Monday, 1 November 2010

Spooktacular

I love Halloween.

I dressed up as Dorothy on Friday at work.  I was originally going to be a doll, but when I found the blue dress and the bright red shoes, I knew it was meant to be.

I’m going to tell you something now, but it’s hard to admit.  Admitting this means admitting that I am my mother.

Ok. 

I bought the red shoes.

And then I bought little plastic red gems.

And then I HOT GLUED the red gems all over the red shoes.  Yes, hot glued them – with the glue gun that my mother bought me – my certifiably insane mother who does everything but bake with a glue gun.  There’s no saving me now.  It’s officially over.

Oh well… at least we can entertain each other in the insane asylum.  Although I don't think they allow hot glue in crazy houses. 

And the Halloween fun didn’t end there.

Yesterday I hung the pumpkin lights in the window, and the plastic ghosts from the tree, and put on my black cape and zombie makeup to hand out treats.

But some kids are too damn old for trickortreating.  I don’t even mind if they’re older, if they would just friggin play along.  One teenage guy and girl came dressed up as Pebbles and Bambam.  They said “Trick or Treat!” and wished me a happy Halloween as they left.  I don’t mind that.  But I can't stand hooligans in jeans and plastic masks who knock on my door and hold their pillow cases in my face.  Lazy bums.

But there were some adorable little ones too.  I’d hear the doorbell, and walk to the door, except their little heads were lower than the window so it looked like no one was there.  Cute. 

While handing out candy we spent the night watching bits and pieces of the best scary movies ever made.  Gothika.  The Ring, and The Ring Two.  Scream.  Poltergeist.  The Exorcist.  Even 1953’s House of Wax, and 1975’s Rocky Horror Picture Show.  It was a Halloween movie marathon.  And it was awesome.

Problem was, I apparently freaked myself out.

At one point I ran upstairs to get something to show Hubby.  (A toy, actually, that was intended to prove me right in an argument.)  I ran into the dark office, grabbed the toy, and started to run out again.  Then Hubby – who was kneeling on the landing by the office door – shouted and scared the effing bejezzus out of me.  I stopped dead, like hitting a brick wall, screamed at the top of my lungs like a pathetic girl in a horror film, and fell backwards onto the office floor in total hyperventilation.

Nice, Hubby.  Thanks for that. 

And I didn’t even really win the argument because it was all part of his master plan to scare the shit out of me.

Frig.

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