diapers were stacked neatly on a display to my left. I was going to walk by them as I had only used them as an exit strategy in my clever ruse, but became distracted by the packaging.  The bundles of absorbent undergarments had an artist’s rendering of two elderly carbon based life forms drawn on it.  They were depicted seated on a park bench, peacefully smiling.  “I don’t understand this culture.  These beings seem to be elated that they shit themselves,” I thought as I held the packaging, examining it.

“Sara?” I heard coming from over my shoulder. I had let my guard down, and opened myself up for an ambush. I turned to see who was speaking to me, it was a creature that was commonly referred to as “Jim”, but I had renamed “Asshole” after he tried to put the moves on me when I drove him home from a social gathering a light year or two ago. Not only was I not wearing make-up, but I was holding a bag of Depends.  “I hope he doesn’t notice” I thought. “Oh, shit! What in the hell happened to you?” I said upon seeing a bright purple bruise encircling Jim’s right eye. “This? It’s nothing’” he said gesturing towards his face. Through my previous visits to this location and its surrounding areas, I was able to determine that Jim had evidently been on the receiving end of what is referred to on this planet as an “Ass Whoopin”.  “Just some guy as at a bar, he thought I was hitting on his girl” he went on to explain.  “That’s probably because you were” I said smiling, realizing that even on this strange landscape, I still didn’t have control of my mouth.

Jim was holding a box of feminine hygiene products, so I didn’t feel so bad about being seen with a handful of grandpa diapers.  “You ever notice how happy they want people to feel about losing control of their bodily functions, Jim? How’s the wife?” I said, not really caring about the answer.  Jim was married to a surgically altered human being from a far-away galaxy, named Brazil. She is a strange, jealous lump of flesh who believes that all of the female species that come in contact with her mate wish to own him. I speculate she married him for an intergalactic Green Card.  If was able to communicate in her language I would tell her that the female species she worries so much about would not be a problem if Jim did not go out of his way to sleep with them.

“You’re crazy, girl!” he said, lightly punching my shoulder and ignoring the wife reference.  “No, Jim. I’m not” I said, hitting him back, just a little bit harder. “We should get together for a drink or something…sometime” he added.  “I just told you I wasn’t crazy, Jim.” I said, dryly.  The beauty of this planet is that you can say pretty much exactly how you feel and if you use the right inflection, its inhabitants think you are engaging them with humor. Jim was no different. I wrapped up the niceties and continued on my mission.  At least I had only come in contact with Jim and not a life form I would be unable to insult and have to speak with at length.  On my way towards the fabled Deli Department, I made a wrong turn.  I was now smack dab in a location marked Holiday Décor.  I will never understand the thought process of the people here.  Yesterday was the celebration of Halloween.  It is the practice of children dressing up as false idols and then begging for candy from other, taller locals.  Like I said before, I am familiar with some of the customs.  The practice of moving from Halloween directly into the holiday called Christmas puzzles me.  I didn’t have a calendar of events with me, but I believe the alliance that is responsible for the inventory of this commerce location were ignoring a day of celebration in between the one called Halloween and the one called Christmas.

Yes, there is a date set aside for gluttony and watching an organized sport called “Football” coming up.  I’d have to look it up to be sure, but if my memory doesn’t fail me; I believe they skipped over Thanksgiving. The historical literature of this culture tells me that this is a celebration of invading forces, called Pilgrims, wandering into a place now known as Plymouth, Massachusetts. The Pilgrims arrived nearly starved to death and ill, then met the individuals who already lived there.  The invaders willingly accepted the help of the locals and ate the great feast that the indigenous life forms helped them cultivate and prepare.  Although, I wasn’t there, I can infer through my studies that the Pilgrims repaid their gracious hosts by killing, raping and enslaving them. Sounds like a reason to celebrate to me. I escaped the holiday section within inches of my life, a small female life form had cornered me and excitedly rambled about all the things a man she called “Santa” was going to bring her.  “Turkey first” I declared, as I ran.

I arrived at the Deli counter, placed my order for two sandwiches and waited.  In my down time, I used my communication device to peruse the mug-shots posted on the informative internet based website controlled by this location’s form of law enforcement.  Jim and his wife quickly popped up on the screen of my device, both bloodied and swollen with the words “domestic disturbance” under their names.  “I knew it” I thought. “There is no intelligent life here”.

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They said there would be cake…

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Today my son learned a very valuable lesson, while dressed up as a very muscular race car driver and seated on the alphabet rug at pre-school.  He learned, through the example of his mother, that if you promise to do something and then decide at the last minute that you don’t want to, someone will pick up your slack and fulfill your responsibilities.  This is not a lesson I was trying to teach; but it worked out that way.

I’m not a doting, room-mother, kind of broad.  I don’t bake cookies. I won’t harass my friends and family with flyers for a fundraiser and ask them to spend their hard-earned dollars on over-priced, plastic, crap they don’t need; so that the school can buy new computers that my son will likely never get to use. I don’t volunteer to come in for story time and read to the little darlings; not because I don’t like reading, but because I’d hate to be the parent responsible for teaching 15 four year olds the age old expression “Dammit, I said sit your ass on the carpet”.  No, that’s not my style. If it’s yours…hey, more power to you.

I’m not a total slouch, though. Often times, if there is a request for supplies or snacks left on the door to the classroom, I will be the first…um, OK…third to sign up.  Today, I was guilted into bringing a fresh fruit assortment for a Halloween Extravaganza.  I wasn’t quick enough to sign up for the fun stuff like cupcakes or goodie bags, so I volunteered to bring premade fruit salad and apple slices, prepared lovingly by someone else in the produce department at the grocery store.  I wrote myself a reminder on a sticky note, sent myself an email and entered the event in my cell phone under “Go get the effing fruit,” so it would ring with the most annoying of dings. The good news is, I remembered.  Even though I got stuck with the boring nourishment; I took comfort in the fact that I wasn’t going to be the parent accidentally responsible for sending the little girl with all the food allergies to the emergency room.  My fruit was purchased ahead of time and with the fore thought to bring in forks to accompany the chunks of watermelon, yay me!

The attendance level was noticeably lacking today, there were at least six less bouncing balls of energy and germs sitting at circle time.  My keen sense of observation alerted me to the fact that most of the children missing were wrangled by parents who had volunteered to bring the cupcakes, juice boxes and cookies. Thank god the lovely black woman, with the son who is large enough to eat the rest of the children for a mid-morning snack, held up her end of the bargain and came armed with goodie bags. Geeze, that kid is tall; but he’s a sweet little boy that doesn’t put up with any funny stuff from his shorter counterparts. “It’s a good thing he wanted to be a Transformer, because none of the other costumes were going to fit him,” his mother said to me as we stood around fumbling for things to say to one another waiting for the traditional costume parade to start.  We’ve bonded, because our children are vertically gifted and play with each other.  It’s more of a safety measure than it is an everlasting friendship. They each have found a kindred spirit who can recover quickly from being laid out on the playground, after receiving a body blow that would send the other kids screaming for Band-Aid’s.

As it got closer to party time, it became clear to me that the only thing these kids would be snacking on was the crappy fruit, brought by yours truly.  I am of the opinion that Halloween is not a success unless you have ingested enough sugar to make your eyes roll into the back of your head and your lips spontaneously speak in tongues.  This would never do.  My son’s teacher looked desperately at the parents standing around taking pictures of their children in costumes; I could tell she was telepathically asking that someone do something about the empty snack table.  I wish I wasn’t so good at receiving non-verbal directives…but I am; we all have our cross to bear.  “Ms. Patty? What can I do?” I said before I even realized I was offering assistance. “We need cookies, cupcakes, juice boxes or something more than this fruit,” she whispered “The other parents just didn’t make it happen, “ she went on mumbling as she adjusted her bee wings and antennas. “Ok, I’ll be right back” I said, but what I was really thinking was “Damn you! You slackers! How dare you screw with Halloween”.

“Mommy, where are you going?” my nugget asked as he made a parental pit-stop. “I’m going to go get some cupcakes, buddy. I’ll be right back”.  “Daddy can bring ‘em!” he chirped happily. Daddy, I didn’t have the heart to tell him, wasn’t coming.  My son was still holding out hope that he was going to walk through the door with an armful of cupcakes and a hug. His father blew off the party that he had promised he would attend and I reminded him of every blessed time I had to speak with him for the last month and a half; he didn’t write himself a sticky note or set up an annoying cell phone reminder.  I had to distract him from the realization that this was a one parent event and I was not going to let this be the Halloween that was chronicled by all the things that didn’t happen. I needed unhealthy, chemical filled treats and I needed them now!

I bolted out of the classroom on a mission to purchase the sugary goodness the party was missing, it’s a beautiful thing there is a grocery store in the plaza where the school is located.  I immediately went to the display of Halloween themed baked goods. I didn’t have time to search for gluten-free, non-peanut, low-carb garbage that tastes like cardboard.  I grabbed a cartful of assorted junk and hoped that the little allergic girl had an eppie pen stashed under her witch costume.  I waited in the line to pay for the bounty of all things bad for you, “Last minute shopping?” the check-out girl inquired as she scanned my items. I wanted to yell “No, some heartless bastards at my son’s school tried to ruin Halloween.  They promised CUPCAKES!!! They were too selfish and lazy to get them and then they didn’t even have the balls to show up and apologize for being assholes!”. I didn’t though.  I know how crazy this would make me sound and even though I may not be firing on all cylinders in the metal stability department, I didn’t want to let her know that.  “You betcha,” I said, biting my lip.

When I arrived back at school I tried to be inconspicuous, but was unable to get past the sea of short people undetected.  They have a sixth sense when it comes to cupcakes, you might as well be chumming the waters with sugar.  They circled me screaming “YAAAAY!!!! CUPCAKES!!!! YOU’RE THE BEST LADY EVER!!!”.  I have to admit, it felt pretty good to be on the receiving end of their little compliments.  I handed the bags to Ms. Patty and left before the sugar rush turned the Minnie Mouse’s, Pumpkins and Spider-men into whirling dervishes.  When I returned a few hours later, I was relieved to see that the ambulance was not out front, nor were the paramedics trying to resuscitate the little witch because she had come into contact with a legume.  My son and his classmates probably won’t remember their first organized school party and that’s just the way I wanted it.  They won’t have the memory of not having cupcakes, juice, cookies or goodie bags because at least two crazy parents decided they should keep their word and make up for those that didn’t.

It’s Autumn…or something…

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Autumn has arrived.  The leaves are changing; people are breaking out their sweaters, apple cider and getting cozy in front or a roaring fire.  At least that’s what Facebook tells me you people up North are doing.  Nothing like that is happening down here in Florida.  We don’t get to experience the transition from summer to fall, it’s always summer here.  The only way I know that fall is upon us is because the decorators in the mall have added a pumpkin and a turkey to the flip-flop display in the shoe department and some of my neighbors thought it would be cute to put bales of hay and a scarecrow next to their swimming pools.  Yeah, the only time the leaves on the palm trees turn brown and plummet to the ground here…is when we’re going through a drought. 

I’m not complaining; while it would be nice to have a change in temperature, I know that what lies directly behind fall in the season schedule is winter.  I’m not a huge fan of winter. Yes, I’d like to be able to put on a fashionable coat and fluffy hat to frolic around a snowy hill for a day or two, but freezing my ass off every morning to go out to the driveway and retrieve the paper doesn’t appeal to me at all. I’m also not keen on the idea of snot pouring down my face as I trudge, waist deep in snow, through a parking lot or having to hurriedly remove 18 layers of clothing so I can shimmy off my undies and pee.  No, no thank you, I’ll stay here and my son can learn about the seasons the way I did, through television. 

Although, I was born in Ohio, my parents moved the family to Florida when I was two.  I have never made a snow angel or busted my lip open during an unfortunate sledding accident.  I have no idea how to treat frost bite or properly shovel a sidewalk.  I’ve never seen a snow-blower or caught snowflakes on my tongue.  I know those of you raised in cooler environments must feel pretty sorry for me, please don’t.  I turned out just fine not having these experiences. While you were building snowmen and losing your mittens in the powder, I was erecting sandcastles on the beach. When Spring Break rolled around and you and your Frat Brothers and Sorority Sisters were trying to think of a way to get your parents to finance a seven day drunk-fest in sunny Fort Lauderdale, without having to tell them where you were actually going; I was rolling out of bed and driving 15 minutes to the east. The only packing I had to do for my time at the shore was my beach bag.  I never had to worry about losing my luggage or endure a crappy 5 hour layover.  My only travel woes were red-lights and full parking lots.  Beach days during Spring Break were quite economical, as there was always some nice boy from Nebraska willing to buy me a beverage or two on his parent’s credit card. Gee, I missed out on a lot.

This past weekend, my son and I took a trip to the local pumpkin patch. Ok, it’s not really a pumpkin patch; it’s a parking lot next to a Catholic Church.  In a few weeks the pumpkin patch will strangely transform into a winter wonderland; and the same volunteers that were hawking gourds this week, will be trying to sell you a hideously flocked fir tree, next week. But this is the natural progression here and if you don’t know any differently, it doesn’t really seem that weird.

I’m not sure if pumpkins can actually be grown here.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that the only place they could be cultivated locally is on the asphalt, adjacent to a place of worship, because that’s the only place I’ve ever seen them.  I try to give my little nugget a taste of the seasons any time I can, hoping that he will be able to hold his own should he ever be surrounded by Northerner’s and the conversation turns to something alien, like autumn or winter. 

We wandered around the rows and rows of orange vegetables for what seemed like an eternity.  He has inherited his mother’s decision making abilities, meaning until he’s pressed for time, he won’t make up his mind.  “These are too orwange” he’d declare in his own little language after staring a few pumpkins that looked promising.  “This one’s too big, I want something smaller and not so bumpy” he said, after considering a few more.  The sun was starting to set, and I needed to speed up the selection process.  I presented him with three pumpkins that were not too orwange, bumpy or large. “Nah, I don’t think any of these are speaking to me” he pontificated.  “They don’t speak to you? You’re four.  What do you mean they don’t speak to you?” I asked, laughing.  “You know what I mean, they just don’t have it” he corrected me, not the least bit amused by my questioning.  At this point I made a mental note to change the channel when Dancing with the Stars or Project Runway came on, he must have been picking up this mumbo-jumbo from there, because I certainly am not evolved enough to use terminology like that.  “Over there, I want dat one” he jumped up and down excitedly.  I couldn’t see exactly what he was talking about; they all looked the same to me.  I encouraged him to run to the pumpkin that he connected with on a spiritual level. When he picked it up, it was just as orange, bumpy and large as the last 1000 gourds we had painstakingly inspected, but I didn’t dare say anything.  I just wanted to get the hell out of there; the smell of rotting pumpkin flesh was making me ill and I was pretty sure I’d unintentionally been photographed, standing behind other people’s children making a stupid face as they  posed on pumpkins, more than a few times. We paid for our pumpkins and left.

“What are we going to carve your pumpkin to look like, honey?” I asked as we drove home. “Wendell. Mom, his name is Wendell?” my son whispered, seriously. “Uh…what?” I said, momentarily confused.  “I’ve named the pumpkin.  I’m calling him Wendell” he said a little louder.  “Oh, ok buddy. Well, what do you want to make Wendell look like?” I was expecting him to say a puppy or Elmo…but no, Wendell, I learned, would not be going under the knife.  Evidently, my son and the pumpkin…er…Wendell, had a deeper relationship than I was initially led to believe.  I started to worry about my son’s mental health and attachment to this inanimate object, when I reminded myself that he is four and prone to doing all kinds of crazy things. When I was his age I had an imaginary sister named Lisa. Lisa had an imaginary sister named Steve.  Steve and I were not related; I would become incensed when anyone suggested that I was akin to that bitch.  Since my make-believe family drama didn’t land me on a couch, talking about my feelings and looking at ink dots on paper, I decided not to read into it too much and I changed the subject.

By the time we arrived home, the relationship between Wendell and my son had cooled.  Wendell had been dropped a few times and his stem had detached from his body.  I repaired Wendell’s injuries with super glue and set him on the counter.  My son had decided that it would probably be more fun to slice him up then it would be to go on with the charade of being friends.  I was relieved, until he said that he wanted Wendell to be carved to look like “Lightening McQueen”.  I’m pretty handy with a knife, but I’m not a magician.  I suggested the puppy motif, but my son had his heart set on the race car.  I got on the internet and desperately searched for a free pattern in the image of Mr. McQueen.  I found one, but wasn’t sure Wendell was large enough to properly display the image “Well, it’s worth a try” I thought and went to work trying to please my son.    

“What ever happened to two triangles and a jagged mouth?” I thought, as I shoveled Wendell’s slimy guts out on to a sheet of newspaper. “I wanna help smoop (smoop is how he says scoop) the goop” my son declared, holding a little plastic spoon.  He nudged me out of the way and attempted to scoop the stringy innards or “goop” as he called it, onto the table.  That got boring after a few minutes and he decided it was far more entertaining to pick out the seeds and press them to his forehead.  For a second I thought about stopping this behavior, but changed my mind when I realized that if he was busy bedazzling his face with pumpkin seeds, I would be able to concentrate on the carving.

I realized I would not be able to create a pumpkin masterpiece with a few knives and elbow grease…so I asked my father if I could borrow his Dremmel.  A Dremmel, if you are not familiar with this term, is basically a small, handheld filing tool. I believe it is mostly used for intricate wood carving, but we use ours to trim the dog’s nails.  The Dremmel only succeeded in covering me in fine, powdery, wet film of pumpkin skin.  The battery died shortly after I completed Lightening’s second eyebrow.  I was determined to get this carving done, so I went back to the knives. After about two hours of work, I was finished with my carving.  The end result doesn’t look anything like my son’s favorite cartoon character. I glued some tires from an old, broken truck to Wendell’s sides, and apologized to the pumpkin for not being able to make him the best looking gourd on the block.  My son didn’t seem to notice my errors in artistry; he was  just thrilled Wendell had wheels and immediately began to push him around, making car noises.  I probably could have saved myself hours of labor if I carved a couple of triangles, a jagged, toothy smile and glued car parts to the sides. I’ll have to remember that trick for next year.

Welcome to The World of Whorecraft, all sales are final…

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At 33 years old I have finally mastered the art of parallel parking.  I can tie the hell out of my own shoes and play a mean air-synthesizer to Ah Ha’s “Take On Me”.  I have never been able to discern my right from my left without holding my hands out in front of me with index finger and thumb extended, to see which hand forms the “L” or tell time on a watch that has actual hands on it, and isn’t made my Casio.  Another thing I have never mastered is picking out the quintessential Halloween Costume.  I know you may be saying “You’re too old to dress up for Halloween” and I’d like to encourage you to shut-up.  Yes, I am on the cusp of being too aged to dress up like a slutty princess and act like a moron for a night.  But, time is flowing like the sand’s through the hourglass; I’ve got to take advantage of the stretch I have left, before my body totally loses its battle against gravity and I am relegated to wearing an orange Jack O’ Lantern t-shirt, blinky ghost necklace and black mom jeans.

I was reminded of my shortcomings in the costume department today, as I stood in line at the Post Office, waiting to return the suggestive bunny costume I had recently purchased from an online vendor.  On the website, this costume had everything I was looking for.  It was sparkly, black, low-cut and appeared to be missing pants. On any other day, if I wore this in public, I might be arrested for indecent exposure.  I would probably also receive some marriage proposals from strange men and dirty looks, from women actually wearing clothing.  But all forms of modesty go out the window on October 31, here in sunny South Florida and you are free to let your skank-flag fly as high as you want.  You can be anything and although I have never really had a desire to pose naked in the pages of Playboy, I figure one night of pretending I do wasn’t going to kill me.  My parents would have more than likely disowned me if I ever received a paycheck signed by Hugh Heffner, and I’m not sure I would have been able to handle walking around thinking people were picturing me naked….because…they had actually seen me naked.

Anywho,  back to the costume…I stumbled upon it because Facebook suggested I may like a website.  Someone must have seen the photos of last Halloween and decided that this site and I were a match made in heaven.  I could have picked anything; there were pages and pages of trampy, poorly manufactured get-ups from Taiwan. I had stumbled upon The World of Whorecraft.  Incidentally, I don’t think they celebrate Halloween in Taiwan, and our traditions here in the West probably confuse them as much as chop-sticks confuse us.  I’d like to get the perspective of a factory worker in Kaohsiung City, and see what they assume about the people who buy this crap. I hope they understand that we don’t walk around in Warrior Princess garb every day. Actually, no I don’t.  I’d like to be at the airport, should they ever visit the States, to catch the look of disappointment on their faces as they confront the ugly truth.

Should I be a floozy robot? A trollop kitten? A nearly naked Tinkerbelle? A strumpet Miss Muffet?  The possibilities were endless!  My boyfriend suggested I go for something more modest “Why don’t you check out that green M&M costume?” he said, hoping I would select something that would keep him from possibly having to hit someone in the face, should they get the wrong idea about the content of my character. I ignored his proposal; he just doesn’t understand the science of Halloween from an aging woman’s perspective. 

I scrolled through the inventory until my eyes crossed.  Weighing the options of every costume that caught my eye “This is cute, but it looks like it may be hard to get in and out of and I’ll be drinking…there is nothing worse than having to pee and not being able to negotiate your way out of Lederhosen”.  “Oooh, I really like this one. But it shows the stomach and I don’t want to have to worry about sucking in my gut all night,” this went on for hours.  I finally settled on the bunny, and anxiously waited for the package to arrive in the mail. 

When it finally made its way into my mailbox, it was not at all what the website described.  It was more medieval torture device than it was harlot woodland creature.  The costume could not have been any less flattering.  The corset; which was described as having a sweet-heart neck line, pushed everything from my waist up, uncomfortably towards my chest area. It made me look as if I was born with just one giant uni-boob, definitely not the lift and separation I was going for.  The sequins sewn to the corset sliced the tender undersides of my arms, and I appeared as if I had developed a strange rash.  The tiny shorts that came with the ensemble flattened my behind in such a manner that I seriously considered breaking out the VCR and resurrecting the Buns of Steel video. 

No, this was not cute, not one bit; I searched the packaging for the return policy. Upon reading the policy of the communist regime that operated this bastion of all things morally questionable, I was informed that I was not eligible for a refund…but I met the requirements for an exchange or store credit.  The pamphlet directed me to their website, where I would have to follow specific instructions to send the costume back.  It was clear to me, when trying to locate the customer service link, that this store did not want its merchandise to be returned and was going to make it very difficult for me to complete this task.  After some searching, I found a link that instructed me to perform a series of steps. I had to get something called an R/A number, which I did, and write it all over the return envelope, check.  I was then told to send the package back with a tracking number, as shipping was the customer’s responsibility, give a blood sample, last 4 digits of my social security number, turn around 3 times and jump over a broom. Ok, that last part I made up, but you get the idea.

Having just been at the Post Office, it’s a wonder that anything gets anywhere it’s supposed to go through our mail system. The postal employee that assisted me today had three hairs atop his head, which were poorly dyed a strange shade of red.  When his gaze met mine and he said “How may I help you?” I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me of the person behind me, as his eyes did not focus in the usual manner. “I’d like to send this back,” I said, hoping that I was the target of his request.  “Are you shipping any liquids, explosives or fire arms?” he inquired.  I always want to answer “yes” to this question; but I have a feeling that this may land me in Federal Prison, so I said “No, just one very ugly, sequined, bunny costume”.  “You got a whole costume in here?” he laughed, holding up the petite envelope that contained my holiday disappointment. “Yes, Roger” I sighed, reading his name tag to keep from making eye contact.  “Ok, that’ll be $13.00” he mumbled as he whisked my package away.  I hoped he and the other physically irregular employees of the United States Postal Service could perform the task at hand and get the bunny abomination back to its original location.

While I left the Federal Building feeling really good about myself and my mouth full of teeth, I am more than a little concerned that this Halloween I will be void of a fine for exposure. If things work out in my favor, I may just pick up the M&M costume and forgo the stress of having to decide between the slightly slutty sailor or really slutty witch, again.