The Fredgie

     

     I think it’s pretty safe to say that we’ve all had a wedgie at some point in time, right? They’re a total pain in the ass (sometimes literally), and they typically occur at very inopportune times.  This was one of the main reasons why I decided to make a full-time commitment to thongs a few years back.  Yes, you have to get used to having a permanent wedgie, but at least they’re staying in one place and not moving around every this way and that.  Or at least I thought they were….

     As I was walking into the gym yesterday, I had a most unpleasantly awkward experience in my nether regions.  Something was just not quite right.  Now, I don’t know if it was because I was wearing tight running pants or if it was because of the particular thong I had on, but I suddenly felt like I had a fredgie — a front wedgie. Whatever it was, I just knew that things had definitely shifted around down south.

     I went straight to the locker room to assess the situation.  My first thought was that maybe I had my damn thong on backwards.  After all, it HAS been a rough month in which I’ve been running on fumes, so it was definitely a possibility. After some top notch investigating, my suspicions were at once confirmed.  I didn’t have it on backwards, but I most certainly did have a fredgie goin’ on.  So, I put things back in their proper place and made my way to the weight room.  Problem solved.  However, as I was in the middle of my lunges, I again felt some creeping and crawling taking place in areas where they just should not be.  What the hell?!  Why was this happening to me?  

     I was then faced with how I should rectify this little predicament.  I thought maybe I could just do some extra wide squats to get things back where they should be, but that didn’t work.  I then tried doing some abdominal bicycle crunches to try to wiggle it out of there, but that didn’t work either.  I so badly wanted to just reach down and move it manually like guys do with their balls.  Why is it that men can grope and grab themselves in public and nobody even bats an eye? Women should be allowed this same opportunity.  Unfortunately, people tend to assume that women must have an STD or the freaking plague if they even so much as try to scratch that area.  So, I figured that option was out, as well.  Instead, I just sucked it up (no pun intended) and finished my workout with my vajayjay floss.  (Do you have any idea what that feels like on a stairmaster?!)

     This whole ordeal really got me thinking that there must be some other poor woman out there who’s shared this same experience.  So, I decided to ask my Twitter friends what they would call a front wedgie in a thong.  Surprisingly, I got a lot of really really funny responses. Some said camel toe (although it wasn’t something that could be seen externally), some said painful, and one even said torture.  My favorite response, though, was given by @Ieatmykidzsnack who said, “An orgasm.” Wow, I wish it was as good for me as it was for her.

Worst Mother of the Year

     

     So, have you heard the big news?  My kids nominated me for the “Worst Mother of the Year” award the other night.  Yeah, they think I’ve got a really good shot at winning it this year.  According to them, I’m really smoking the competition cause I suck WAY more than the other moms could even possibly suck.  (Get your mind out of the gutter, people, cause that was in no way meant to be sexual, you little pervs.)  I mean, sheesh, you take away some Halloween candy from a couple of kids, and they throw you right under the damn bus.

     It all started the other night when my husband was on yet another out of town business trip, and I was going through the whole song and dance pain in the ass routine of bedtime around here.  I put them to bed, and, as usual, they got right back out of bed.  They had to pee, they had to poop, they wanted socks, they wanted a drink of water, they wanted the hall light on, they wanted the hall light off, they basically wanted to drive me out of my mother frickin’ mind. After tromping up and down the stairs three different times, I announced that the next time I heard so much as a single peep out of them, I would take away the remainder of their Halloween candy — every single last piece of it.  I even had them repeat it to be sure that they heard me and understood just what the consequences would be if they continued to play around. They reiterated my threat, and it seemed that we were definitely on the same page.  I wasn’t messing around — I’d pulled out the big guns and went right for the most important bargaining tool I had.

     I went back downstairs to finally eat my dinner and had just settled down to take my first bite when I heard a loud CRASH from overhead.  I practically spit out my food because I could not believe one of them had the audacity to test me.  I marched right back up the stairs to find that my daughter had decided to have a damn after hours tea party and had accidentally dropped one of the saucers.  Big mistake, sister. She was soooooo busted!  I announced in a very matter-of-fact manner that her candy was gone, and she immediately burst into hysterics.  I calmly shut her door and made my way back downstairs.  I refused to crumble and give in to her drama, so I took a bunch of deep breaths.  The wails were growing louder and louder by the minute, so I turned the t.v. on to try to drown out the noise.  And, wouldn’t ya know, not too much longer after the first shakedown did I hear another loud thump from up above.  

     I again climbed back up the flippin’ staircase to find my son standing in the hall with a slimy grin on his face and a pair of socks in his hand.  He wanted to tell me that he was getting some socks out of his drawer, AKA trying to see how far he could push me to the edge.  When I told him that his candy would also be hittin’ the high road, he thrust himself onto the floor and joined his sister in throwing a balls-to-the-wall tantrum like no other.  

     I again walked away from the madness and plopped on the couch downstairs with my now cold microwaved dinner and turned the t.v. up even louder.  The exasperated cries of “NO!!!” were only mildly camouflaged by the blare of the boob tube.  Had I missed something here?  I was pretty sure I had made myself perfectly clear when I very thoroughly explained just exactly what would happen if the goofing around continued, and I was pretty sure that they had each said that they thoroughly understood those consequences.  So, how horribly awful of me then to do EXACTLY WHAT I SAID I WAS GOING TO DO.  

     Truth be told, I was secretly looking for an excuse to get rid of all the jackass candy anyway, and their little nighttime high jinks were just the ticket I needed.  To them though, I might as well have taken away the air they breathe because that sugar high was what they’ve lived for ever since October 31.  So, when I make my acceptance speech at the “Worst Mother of the Year” Awards ceremony in a few weeks, I’ll actually mean it when I say that I want to thank all the little people who helped make it happen.

They’re Baaaaaaack!

     

     Some trends come and go faster than a Hollywood marriage.  You think you’re super cool and sporting the latest “in” piece of clothing, only to find out that you are SO yesterday.  It seems though that throughout the years, what was once old has become new again — fedoras from the fifties, miniskirts from the sixties, and platform shoes from the seventies.  There’s one fashion decade, though, that I truly never thought I’d see ever ever again, and that, my friends, was the eighties. Ridiculously big hair, neon-colored everything and parachute pants were never a good look for anyone. However, it has become obvious to me upon researching this topic that the eighties are very much like, totally making a comeback.        

     Don’t get me wrong here — I absolutely LOVED the eighties since that is the era in which I grew up.  The music, the t.v. shows, the break dancing were all totally tubular.  The fashion, however, left a LOT to be desired. Now, I may have pegged my jeans with the best of them, but I thought for sure that I’d put all that long behind me.  So when I saw someone wearing a pair of stirrup pants at the mall yesterday, my eyeballs just about popped out of my head.  Who in the hell decided to bring these jackass things back to life? They were heinous back then, and they’re just as heinous now days. These pants were never flattering for anyone’s body type, whether you’re a skinny little toothpick or a normal sized woman.  For crap’s sake, you wanna talk about accentuating some camel toe!  When I got home and did some Googling, I found out that they are apparently all the rage on the runway, and I couldn’t help but think that the world has finally gone mad. Even the couture designers are showcasing them.  Just look at these “McQ” duds that can be yours for the low price of $395:

Seriously, people, the only thing that can be said about this pitiful excuse for pants is gag me with a spoon.

     Another eighties fad that has apparently resurfaced from the vault of fashion don’ts is acid washed jeans.  Again, I am shocked.  For the love of humanity, why why why?!  I mean, good Lord, they’re called “acid” jeans cause they look like someone dumped a big old vat of acid on them.  I remember back in the day when I got my first pair of acid washed jeans. They were made by Guess, and I thought they were the coolest thing on the planet.  I’m older and wiser now and know that they were, in fact, ugly as sin.  I guess today’s designers disagree with me cause they are digging this corroded look of nastiness.  I even found this pair of William Rast jeans for a whopping $198:  

How on earth can these fugly-looking things possibly be the shiznit? I am just amazed.  The next thing you’re gonna tell me is that leg warmers and shoulder pads are back in action.

     And as it turns out, they most certainly are!  Excuse me, but Jane Fonda and  Joan Collins called, and they want their shit back. Nevertheless, they’re waiting for you at a local retail store near you. And if you’ve completely lost your mind and have an endless supply of dough on hand, you can buy this poofy-shouldered waste of cash for a cool $2,125 and these spider-webbed pieces of crap for a mere $125:

     I guess wonders will never cease to amaze me.  In my wildest dreams, I never thought I’d see the eighties styles come back to life.  I didn’t give in to the bell-bottom comeback, and I will not be partaking in the rebirth of this decade of fashion faux pas either. However, maybe I should dust off the old jelly shoes, dig out the old banana clip, and hunt down the old Coca-Cola t-shirt and slap those puppies on eBay.  Ya never know, one woman’s trash could very well be another schmuck’s treasure.

The Piercing

     

     Ever since my daughter found out that I got my ears pierced when I was five, she’s been bugging me to get hers done.  (Monkey see, monkey do.)  I told her that she had to wait until the end of soccer season, and I finally made good on that promise over the weekend. She was on top of the world with anticipation over this big event.  I, on the other hand, had a gut feeling that this whole ordeal would somehow come back to give me a big, fat headache.

     I took her to one of those “Claire’s” stores in the mall, since I know of no other piercing places that don’t also do tattoos and body art (not really the childhood memory kind of a place I had in mind for her).  And let it be said that I despise “Claire’s” with every fiber of my being.  It’s like some douchebag idiot decided it would be a great idea to cram as much shitty merchandise as is humanly possible into one teensy tiny area of space. You can’t even walk in that freaking place without knocking off a headband or a necklace.  It makes me totally claustrophobic, and I want to claw out my eyeballs. However, being the awesome mom that I am, I pushed aside my contempt for this retail hellhole and whisked my daughter through their overcrowded doors.  

     The assistant manager explained the whole process to my daughter who took it all in with her very innocent little hole-less ears. She described how she would have to keep the earrings in for eight weeks, clean them three times a day, and turn them four times a day. I asked her again for the five thousandth time if she was absolutely sure she wanted to do this, to which she emphatically replied, “YES!” She then had to pick out which earrings she wanted from a board that had everything from itty bitty birthstones to itty bitty flowers. She hemmed and hawed for a good while as I signed off on all the paperwork.  Finally, she decided to go with the itty bitty pink daisies, and we were ready to poke some holes.

     I asked the woman if she would pierce both ears at the same time, so we could get it all over with in one fell swoop. She called over another associate who measured out just where to put the holes and marked the spots with a purple marker.  My daughter just sat there and grinned away, while I second-guessed this whole dumb ass decision of mine.  When I looked at the twinkle in my daughter’s eyes, though, I knew there was no turning back.  She squeezed my hand very very tightly, and just like that, she was sporting itty bitty flowers on her earlobes. She was a freaking rock star, too, never crying or even so much as flinching. I thought she’d explode with happiness when she took that first look in the mirror at her new and improved ears, and I breathed a sigh of relief that we’d made it through without even one little tear.

     That night, we cleaned her ears and turned the earrings just like we were supposed to, and she went to sleep lying perfectly still on her back so as not to jack up her new ears.  The next morning, she insisted on a high ponytail to show off her pink sparklers and practically ran all the way to school to show her friends.  They oohed and ahhed over them, and all seemed good in the hood…until that night.  For whatever reason, she had a complete freak-out at bedtime over the fact that she couldn’t take out the earrings for eight weeks (even though she’d insisted that she was cool with this very fact less than twenty four hours prior to this!)  She couldn’t understand why I was allowed to take mine out and change them whenever I wanted to, even though I had explained umpteen times to her that I’d had mine pierced for over thirty years.  She was so hysterical that I thought for sure we were taking out the daisies and calling it a day.  God only knows what goes on in the mind of a six year old female, though, cause she all of a sudden calmed down, and I haven’t heard a thing about it since.

     I sent her off to school today with another high pony in case anyone happened to miss her new addition yesterday.  I’m praying that she comes home this afternoon still in love with her piercings, but I’ve given up on trying to predict her unpredictable moods.  I do know that I absolutely draw the line at ears though.  There will be absolutely no belly button piercing, lip piercing or nipple piercing going on while she’s living under my roof.  Oh, snap, have I turned into my parents?

Halloween Party Pics

I had some requests for photographic evidence of the good times had at our big Halloween bash over the weekend, so here ya go….

Competing prom queens

 

Dumb & Dumber (my hubby’s the dumber one in the orange)

 

Reno 911 cop

 

Hippy chick, Paul Stanley (KISS), & moi

 

Hippy dude busy earning his grand prize doll

 

Big Bertha comes to life

 

I’d post more pictures, but then I’d have to kill you.  Sometimes, what happens at the party, stays at the party.  But what a fun night it was….  

 

 

 

 

 

Halloween Recap

     

     Phew!  What a whirlwind of a weekend.  Between our adults-only Halloween party on Friday night and trick-or-treating on Saturday night, I am absolutely zapped.  There was dancing, there was drinking, there was tricking, and there was treating.  So, I thought I’d give you a recap of all the fun-filled festivities.

     The Halloween party was a total blast with a lively group of people who were ready to let loose.  Throw a DJ into a room full of stressed out parents, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a dance party!  And their costumes were A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!  The prize winners of the “Best Couple” costume had literally turned themselves into Fed Ex packages from head to toe.  I’m sure they’ve been celebrating their victory in their edible underwear all weekend long.  The “Best Male” costume prize went to a guy who was dressed as the cop from Reno 911.  He had the super tight short shorts, the mustache and everything.  The “Best Female” prize went to a girl who was dressed as Princess Leia (every guy’s secret fantasy).  The “Most Inappropriate Couple” were hilarious — the wife was dressed as a margarita and the husband was a breathalizer with a “Blow Here” tube placed ever so conveniently in his crotch area.  And the grand prize of the night (the blow-up doll named Big Bertha) went to a guy dressed like a hippy who must’ve dirty danced with every wife there.  He worked that room like it was his job, even busting out into the splits in the middle of the dance floor. And when he was awarded the top prize of the night, he most certainly didn’t disappoint.  He blew Bertha up right there on the spot and posed for all the cameras that were flashing. His wife just stood back and rolled her eyes and laughed at his “acceptance speech”, but I’m sure she will be thrilled to have a stand-in for those nights when she’s “got a headache.”

     We ended up staying at the bar so late that we were hanging out with the bartenders by the end of the night.  We finally decided to walk home with me wearing my husband’s stupid neon orange tuxedo jacket (he and another husband dressed as Dumb and Dumber).  I’m sure we looked ridiculous as hell to anyone who happened to be out at that hour.  I’d lost my corsage, my crown and the flowers in my hair and had somehow acquired someone’s mustache in my purse.   We didn’t care though cause we’d had an unbelievable amount of fun dancing our asses off with all our friends.  And it seemed that the other party-goers shared that same sentiment when I saw them out and about trick-or-treating the next night. Let’s just say that there were a LOT of hungover parents tagging behind their little ones in the neighborhood on Saturday.

     Regardless of how bad we felt on the inside, we had to just put on a happy face and try to forget about that jackhammer pounding away in our heads cause our kids were on a mission for candy.  It was hard to dwell on a hangover too, since our neighborhood is so much fun on Halloween. Spooky music was blaring on nearly every block, and kids were running everywhere.  Many houses were passing out wine and beer (including ours) to the adults, although I chose to stay away from all things alcohol that night.  My kids got so much candy that they had to stop by home and pick up another empty bucket.  When my husband took them out to their last block, they ran into some rather strange give-aways.  One lady was handing out scarves, neck ties and bracelets, which totally blew my kids’ minds. Then another lady was apparently handing out 2-liter bottles of pop.  What the hell?!  I don’t know if they ran out of candy or what, but if you ask me, they were totally asking to get egged. When it was all said and done, we had four buckets full of sugar and two very happy trick-or-treaters.  

     I ate so many KitKats and Twix bars over the next two days that I now feel sick.  And the kids have already started in with asking me for candy before breakfast. I’ll allow this madness to continue for a couple more days, and then I’m shipping it all off with my husband to work.  The Halloween frenzy has come to an end, and I’m already counting down the days till next year when I can justifiably dress up like an idiot once again.

Costume Party

     I absolutely L-O-V-E Halloween.  Sure it’s great to take the kids out trick-or-treating and all that jazz, but it’s not just all about the kids. It’s the one night a year when even adults can dress up like idiots and make complete fools out of themselves. So, I was beyond excited last year when we were invited to the costume party of all costume parties in the city.

     These people have a reputation for being unbelievable costume creators.  They work for weeks and weeks to come up with some seriously killer getups. Since I knew we were running with the big dogs, I spent hours looking online for unique ideas for my husband and me.  I wanted something different than the typical boring old couples costumes.  We finally decided on a devil and an angel, with a twist, of course.  My husband wore a red velvet smoking jacket with a devil’s tail attached to the back of it. I got him some sparkly gold sunglasses, a big gold chain, and a fat cigar that said “Big Daddy.”  A drawn-on black mustache that screamed 80’s porn king completed the ensemble.  I wore a teensy tiny white dress and stuffed a pillow underneath to form my baby bump.  I had feathery wings and a tattoo on my chest that said, “Love Stinks.” The final touch was a sash that I wore across one shoulder that read, “The Devil Made Me Do It.” Surprisingly, we were a big hit at the party, but we definitely had some stiff competition.

     One girl turned herself into a Jesus candle.  Another transformed herself into Humpty Dumpty, complete with brick wall and everything. Then there was the guy who made himself half Max and half Wild Thing from “Where the Wild Things Are.”  And another group of people posed as polygamists with each wife wearing a sign on their backs that said, “Wife #1“, “Wife #2” and so on. One of my favorites, though, was a guy who had on blue scrubs with white clumps of cotton attached all over them.  I stared and stared at him all night trying to figure out just what in the hell he was supposed to be. Finally, I decided to walk over and ask him.  He said, “Here, hold this,” and reached into his pocket to grab a tiny little purple drink umbrella.  He then pulled out a water bottle, spritzed my face with water, and said he was “Partly Cloudy With a Chance of Showers.” Freaking genius!

     This year we are helping to host a big Halloween party in the ‘burbs, so the pressure is on once again to get all decked out.  After much pondering, another one of the wives and I have decided to go as competing prom queens.  We dug out our shitastic old prom dresses from high school and are going to attempt to squeeze our more mature, very post high school asses into them once again. We’re gonna use some magic makeup tricks to give ourselves black eyes and bloody lips, tease our hair all out to hell and back with some good ol’ Aquanet hair spray, rip a crown in half for us each to wear, and tear our dresses as if we’ve really been throwing down. We’re even going so far as to get baby’s breath for our hair and gaudy corsages for our wrists — yeah, baby, we’re going all out!  My husband and her husband are going as Dumb and Dumber with the tacky orange and blue tuxedos and top hats.  Should definitely make for some funny pictures.

     I can’t wait to see what other creations people come up with.  I’m hoping they bring their A-game cause there are fantastic prizes to be awarded for superior awesomeness.  It’s Halloween, people, and it’s time to let your hair down and have some fun!  You may be hesitant at first, but that won’t last long, for no mere mortal can resist the evil of the thriller.  Ah ha ha ha ha, ah ha ha ha ha!

***** HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!*****

Gym Freaks

     

     When I go to the gym, I am there for one reason and one reason only — to work out.  I’m not there to socialize or pick up dudes or strut my stuff. My mind is generally pretty focused on the task at hand (especially since I’m always on a tight schedule), but there are times when I can’t help but do a double take at some of the sights I see there.  Good Lord, some of the characters that parade through that place are truly in a class all their own.

     First, there’s a woman that I refer to as “Bacon Lady.”  This woman must spend hours upon hours roasting herself in a tanning bed, because her skin is so leathery and brown that she should be sitting next to a big plate of scrambled eggs.  And it’s hard to tell how old she might be because all those UV rays have made her look like she’s a hundred.  For the life of me, I can’t understand how she could possibly think that looks good.  All it does is make me have a sudden craving for breakfast food.

     Then, there’s the man I refer to as “Circus Dude.”  This guy has created the most insane-looking workout, where he combines acrobatic moves with synchronized dancing and yoga poses.  Talk about bizarre.  He’s jumping, he’s leaping, he’s spinning, he’s making a complete ass out of himself. When he’s in the middle of his performance, every head turns in his direction to try and figure out just what in the hell he’s doing.  I keep waiting for the ringmaster to come out and turn our attention to the center ring.

     Then, there’s the ultimate cheeseball guy who I refer to simply as “Meathead.” This dude is constantly checking himself out in the mirror in between weight sets. He slicks his hair back and arranges his eyebrows, and I often see him doing boxing jabs so he can check out his biceps in the glass.  And he’s not at all nonchalant about it either.  He actually looks around to make sure that someone’s watching the “gun show.”  Hate to break it to ya, Meathead, but you should really think about giving people their money back cause the “show” is not at all impressive. 

     Then, there’s “The Flirt” who tries WAY too hard to be funny and to impress all the ladies.  This guy will literally jump on a machine next to you to try to carry on a conversation.  He pays no attention whatsoever to the fact that your Ipod is blaring, and you can’t hear a single word he says.  He continues to crack his stupid jokes and tell his stupid stories, all while you’re slaving away on the elliptical, trying to get your sweat on.  Perhaps his name should be changed to “Clueless.”  

     And finally, there’s “The Package,” the guy who wears ridiculously tight leggings that advertise that he has a ridiculously large package.  And he’s not just walking around in the gym in this get-up either.  Oh no, no, he’s jogging on a freaking treadmill, while things are wiggling and jiggling and flipping and flopping all over the damn place. And trust me, it is not a pretty sight to see, and as much as you want to look away, you just can’t. It’s kind of like a train wreck.  You just can’t help but stop and stare.  Somebody needs to get that boy a jock strap STAT!

     I never know which one of these odd balls I’m gonna run into on any given day at the gym, but I always come face to face with at least one of them.  I guess it does make for interesting scenery, since the gym can be pretty dull during the winter months.  Wow, can you imagine if they all showed up on the same day?  Bacon Lady, Circus Dude, Meathead, The Flirt, and The Package — now that’s one hell of a freak show!

The “Toy” Store

     

     This year my husband and I were asked to help co-host a big adults-only Halloween bash with four other couples.  Somehow or another, one of the other wives and I got roped into picking out the prizes to be awarded for best costumes. They were supposed to be funny gag gifts, and after much Googling for stores such as Spencer’s and the like, we realized that our retail options were very limited in our area.  The only place we came up with is a store called “Lover’s Lane.”  You can probably use your imagination to guess what type of merchandise they carry, but let’s just say it’s a lingerie/”toy” store.

     When my friend and I pulled up to the place, we questioned whether it was even open because there were maybe only two other cars in the parking lot.  They were most certainly open, though, and the hours were painted right there on the door along with the words, “You must be 18 years of age to enter.”  When we opened the door, we were surprised at the large selection of Halloween costumes they carried. (Granted, they were all things like slutty referee, slutty maid, slutty Girl Scout, etc.) We mosied on along to the wall that had all the bachelorette party goods on display.

     We were like the blind leading the blind in there.  The vast assortment of penis paraphenalia sort of stopped us in our tracks.  We just stood there in amazement at how many penis products there were from which to choose. There were penis lollipops, penis leis, penis chocolates, penis straws, penis cups, penis pens, a “Pin the Penis on the Stud” game, and so on and so on.  We obviously looked out of place there or something (I can’t imagine why), because the sales clerk, who was modeling one of the slutty Halloween costumes sold in the store, came over to try to help us.  We told her that we needed to buy gag gifts for a Halloween party, but she clearly didn’t understand the concept of “gag.” She proceeded to show us massage oils and feathered ticklers and vibrators and all sorts of things that were WAY more personal than what we had in mind.  We told her we’d just browse.

     We ended up deciding on a penis soda can sipper to go with a boob beer can sipper and a penis inspector badge to go with a boob inspector badge.  But then we were stumped.  The selection of merchandise was clearly more in the penis realm. We needed more boobs.  I called the girl over and said, “Excuse me, but do you have a boob section anywhere?” She looked at me like I was crazy and said that no, they didn’t really have a “boob section.”  Instead, she led us around the corner to a selection of edible underwear and some blow-up dolls.  After a whole lot of should we or shouldn’t we, we finally chose some his & hers edible drawers and even ended up getting a blow-up doll, which will be awarded late night in the party to whoever makes the biggest ass out of themselves (we’re counting on it to be a guy since it’s an inflatable female).  I thought about buying one of the dolls for my husband when I’m just too tired for all that but decided against it in the end.

     All in all, we were pretty happy with what we found.  I hope and pray that we don’t offend any of the prize winners, but if we do, then those people shouldn’t be at the party in the first place.  Halloween is all about having fun and letting your hair down.  And if you happen to come home with a blow-up doll at the end of the night, she’ll last a helluva lot longer than any old piece of candy.

BOO!

     

     Every Halloween our neighborhood has a tradition of “BOO”ing people.  This is basically the same thing as “Ding Dong Ditch,” only with candy.  If you get “BOO”d, you’re supposed to tape a little paper ghost to your front door, so that people will know that your house has already been hit.  It’s then your responsibility to “BOO” two other houses on the block without getting caught.  Seems like an easy enough concept, but when you’re six, being inconspicuous is like sneaking an elephant into the movies. 

     My kids were so excited when we got “BOO”d the other night, and they couldn’t wait to “BOO” someone else.  So, last night, I promised them we’d go hit up some houses after dark.  We stuffed two bags with candy and set out with our flashlights. Most of the houses already had ghosts on their doors, so the pickins were pretty slim.  When we finally found a house that hadn’t been hit, we had fight off another little neighborhood girl for it.  She was armed with candy and ready to “BOO.”  However, I wanted to get the whole thing over with, so I whispered to my daughter to run.  I knew she could totally beat that chick up their front steps, and she proved me right once again.  When she got up to their porch, she lingered just a little too long after she rang the doorbell, and the dad came bounding through the door and caught her red-handed.  She was so bummed that she almost broke down in tears, but I quickly moved the process along by locating the only other house on our street that hadn’t been hit.

     I stood back and watched my two little prankster-wannabes creep up to the front porch and carefully place the bag of candy on the doorstep.  They rang the bell and ran like hell down the steps.  I thought for sure one of them was gonna bust their head open trying to remain unseen, but luckily no blood was shed.  My kids watched with excitement as the woman opened her door and took the bag of candy inside. Mission accomplished.  One down and one to go!  My kids were totally pumped up and ready to strike again.

     Since we’d run out of houses on our street, we decided to try their little friend who lives around the corner.  Apparently, they don’t “BOO” people on his street because none of the houses had ghosts on their doors, which turned out to be a real problem. My daughter decided to have a go at his house first.  She crept up the steps and immediately ducked down and called for me.  I guess the entire family was hanging out in the family room and could see the front porch as plain as day.  I told her just to go for it.  She rang the bell and ran like the wind down to meet my son and me in the bushes.  We could see the dad looking out the window, but then he disappeared.  My son then decided to take a stab at it.  The dad came to the window once again but still didn’t open the door.  I figured the third time would surely be a charm, so my daughter tried one more time.  

     We were nervously waiting in the bushes to see if they were ever going to answer the damn door, when we saw the whole family peering out the window to see who was out there in the darkness.  Then, suddenly the dad came around from the back of the house shouting over and over in a very angry voice, “Who’s there?!”  Oh shit!  I realized that if I didn’t say something, they were gonna call the cops on us.  I could just imagine the headline in the paper, “Nucking Futs Suburban Mom Arrested in Bushes for Voyeurism.”  I quickly stepped out of the bushes and identified myself to the dad, who ended up laughing hysterically at the whole turn of events.  He said he actually did contemplate calling the police.  Like I said, they don’t “BOO” on his street.

     I was so relieved to have the “BOO”ing behind us when we finally got home.  It’s a cute idea that the kids love, but it’s also a pain in the ass when you have two kids who don’t have a clue how to be sneaky.  The excitement factor’s definitely taken down a notch if you happen to get caught.  And it’s all fun and games till someone goes to jail.