The Horrors of Halloween

     Today is Halloween, the day each year that my daughter reminds me once again of how I ruined her childhood. I was not a perfect mother, I admit, and looking back, I must confess that some of my choices were rather dismal and damaging. On this particular today, we spend much time discussing the reasons I would not indulge my children in store-bought Halloween costumes, insisting instead on using my creative talents to whip up disguises of princesses or zombies, depending on gender preference.  I couldn't help myself, sometimes; my deep-core, fundamentally rooted frugalness refused to give in to my daughter's pleas and tears for a store-bought costume, and I was hell-bent and determined to get through their childhood without dropping a dime on a store-bought, flimsy, mass-reproduced, made-in-China costume.
      We had plenty of materials on hand to create every imaginable princess, fairy, or bride get-up that a young girl could possibly want. I was in the possession of a thoroughly reliable sewing machine, a cabinet full of make-up, and enough glitter and glue to create just about any illusion required to transform a young girl into a magical creature. My son was perfectly happy with fake blood and ghoulish gashes across his face. All he wanted was a pillowcase large enough to hold his candy, and he was good to go. My daughter, in training for a future as a fashion conscious shop-aholic, spent her years pining for a store-bought costume. Not just any costume, mind you. She wanted to be a blue M&M, perhaps in a subconscious nod to her love of chocolate.  I tried to convince her that I could whip up an M&M costume in any color her heart desired, in about three minutes time at that, and for about $1; plus, I argued,  it's so much more FUN to make a costume!! But somehow,  my home-made concept of a blue M&M just didn't compare to the store-bought version. There weren't enough tantrums, tears, or tirades, however,  that would make me cross the line of my philosophical commitment to refuse to buy-in to the childhood belief that commercial costumes are better than homemade ones, and she never, ever, ever got to buy that blue M&M.  
   It is one of the reasons my children will be left penniless upon my death, having spent all the family funds on therapy trying to correct my past wrongs.  Actually, there are three things I did in their childhood for which they will never forgive me, and for which they will spend the rest of their lives in therapy trying to figure out.
        1. I refused to buy them store-bought Halloween costumes.
        2. I refused to buy them store-bought birthday cakes, insisting instead on my own, thoughtfully inspired confections, whipped up by the loving hands of their very own mother.
        And finally, the Grandaddy of all bad decisions:
        3. I would not let them buy a bear from Build-A-Bear.
       Oh, don't get me wrong, I took them to Build-A-Bear all the time. We would watch the other children pay an outrageous amount of money to stuff a placid acrylic form with polyeurathane foam, then insert a tiny plastic heart that would magically give birth to their newly created, but still lifeless, pets.  They would watch those lucky children select tiny outfits that came with designer price-tags, watch them dress their over-priced bears as cheerleaders or doctors or such, and watch them march happily out of the store with a bear-in-a-box that cost their over-indulgent parents close to $100.  Nope, not for me. I let my children watch those other privileged children create and purchase their overpriced bears; in fact, we stopped at Build-A-Bear quite frequently.  But not once did I ever actually let them go through the process of creating, dressing, and buying their own bear. It just seemed like such a waste to pay $100 for a $3 bear.
      After years and years and years of hearing how damaged this left them, I finally offered on their 21st birthday to take them to Build-A-Bear and actually LET THEM MAKE and PURCHASE THEIR VERY OWN BEAR! They both politely refused, opting for therapy instead.
     So now, once again, as Halloween arrives, I must spend the day hearing how I have ruined the life of my daughter because I refused to buy her a blue M&M costume when she was five years old.  I think she has reconciled with the birthday cake thing, but we spend some considerable time rehashing the Build-A-Bear Fiasco.
     Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, parents just can't win. My decisions as a young parent were all done with the good intentions of instilling in my children a sense of frugality, self-restraint, independence and principles. I didn't realize at the time how much damage I was unconsciously inflicting on the psyche of my daughter.  And so, each year, as this day approaches,  and as the stores and magazines and commercials are flooded with the sirene call to purchase a costume, I am reminded of the  horrors I inflicted on her childhood Halloweens, of how my children had  to march through the high-brow neighborhoods of the toney West End in their cheesey, homemade costumes, and how it ruined her life.

    But at least now, in all my aged-wisdom, I'm willing to spend a buck on some real good therapy-- just not on a store-bought costume.
    

Ode to October

Ode to October

Summer has withered and leaves turn to flame,

the air takes a bite from your lungs with each breath.

The sky hovers azure, the sun starts to wane,

as each day gently shortens in breadth.

The crunch of each step as you walk through the woods

leaves a pattern of footprints in acorns and oak

Painted umber and ochre and chocolate and gold-

nature dons such a colorful cloak!

 What artist could fathom such richness of hue?

What designer could sew such a dress?

What creation of man could earn the review

as the splendors of autumn possess?

Oh! give me a day in the fall in the woods

You can have all your treasures and fame-

I wouldn't trade money or riches or goods

for a walk when the leaves are in flame.

Does this Butt make me look fat?

        When you walk into a restaurant and the waiters are wearing T-shirts that read " Fat People Are Hard To Kidnap," it might be a clue that this is not going to be in your best interest, health-wise.  You might even think that you're going to be in for some gastrointestinal, cardiac, and vascular trouble.   Normal people would. Healthy people would . Most members of the 21st century, endorphin-pumping, power-walking, vega-vita-juice culture to which we belong would.  I, however, clapped my hands excitedly together and thought, "Come to Mama! I'm home at last!"  as I headed straight to the bulging buffet of The Smokehouse Restaurant in Elgin, SC. 
      Sissey and I had spent a long but successful day shopping in Columbia  with our friend, Annette. Nothing works up an appetite quite like a day of  walking mile after mile through store after store, and by six o'clock, we were sorely in need of some sustenance.  Annette's brother, his wife, and their mother had suggested we meet them at a local roadhouse where we could experience some real gustatory delights.  In particular, they wanted us to ingest the regional version of Elgin pig, namely because all southerners boast that they have "the best barbecue anywhere on earth, " and we figured this claim was one worth checking out.
     When we pulled into the parking lot of The Smokehouse, the tantalizing smells of smoking pork and frying chicken were so strong they fairly pulled me through the doors. I marched straight past the stuffed bear (not sure why there was a bear, perhaps bear had recently been on the menu?) and right up to the food line. At this point, I was too far in to turn back, so I decided to push the health-conscious chip on my shoulder deep into my sub-conscious memory and commit whole-heartedly-- at least while I still had a viable heart--to dinner at The Smokehouse. I was going to sample my way through as many items as possible on the "all-you-can-eat-take-a-new-plate-each-visit" trip through the cardiac arrest line.
          It seemed to be a fairly good sign that the buffet began with a rather healthy salad bar.
         "OK, " I reasoned, " lots of raw fiber, roughage.  This is good, this is good. Healthy so far."
          I piled my bowl high and  made a mental note of the sign that read, "Take all you want, but be sure to eat it."  Not a problem here, I murmured, as I reached for black olives, pickles, and croutons. For my first health-conscious bonus point of the evening, I skipped the catfish chowder, then jumped smack-dab into the middle of the mashed potato- macaroni and cheese- rice and hash station. Just a little sample here, not going overboard with the carbohydrates;  I put an ever-so-teensy dollop of creamy spuds on my plate and  gave myself another bonus point for going lightly on the carbs.  That would be my second and last healthy decision of the evening, for it was all gastro-gourmet-gluttony from that point on as I headed for the hot lights that hovered over  fried chicken and BBQ.
       Piles of crispy,golden-brown, fried chicken perfection perched beside platters of  BBQ chicken and BBQ wings. Of course, you can't have fried chicken without fried okra, corn on the cob, fried potato wedges,  green beans and collard greens, so those delectables naturally accompanied the chicken.  For some reason, huge pans of banana pudding and Oreo-cookie-pudding-delight were stashed right between the chicken and the pork, perhaps as a subtle reminder to leave room for dessert. I, however, being of such noble self-restraint,  was not tempted at all, having already decided to come back later for the sweets.
      It was pig I had come for, and by golly, I was going to have some pig.  The BBQ was available as chopped pork, pulled pork, sliced pork, roasted pork, and of course, greasy, saucy, hot-off-the-grill, finger-licking, bone-sucking, lip-smacking ribs.  A massive Boston Butt rested on a carve-it-yourself board, just waiting for someone to slice off a chunk of meat in an instant liposuction procedure that would reduce it's heft by a pound or two.  After sneaking a quick taste while still in line, I immediately understood why the other side of those foreboding T-shirts had boasted  that "We have juicy breasts, meaty ribs, and the best butts in town."  They might have them at The Smokehouse, but judging by the size of my plate, those same attributes would not be going home with me tonight. I was quite sure that perfectly roasted Boston Butt would,  indeed, make me look fat, but I whacked off a slice anyway and added it to my plate.
     With a groaning tray loaded with enough calories to sustain a starving nation, I headed back and joined the others.  I plopped my pile heavily onto the oil-cloth table, said a prayer of thanks, added a silent plea for health and digestion, picked up my fork, and  plunged  in.
      After the first few bites, I thought,  "Yes! This is surely worth dying for!"
      If I had stopped here, perhaps I would have had some small chance of redeeming myself with the Weight Watchers of the world, but unfortunately, my slide into gustational sin was not yet finished.  There was one final stop, and it was hovering just inside my left peripheral field of vision. It was the dessert table. Now mind you, I am not one who is prone to gorge on sweets, quite unlike some unnamed people who just happened to be dining with me this night. These unnamed entities each had an incorrigible sweet tooth, and it was truly for their sake alone that I even ventured near the trays of sugar-laden temptations. Being the ever-so-helpful person that I naturally am, I, of course, volunteered to survey the sweets and fetch a few tidbits. I felt obligated to serve up some banana pudding, because it was a house favorite.  I didn't want the Oreo cookie pudding to feel cheated, so I plopped a few spoonfuls of that in a bowl as well.  The peach cobbler had to be healthy, it was a fruit after all, so in it went right beside the German chocolate cake. There, I was done, and had skipped the cookies and vanilla cake to boot!
       And then, as we sat moaning and groaning over our engorged bellies, here comes the devil in an apron with a tray of  fresh, hot, homemade donuts. What was I supposed to do? Tell her to go away? Turn my nose up at such an offering of southern hospitality covered in sugar? Hurt her feelings after she had labored so hard over a hot oven just to feed us????  Of course not! I was raised better than that, and besides,  she practically waved them right under my nose. I was powerless to resist, so I took two.
     You may as well have hooked up an IV to my arm and infused a stick of butter straight into my veins after what I had just endured, but I was happy, because I knew for sure that nobody was ever going to be able to kidnap me. I thought as extra insurance,  I might pick up a couple of those t-shirts on the way out, just as a warning to all those would-be kidnappers hovering in the bushes waiting to snatch an obese, fifty year old  cardiac risk inflated with BBQ and hyped up on sugar.
        As I drove back  home down the dark, isolated  road to Chester, I argued with my engorged, pig- sated, digesting self and tried to assuage my guilty conscious by saying this was a one-time deal.
      "Anyway, who cares what all those reports say about monounsaturated versus polyunsaturated fats?" I muttered. "I am sick to death of hearing about trans fats, and Omega fats, and fat this and fat that.  What do all those doctors know? Just call me fat and be done with it, but I sure am glad we stopped at The Smokehouse! "
       I was willing to bet  that not a single one of those doctors had ever chomped down on some real southern BBQ. If they had, they'd tell everyone to forget everything they read, go get some good BBQ, and die happy.