The Trick-or-Treat Recap
Since John opted for the photo route (and I know we all expect more prolific work from him in the train wreck that will be Home on the Fringe's attempt at a month of daily posts), I feel the need to record our halloween experience for posterity. After all, I did it last year; it must be tradition.
First, to answer the question burning in all of those inquiring minds: the mummy costumes were made from the cheapest, most easily shreddable fabric from Wal-Mart (*shudder* yes, we shop there, and I bitch about it the whole time, then come home and berate myself for my hypocrisy, weakness, and failure to represent my own philosophies or, WORSE, teach them to my kids - let's not go down that road today, though). John gets all the credit for the creation of the costumes. Bryce started begging to be a mummy for halloween about a week ago, and John the Optimist immediately agreed, even though I the Pessimist stood there with my arms crossed and my lips pursed, shaking my head and rolling my eyes: "we don't have time, we don't know how to make them, he won't even want to wear it after you go to all the trouble, blah blah just name something else you want to do so I can shoot down more of your dreams, blah blah." John happily ignored me, shredded the fabric, stained it with coffee, and rolled all the shreds for quick child mummification on halloween night, by which time Quinn had also determined that he would be a mummy as well.
Before we got the kids wrapped and tied, we covered their faces with the highest quality face paint Wal-Mart had to offer. That is to say, after I sprinkled their skin with holy water and prayed to the hypo-allergenic gods for mercy, I agreed to let John smear those thick, only partially non-toxic "zombie masks" onto the eager, waiting visages of my sons.
The thing is, John and I have never wrapped mummies before. The need for previous mummifying experience became clear after about 12 steps into the trick-or-treat excursion. Aesthetically, the unraveling bandages weren't a problem. They only looked more authentic:
Logistically, though, the dragging, looping strips of fabric were problematic. Here's Quinn struggling to get up while we responsibly and compassionately snapped pictures after the first or second time he tripped:
By the time we made our way to people's doors, I realized I hadn't really coached the kids on proper trick-or-treating etiquette, but my realization came too late. The first poor sap who enthusiastically opened her door and squealed in fake fear over the kids' costumes, bent down happily to offer the cute little mummies some yummy chocolate candy, and was greeted with Quinn's disappointed and factual "I don't like chocolate."
Understandably, she looked surprised: "Oh, okay. Do you like Skittles?"
"No, I like Smarties."
"...Uh. Well, I don't have Smarties. Do you like candy corn?"
"No."
I was scrambling from the bottom of the driveway, hissing something at Quinn like just say thank you and take it! but this lady was a really good sport, now letting Quinn rummage through her bowl of sub-par, non-Smartie candy. He finally took something and I grinned sheepishly, and after she was back behind her closed door and we were safely around the corner, explained to the kids in no uncertain terms that there were three easy steps to trick-or-treating: 1.) say trick-or-treat, 2.) hold out your bag, 3.) SAY THANK YOU. No other steps were involved. No debating or hemming or hawing over which candy to take, no commentary to our generous, blissfully unaware neighbors about how OUR FAMILY IS A BUNCH OF FREAKS AND IT'S GENETIC AND THERE'S NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT SO GIVE ME SOME CANDY! (BUT ONLY IF IT'S SMARTIES!)
Did my lecture do any good? Oh, come on, people. What do YOU think? Fortunately, some of our neighbors are Smarties-purchasing people and kept Quinn's rudeness at bay. Also, there were distractions like this:
Quinn is quieted only by Smarties, emotionally scarring scenes of severed body parts, and glowing skulls. Well, at least now we know.
First, to answer the question burning in all of those inquiring minds: the mummy costumes were made from the cheapest, most easily shreddable fabric from Wal-Mart (*shudder* yes, we shop there, and I bitch about it the whole time, then come home and berate myself for my hypocrisy, weakness, and failure to represent my own philosophies or, WORSE, teach them to my kids - let's not go down that road today, though). John gets all the credit for the creation of the costumes. Bryce started begging to be a mummy for halloween about a week ago, and John the Optimist immediately agreed, even though I the Pessimist stood there with my arms crossed and my lips pursed, shaking my head and rolling my eyes: "we don't have time, we don't know how to make them, he won't even want to wear it after you go to all the trouble, blah blah just name something else you want to do so I can shoot down more of your dreams, blah blah." John happily ignored me, shredded the fabric, stained it with coffee, and rolled all the shreds for quick child mummification on halloween night, by which time Quinn had also determined that he would be a mummy as well.
Before we got the kids wrapped and tied, we covered their faces with the highest quality face paint Wal-Mart had to offer. That is to say, after I sprinkled their skin with holy water and prayed to the hypo-allergenic gods for mercy, I agreed to let John smear those thick, only partially non-toxic "zombie masks" onto the eager, waiting visages of my sons.
The thing is, John and I have never wrapped mummies before. The need for previous mummifying experience became clear after about 12 steps into the trick-or-treat excursion. Aesthetically, the unraveling bandages weren't a problem. They only looked more authentic:
Logistically, though, the dragging, looping strips of fabric were problematic. Here's Quinn struggling to get up while we responsibly and compassionately snapped pictures after the first or second time he tripped:
By the time we made our way to people's doors, I realized I hadn't really coached the kids on proper trick-or-treating etiquette, but my realization came too late. The first poor sap who enthusiastically opened her door and squealed in fake fear over the kids' costumes, bent down happily to offer the cute little mummies some yummy chocolate candy, and was greeted with Quinn's disappointed and factual "I don't like chocolate."
Understandably, she looked surprised: "Oh, okay. Do you like Skittles?"
"No, I like Smarties."
"...Uh. Well, I don't have Smarties. Do you like candy corn?"
"No."
I was scrambling from the bottom of the driveway, hissing something at Quinn like just say thank you and take it! but this lady was a really good sport, now letting Quinn rummage through her bowl of sub-par, non-Smartie candy. He finally took something and I grinned sheepishly, and after she was back behind her closed door and we were safely around the corner, explained to the kids in no uncertain terms that there were three easy steps to trick-or-treating: 1.) say trick-or-treat, 2.) hold out your bag, 3.) SAY THANK YOU. No other steps were involved. No debating or hemming or hawing over which candy to take, no commentary to our generous, blissfully unaware neighbors about how OUR FAMILY IS A BUNCH OF FREAKS AND IT'S GENETIC AND THERE'S NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT SO GIVE ME SOME CANDY! (BUT ONLY IF IT'S SMARTIES!)
Did my lecture do any good? Oh, come on, people. What do YOU think? Fortunately, some of our neighbors are Smarties-purchasing people and kept Quinn's rudeness at bay. Also, there were distractions like this:
Quinn is quieted only by Smarties, emotionally scarring scenes of severed body parts, and glowing skulls. Well, at least now we know.
Labels: believe it or not, fringe dialogue
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