Tuesday, November 2, 2010
I love Halloween. I love the decorations and the costumes and the fall leaves and especially the candy. I love being able to stuff my face with chocolate with impunity. Okay, maybe I don’t stuff my face. I do eat Reese’s peanut butter cups with wild abandon, however—if you count eating two a day wild abandon.
J could eat two bags of those puppies a day, he loves them so much. I’m not talking about the little wimpy $2 bags, either. I mean the jumbo 2 pound bags.
We carved pumpkins and lit candles, watched scary movies with all of the lights out and got Ant dressed in his costume. He was a ninja this year. With a sword fit for a knight in the Middle Ages. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t even begin to tell you. All I know is that nearly every Halloween costume that child wants has to have some sort of impalement device to accompany it. This time, I knew how to pick my battle. Want to carry around a knight sword as a ninja? Go for it. It’s seven bucks and it’s not another freaking noise-making light saber. I’m in. Stay away from the pictures on the walls when you swing that thing around, and don’t hit the dog again, okay?
Insert dramatic eye roll here.
J took Ant trick or treating, and let me tell you- my kid can make short order of that! He covers a block like none other.
Then we watched more Ghost Hunters and ate Pixie Sticks and fell into a sugar-induced coma on the couch before midnight.
Can you really have a better day than that?
The good mood slipped over into the following day. Usually, I try to boycott November as much as possible, but I was enjoying the lovely weather, and the candy hangover and the fact that everyone else seemed to be in a pretty good mood as well. Plus, we didn’t set the house on fire when the pumpkins caught on fire outside, and no one toilet papered my house. That’s always a plus.
Then it got cloudy and cold. Ah, that’s why I hate November…
Then, a horrible thing happened. The dishwasher gave up the ghost.
I hate washing dishes. I’ve talked about that before.
Of course, we found this out after dinner, when I was trying to put away the clean dishes and load the dirty dishes. Except that the clean dishes were actually dirty dishes and the dirty dishes were still dirty dishes, and there was water hanging out in the bottom of the dishwasher (not draining), and it wouldn’t start. The little lights wouldn’t even come on. Cold dirty dish water was spilling onto the floor, and Sophie thought that might be something interesting to drink.
I think she likes to try to gross me out.
So I spent the next hour and a half washing two days worth of dishes. With other people’s saliva. The only high point of that adventure was that I forced K to dry as I washed, and he spent the whole time trying to catch up to me so that he could text on his phone in between dishes, and complaining about how the only good thing society ever came up with was the dishwashing machine.
Then he wanted to know if this task would score him brownie points. No, it’s going to score us some clean dishes. I’m not getting brownie points, and I am the one with my hands in the icky water.
Then K realized that perhaps this was not the best time to antagonize his mother.
I tried to get J to take a picture of me with my dishwater hands and a pout on my face, but he just sighed, and looked back at the TV. I tried to explain to him that I wanted to share this horrendous occasion with you—my readers—but then he just snarked back that next time he’ll do the dishes, and I can do the homework and spelling words with the second son.
Well, the next time is tonight, honey! I hope you’re ready. I think we should bake lasagna, and let the pan dry, how about you???