The Gag-Inducing Awfulness of Candy Corn, And Other Halloween Sins
I used to hate the fall. I’m not sure why. I think it might have been a combination of a few things – the onset of cold weather, the depressing gray landscape, the darkness at 5pm. I thought people who enjoyed the fall were crazy for embracing a season that begins with flu shots and frost-shriveled flowers. And when we lived in New York, fall meant nothing but the beginning of freezing my ass off on the elevated subway platforms and months of wet pants-cuffs caked in black slush.
JUST ONCE I’d like to see Carrie Bradshaw have to maneuver through 6 inches of pee-soaked slush in her fucking Manolos.
But in the past few years, I’ve grown to enjoy fall & winter – if for no other reason than the fact that the weather change kills those fucking nightmarish centipedes. And I’ve always been a sucker for the fall and winter holidays. Turkey and stuffing? Yes, please. Pumpkin pie? Make mine a double. Eight weeks of retailers shoving Christmas down my throat? Don’t mind if I do.
But Halloween? The holiday where I am forced to purchase candy for every child and costume-less hoodlum who rings my doorbell, the occasion with the parties that always result in frantic trips to the thrift store or costume shop at which I spend way more than I should on something I will wear for 4 drunken hours, the time of year when otherwise respectable women feel compelled to dress like complete gutter-whores in public?
Oh, give me a fucking break.
I’ve always felt like such a traitor about not liking Halloween. After all, I’m a fucking theatre geek – shouldn’t I like getting to wear costumes? Well, I do like to wear costumes. And because I’m a fucking theatre geek, I get to wear costumes about 6 times a year onstage. So a day where I am expected to wear another costume? Just seems like more of a pain in the ass than anything else.
OK, I admit that I do still dress up for parties and such – because I’ve never gotten to play Phillip the Hyperactive Child, High School Phys-Ed Teacher, or White Trash Homecoming Queen onstage before. But those, dear friends, are the three costumes I have actually enjoyed wearing in the 30 years I have been alive. And for the bulk of my trick-or-treating years, I usually went as the same damn thing every year. What was that, you ask? Let me give you a hint:
Yes, my friends, instead of dressing up as a fairy princess or a witch or a rock star, I dressed up as SOMEONE WITH A FULL-TIME JOB.
I can’t even remember why I did it, except that I had a wide collection of those little “wings” pins that the airlines used to give out to kids on flights as a sort of silent bribe to not be an annoying little shit for the duration of the flight. Combine the pins with a white button down shirt, a blue skirt and matching flats usually reserved for church, thrown in one of your mom’s scarves tied around your neck, and VOILA! You’re lame.
So maybe a history of boring costumes is to blame for my indifference-bordering-on-distaste for Halloween. Maybe it’s the fact that I loathe haunted houses. Maybe it’s the insane trick-or-treating action we get in our neighborhood, where I see everything from cute little kids with their parents to surly teenagers with pillowcases and concealed weapons to (and this was a first for me last year) a real, live strung out prostitute, complete with her pimp who stood in the middle of my street screaming profanities at the motorist who kindly asked him to get out of the road.
I understand that it’s hard out here for a pimp, but hopefully these strawberry Nerds will help take the edge off.
It’s not that I’m scandalized by things like the ho and her daddy, because I live in the city and that shit happens, but it’s the fact that I have to give them free fucking candy that really chaps my ass. And don’t even come up in here tellin’ me I could refuse them candy, because I don’t want to spend the first week of November recovering from a hooker heel to the temple.
And then there are the INFANTS carried to my door so that I may give their ADULT PARENTS candy. Because unless they are supplementing their baby’s breastmilk diet with liquefied 3 Musketeers bars, it’s pretty obvious the candy thing is all about them scoring sweets from a perfect stranger. The kid is basically a prop in all of this as the adult walks up to my door, says trick-or-treat, holds out the bag, and then thanks me for my contribution to the Gainfully Employed Adults Who Don’t Feel Like Paying For Their Own Damn Candy Association. Look, I get it: your kid is fucking adorable dressed up like a pea pod or whatever, but he/she has no idea what’s going on and would take your boobs over Reese’s Pieces any day, so maybe sit it out this year, OK? Also, you are making me really nervous carrying your baby and a sackful of candy up and down my concrete stairs that are still covered with wet leaves even though we cut down that fucker months ago.
So, in sum, I am a total killjoy Halloween Scrooge. Thank you and good night.
Also, when HoST & I have a baby, I’ll probably be dragging that kid up and down the street for free Butterfingers before the cord is cut. Stay tuned for me to eat my words. But I draw the line at unnecessarily sexy costumes:
Holly Hobby? HOLLY FUCKING HOBBY? I give up.
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.