Trick or Treat

So last year I put the candy on the porch and ran. Actually, I was teaching on Mondays last and while I canceled class numerous times I couldn't bring myself to say, "Sorry folks, but it's Halloween and I ain't teaching." And, okay, so maybe the kids in my neighborhood scare me just a little. This year, however, I vowed that I would not be scared. Of course it didn't hurt that my sister agreed to help pass out candy (and by help I mean sit there like a rock everytime a kid approached).

The first "kid" that came to the porch was wearing a red patent corset and knee high patent boots. She held out her purse and said nothing. The next pair of trick or treaters were an infant in a stroller and her mother who held a pillow case (an infant who had no teeth). My sister suggested that maybe they couldn't afford candy and were spending the first hour trick or treating so they could go back home and give it away. Gotta love an optimist.

In between the old kids and the questionable parents there were quite a few kids that made it worthwhile. But, after an hour I was ready to blow out my candles and start double fisting the Skittles and Starburst into the bags. Unfortunately, word spread fast and long after I'd given away my last handful I was approached on my way out the door. "Are you the lady giving away the handfuls?" "Sorry, I'm all out." "It's alright," he said. "I probably wouldn't have liked what you had anyway." Um, okay. Whatever.

Happy Halloween. And in the spirit of all I love about Halloween, I think this is the cutest thing I've seen ever (or at least since clicking on Dogs in Bee Suits - sorry Jim).

Because it's Halloween - that's why...

Dogs in bee suits. Anne Geddes does not make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but these dogs are just too damned cute.

Fall Daze

Fall is, without a doubt, my favorite season. Last week's weather gave me pause to fear that I might miss out. Today, however, was perfect. I crunched leaves along Quarrier and Virginia Streets until I decided to head to the capitol grounds with the dog. Laying on the ground with the sun on my face looking up at the gold dome (it really is quite impressive from that angle) I could think of no place I'd rather be and that is a rare thing. Nevermind the rabid Nanci Griffith fans (who knew?) who caused me to make a hasty retreat home.

Playing in Traffic

Since I let my inspection sticker expire, I knew it would happen. I knew that one day the time would come when I would be pulled over and forced to utter a lame excuse as to why it was that my sticker had been expired for two, three, now four months. As it happened I was pulled over for an entirely different reason. I made a left on red while a police officer sat in the car behind me. I'm still not sure it wasn't legal, but oh well. As the officer approached my car I thought about the sticker, then I remembered that my current proof of insurance and registration were on the table (a total lie, I actually have no idea where they are but I'm finding them tomorrow) in my living room four blocks east.

She said, "Did you not see the red light?" "No," I said, "I saw it, but..." "But what?" She asked. "Um, nothing." I was about to say, but my friend said I could make a left onto a one way street and then it struck me that that might not be the best move. "Registration and proof of insurance," she demanded. "Um, I don't have it." "What?! I could've just given you a warning, but now..." she warned. "Oh wait! I found it!" Handing them over I realized they were my registration and proof of insurance, but both had expired in 2004. "I swear I'm up to date," I said. "Uh huh," she muttered. "I'll be back." She came back quickly. "Get them in the car. Don't do this again." And I was on my way. And what did I do? I turned into my bank's ATM lot without signaling. The lights came on again, but this time she just shook her index finger at me, shook her head and kept on driving.

How are You?

I talked to my closest friend from college this evening. She's almost fully domesticated now and we don't talk nearly as much as we used to, but it seems like she always knows just when to call. Just when I need someone to ask, "How are you?" and know that not only does that someone really want to know, but that she really cares too. You don't realize how important friends like that are until you really need them. Just my little piece of thanksgiving on this insomnia-plagued evening.

Woman on the Street

Whenever I see those man on the street reports on the local news, I cringe. I've got a few nightmares competing for worst and one of those is definitely looking like an ass in a public forum. So when I was walking my dog down Saturday evening and found myself approached by a local television news reporter, I panicked. It was cold and rainy and I was looking far from my best. I tried to ignore him, but he was too quick. "We're trying to find out if people think a beat cop might solve some of the problems in the neighborhood." Noting that the camera was facing the ground I managed to get out "Uh, I don't really know" and continued on my way.

Later that night, I was sitting in my living room when I saw a shadow on my porch. My heart started racing and then there was a knock. I opened the door (smart, I know) and met Larry. "Yes ma'am my name is Larry. I am trying to take the bus to St. Albans. Do you have .75?" I said no and closed the door. Two hours later there was another knock on my door. I opened it (why?) and there Larry stood. "Yes ma'am my name is Larry. I broke down about half a block and was wondering if you had something I could put gas in." I again said no and closed the door. There are at last ten houses between mine and half a block and even more between the bus stop. But, I suspect I was the only moron willing to open her door that late.

A few weeks ago a 14 year-old-boy was shot just around the corner from where I live. What is rarely mentioned is the fact that less than half a block from that site is a neighborhood center with a Charleston Police Department detachment. Thankfully, I've never had any problems. Of course it was only a few months ago that I realized the women walking up and down the street were, indeed, professionals. Bringing a beat cop in won't help. Even with the detachment practically across the street, it still takes 30-45 minutes for them to turn up when something does occur. What good is one beat cop going to do when there are half a dozen sitting in the detachment?

Raising Crazy Praise at Panera

I was having lunch with my sister at Panera Bread this afternoon when we noticed a couple joined in hands praying before their meal. Neither of us are big fans of public prayer, but that wasn't what caught our attention. See, Panera provides -free of charge- clear cups for those who choose to drink water andt the couple's clear cups were clearly brown. Praying in public I guess I can understand, but praying in public before two cups of stolen soda? I don't get it.

Playing the Ponies

When I was in junior high, my father bought my sister a horse. He'll deny it now, but it was her reward for the being the "good" one. We'd go to the barn and I'd sit in the car for however long it took to do whatever it was she would do. (I was a real social butterfly back in the day). Given that I was thirteen, I probably spent most of that time reading or crying.

Years later and I've since outgrown the rage of my youth, but not my disinterest in the horses. My sister is still consumed by horses traveling nearly every weekend of the summer to go to shows and I'd still rather read a book. Conversations at my parents' house tend to go one of two ways: 1)new tax codes or 2)horses. Either way, I'm pretty much indifferent. The one constant, however, seems to be "Are you sure I can't buy you a pony?" which my dad typically asks when he wants to change the subject (from taxes to horses and vice versa). His question would have made me happy at age eight; at age twenty-eight, however, it just infuriates me. And it's not even that I don't enjoy riding - it's the showing, the grooming, the taking care of that I'm not interested in, and I suppose part of me would just rather resent my sister for being "rewarded" all these years later.

Anyway, thanks to Woodford Reserve (and Skip Lineberg for the link), I had something else to discuss with my father last night. I am now a member of the Thoroughred Society at Woodford Reserve Stables and partial owner of "Distill My Heart." I'm pretty sure this means nothing, but it is a great marketing tactic. And while I'm not a bourbon drinker typically, as I relate the story to my friends or my family, I'm helping to further market the brand. I can't recommend Woodford Reserved based on any sort of first hand knowledge. But, what I do know is that after sixteen or so years of being asked, "Are you sure you don't want a pony?" I was able to look at my dad and say, "Thanks, but I've already got one." And that was priceless.

Driving Ms. Spinster

At the end of a particulary blechworthy (it's a word) day, I was exiting the parking garage when I found myself behind an early 1980s Cadillac going about .5 mph; the driver looked to be from the late 1880s. Like a lot of people I think about getting old and I'm none too excited about it. There are too many books I want read, places I want to see, things I want to do, but one thing I don't want to do is become one of these people driving long after their license should be revoked. There are plenty of capable senior drivers, I'm sure; I'm also sure I haven't seen any as of late and even more certain that the gentleman in front of me wasn't one of them. He nearly clipped every vehicle he passed and had a heck of a time when he realized the gate through which he was attempting to pass through was for monthly cards only.

I don't know what my future holds. Maybe I'll get married and have a happy, albeit disfunctional little family; maybe I'll become a real spinster. One thing I do know is that I'm not spending my money on a retirement condo in Boca. I'm going to hire myself a driver. Because the thought of some angry young person following behind me cursing up a relative storm is not how I want to spend my golden years. Of course maybe the beauty of being in one's golden years is oblivion to such things. The guy in front of me didn't much seem to care. He just kept on cruising.

Oops...I did it again

Okay, so the other day I mentioned my penchance toward kleptomania as of late. Well, I did it again. On the way back from an obligatory work function (let's just say I was the only one NOT having fun in Morgantown Saturday), I stopped in the Clarksburg Gabe's (that's Gabriel Brothers to you sophisticated folk) where I found myself the new owner of a $2.99 bracelet for which I did not pay. My $7.00 dishes fit awkwardly into the cart and evidently obscured the bracelet from view. Anyway, I'd just like to reiterate that I am not a kleptomaniac; I am not a criminal; I do not need professional help. But, I do feel guilty. Guilty enough to go back to Clarksburg and pay for the bracelet, though? Um, yeah. Not so much.

From here on out, I'm doing a thorough inventory of my receipt and cart. Don't blame me. Blame the minimum wage cashiers who don't care about the security of those for whom they work (just kidding).

Update: I shopped Target, Home Goods, Marshall's and Kroger today without incident. I was also overcharged for a DVD, so perhaps my streak of kleptomania has been cured and I must now be on the look out for the retailers' revenge.