Trick. . .or Else

The tough thing about Halloween when the kids get bigger is finding things for them to do. Once they get past the age when you can pop a set of fuzzy ears on their heads, draw on some whiskers, and attach a duster to their behind for a tail, things get tricky.

Like I told my oldest, “If you’re old enough to sue someone in small claims court for not giving you enough candy, you're too old to trick or treat.”

“But Mom, fun size isn’t fun for everybody.”

“Once you have to shave, people don’t want you coming up on their porch at night with a bag. They won’t give you candy. They’ll give you the business end of a scarecrow.”

“Okay, we’ll find something else to do. Say, do we have any toilet paper?”

It was either find them something to do or watch my grocery budget hanging from the Wilson’s tulip poplar.

The first year we went on a ghost walk. For a fee, you can wander around downtown with an extraearthly escort who points out all the places the “in” ghost crowd hangs out. We all had a great time, especially the kids who made bets among themselves as to who could scare me enough to make me wet my underpants in public. They considered the evening a success. I considered the evening on par with receiving an atomic wedgie and running a soaker hose up my pants leg.

The next year we took them to a nearby touristy spot for a downtown block party. The highlight was a trip to the General Store where they each got to fill a bucket with candy which we paid for by the pound. You can’t go by price, but I think Son One filled his bucket with diamonds and Son Two scooped up a bargain on petroleum futures. We lived on Vienna sausages and Ramen noodles for the next six weeks.

This year I have a great idea. I’m going to suggest a Halloween house party and show the kids my costume in advance. As a 50 year old woman raised on biscuits and gravy, the scariest outfit I could wear is a halter top and hip huggers.

The hardest part is coming up with a plan for next year that will top this one.

I’m thinking bicycle pants.

Wasting Away in Halloweenieville

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I may have to adjust my hair color and distinguishing characteristics and join the witless protection program. It’s half past Labor Day and I’m wearing white.

In the South, the temperature can reach deep fat fry until you’re toasting the naked New Year's baby's sensible clothing choices, so the fashion police gives out warnings instead of tickets for infractions well past autumn. However if you’re sporting white linen when you’re shopping for chocolate Valentines for your sweetheart, somebody’s going to be doing hard time on the Gap’s website.

Admittedly, from listening to testimonies from a knowledgeable selection of teenagers in my household I’m clueless when it comes to accessorizing, but I still think parkas and Ugg boots are out of place in an area where ice cream puddles in the plastic bag between the store and the car until the twelfth day of Christmas.

I gave away my fleece-lined scarecrow costume and cut the sleeves out my my Frosty the Snowman sweatshirt a long time ago. Now I sport a winking Jank-o-Lantern button on my T-shirt for Halloween and a tank top that sings Jingle Bells and flashes Peace on Earth in multicolored LEDs for later festivities.

In flashy catalogues full of natural fiber separates that travel to my mailbox from above the Mason Dixon line every year, I fall in love with summer sweaters every time I see carefree models cavorting next to a rocky shore with a washable wool wrap tossed carelessly over their shoulders.

Around here, we can get first degree burns just from sauntering to the mailbox at midday. The last time I put on a sweater before the appearance of the jolly old elf from the North, I passed out from heat exhaustion and had to be revived by two paramedics dressed in cut off jeans and T-shirts, carrying emergency supplies of sweet tea and crushed ice. In the South, we don’t need fabrics that will “wick away moisture”. We need T-Shirts outfitted with vacuum pumps to siphon out sweat.

So for Halloween, don’t check my street for any little goblins decked out in Star Wars characters that require pounds of fake fur or Transformer costumes with thirteen layers of shape-changing insulation. The most popular look on our street is Jimmy Buffett.

When the sun beats down hard enough for the heat to last until midnight, you can’t go wrong with flip flops, cut off jeans and a Hawaiian floweredy shirt.

And after the kiddies go to bed, the parents won't turn down a treat from Margaritaville.