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Halloween has never been my favorite holiday, and I can’t say why. I’ve always liked dressing up, I don’t mind a good scare, and I believe in all things paranormal. Maybe that’s part of it, that somewhere inside me, I take it seriously, and have a sense that the current festivities are somehow disrespectful.
Be that as it may, it’s Kelsea’s ULTIMATE holiday. She’s always loved it and loves to be scared. This year, she’s going as Hannah Montana’s true self – the Hannah Montana outfit and long blonde hair – with a red demon mask – representing another pop icon that has become the scourge of little girls of our society. She’s going trick-or-treating with her best friends today, and then to The Asylum, one of Denver’s scariest haunted houses. I’ve never been in a haunted house (other than the ones I have actually lived in), and have no intention of going, so it’s a good thing her friends’ mom likes those kind of things.
As for me, I’m in hiding for the weekend. No trick-or-treaters for me. I’ve taken off for a couple of nights to parts unknown and unnamed.
As my treat for you today, I wanted to share a few Halloween tidbits.
First off, let me apologize for failing to alert you to last night’s holiday – Haunted Refrigerator Night. It was your chance to clean out all the scary stuff that has been lurking in the fridge for who-knows-how-long. I suppose the curmudgeons among us can then throw all their spoiled food at unwanted trick-or-treaters tonight.
2009’s most popular costumes are….Swine Flu and Michael Jackson! Zombies are also quite chic this year. And you could combine all three to create something very interesting.
If you see a spider on Halloween, it is the spirit of a loved one watching over you. So for heavens sake, don’t step on it!
Samhainophobia is an intense fear of Halloween. I wonder how it expresses itself?
Halloween is believed to have its origin among the Celts. I’ve always like the Celts and all things Celtic. Before it was cloaked in more Christian-friendly garb, this night was considered to be the time when the border between this world and the other became transparent, which allowed spirits to freely cross over from one side to the other – and not just good spirits either. People wore costumes and masks to keep the harmful spirits at bay, the thought being that disguising oneself as a harmful spirit would fool the harmful spirits into thinking that no good was to gained from that person, that it was just another bad brother.
According to Wiki, bonfires would sometimes be built side by side on this night, and people and livestock would pass between the two as a cleansing ritual. I suppose that the livestock that wandered a bit too close to either blaze would then be served as dinner.
The bonfire thing seems to have fallen by the wayside, but the whole costume concept is (as you know) still going strong. Since I have not truly partaken in a costume in — oh, let’s say almost forever — I am perhaps more objective about available costume choices than more enthusiastic revellers might be. And after shopping for costumes with Kelsea this year, I have come to the following conclusions:
– Men want to dress as:
a) Disgustingly gory, bloody, gross creatures
b) Giant pieces of food
– Women want to dress as:
a) slutty witches, pirates, nurses, soldiers, police officers, storybook characters, astronauts or vampires
b) anything else slutty not mentioned above
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for sluttiness as fantasy-fun, and I definitely think there’s a place for it in our society. But c’mon, it’s not every woman’s dream Halloween costume! Give us a little credit! And at least 60% of women probably can’t carry it off – those costumes are not for the generously proportioned. So what is the rest of female America supposed to do – stay home? Wear a sheet with the eyeholes cut out? (I did that one year as a child. My parents weren’t big on Halloween either.)
Departing from the costume rant, I’m going to quote freely (read plagiarise with credit) from Uncyclopedia here, because I find it just classic:
“For those children too young to skank-out, a series of rituals were created to get them out of the house and on the streets, so that older couples could enjoy each other’s costumes in “private”. Some of these rituals and customs are listed below.
- The egging of trees in white wrappings – To ward off the ancient mummies of Egypt.
- The spraying of white foam on one another, and road signs – To disguise their scents from the foaming rabid werewolves, and to keep the werewolves from finding their way through town.
- The beating of one another with socks filled with flour – To create puffs of flour, allowing them to see and avoid passing by spirits.
- The throwing of eggs at one another and at houses that give crappy candy – To symbolise the life and death of the spirits. The egg represents the birth, the throwing represents the life, and the splattering and the pain on impact represents the death… and the stinky rotten egg smell represents the undeath and haunting.
- The giving of empty hot-dog casings (“hollow weenies”).
- The ringing of doorbells and dashing off into the shrubbery – to confuse stalking demons inside houses.
- The playing of bobbing for apples with the local neoconservative dynasty.”
My childhood Halloweens were spent trick-or-treating up and down both sides of two blocks of Buchanan Boulevard. (Once or twice, we ventured a block west to Lancaster Avenue, but one block made a huge difference in the neighborhood back then.) Apparently, ours was such good trick-or-treating ground that kids were bussed in from other parts of town to trick-or-treat there. I remember the sidewalks being quite crowded. I went with my brother, and we were required to stick together. Most years, one parent would go with us, for fear of us getting lost, stolen or poisoned. The tradition of trick-or-treating was in its own adolescence then, having originated back in the 1940’s, and trick-or-treat-for-Unicef, where we went around asking people to put coins in those impossible-to-assemble orange cardboard boxes, was a relatively new thing. I never liked it much, I’m ashamed to say, because the grown-ups would give us EITHER candy or Unicef money, but not both. I was a selfish little beast with a sweet tooth.
I stopped trick-or-treating at a pretty early age – I preferred to stay home and hand out candy, instead of dressing up. I went freshman year in college with a bunch of friends, at their insistence, thinking it would help heal a heartache. It didn’t. I felt like a total idiot and attracted the attention of a very bad individual, resulting an even worse experience several weeks later. Talk about a heaping helping of heartbreak.
After that, I worked every Halloween night through college. In those days in Boulder, the Pearl Street Mall hosted the infamous “Mall Crawl”, which incidentally some people have been trying to revive this year. Clearly, they never experienced it in its heyday, and don’t understand the wisdom of its forced demise. Back then, I was making pizzas, and Halloween was a zoo in the pizza place – wall-to-wall people, we cranked out more pies that night than any other week in the year. And made more tips. The crowd outside was dressed wildly, drunk as a submarine crew on shore leave, and packed as tightly as the proverbial can of sardines. The first couple of years, it was fun and energizing. The last couple of years it was bad-scary. The crowd would take it upon itself to sway, and since smaller people like me could barely put their feet on the ground, we’d be caught up and carried along. People would climb lamp-posts, break windows, trample flower beds, pick fights. It got really bad. And so the town stopped it. They put up roadblocks coming into downtown, and stationed police officers to keep anyone in costume away from the Mall. It worked. The Mall Crawl died.
I have accompanied Kelsea on many a night trick-or-treating, but never really dressed up. Sometimes we just went around our neighborhood, but most years, we went to one of our friend’s houses, as she was tight with their daughter. The wives would take the girls for a few blocks, then circle back to their house and trade off with the husbands. It was fun. Their daughter is in high school now, and I lost those friends in the divorce, so that’s done with.
And now, it’s now.
No pumpkin for me this year. We never have had much luck with them. I always come within a hairs-breadth of cutting off one of my fingers when carving, and then the squirrels quickly decimate anything I might have created. So while trips to the pumpkin patch are always fun (we used to do our family picture in the pumpkin patch every year – guess that’s off now too), I no longer go to the expense of purchasing one. Nicer just to look.
Here’s an abbreviated version of the legend of the origin of the Jack-‘O’-Lantern: A drunken Irish gambler named Jack met the devil on the road one night. He tricked the devil into climbing an apple tree, then trapped him in it by carving a cross into the tree trunk. The devil was furious, and when Jack died, he exercised his revenge by denying him entrance into hell (where Jack had a reservation) and condemning him to wander the earth at night for all eternity, carrying a lighted candle in a hollowed-out turnip.
(In an interesting cultural variation, in certain African countries, Jack is known as “Big Sixteen” and is refused entry into hell by the devil’s widow, for having killed the devil. And on a side note, why do we capitalize God but not the devil? Does capitalizing something automatically give it more power, importance, or validity?)
It would be disastrous to give every costumed reveller a lighted, hollowed-out turnip in this day and age. Thankfully, it’s too challenging to carry a lighted, hollowed-out pumpkin, especially when trying to juggle a bulging bag of candy and pounding on doors. Not that I’ve tried.
In closing, for those of you partaking in Halloween – have fun, practice safe celebration, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. That pretty much leaves the door wide open.
“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.” — courtesy of the Scots
So if you check once today, check back later for more.
I am snowbound. I measured 23 inches off the little patio. Snow is up to the second fence rail. The garden fence is completely buried. Why on earth would anyone live here? I can’t see how I will possibly be able to get out, even tomorrow. And it’s still coming down.
And I am still wearing my pink elephant flannel pajamas.
But it’s time to get showered and dressed. Pat is going to venture out (idiot) to go to the store. He’s always said that it’s not a problem to drive in this kind of weather because there’s no one else on the road (read that as no one else insane enough to do so). He’s going to bring supplies by, but he says I have to swim through the snow to get them. Oh well, it’ll be good exercise.
Later…………………………….. to separate today’s episodes, I’ve decided to include a shot of what the world is REALLY like, as opposed to this brilliant white frozen tundra. Like so….
I have now shoveled a path all the way to the truck, and started shovelling out the driveway, but my back was really tired. Sooo much snow…
Yes, the snow pictures are smaller than the sun pictures – that’s as it should be. Except for these two – Kelsea had a great time attempting snow angels – actually, it was more of a dead drop.
As you can see, she met with limited success. It’s still snowing, I’m still working, and Showboat is on TCM. Although I can think of a few additions to this scenario that would make it cozier, it’s not too bad.
———————–Later:
Still snowing lightly here at 6:45 pm – will it ever stop?
I have felt lonely these last three nights, as if being single changes something in me, even though I was not living with Pat. Perhaps it’s the weather.
I love the Desperation Dinners cookbook. Everything I’ve made from it has been easy, fast, good and healthy. And one of the authors’ parents owned a beach house we stayed at in Topsail one year when I was very small, and that’s really really cool.
I worked out for over an hour on top of shovelling snow today – good me.
A quiet day.
A quiet night.
Today’s guest poet – Jaime Sabines
The Moon
You can take the moon by the spoonful
or in capsules every two hours.
It’s useful as a hypnotic and sedative
and besides it relieves
those who have had too much philosophy.
A piece of moon in your purse
works better than a rabbit’s foot.
Helps you find a lover
or get rich without anyone knowing,
and it staves off doctors and clinics.
You can give it to children like candy
when they’ve not gone to sleep,
and a few drops of moon in the eyes of the old
helps them to die in peace.
Put a new leaf of moon
under your pillow
and you’ll see what you want to.
Always carry a little bottle of air of the moon
to keep you from drowning.
Give the key to the moon
to prisoners and the disappointed.
For those who are sentenced to death
and for those who are sentenced to life
there is no better tonic than the moon
in precise and regular doses.
Well, it’s done.
I thought I was supposed to feel better? I don’t. I’m back to numb, lost, confused. I don’t like the idea of being single. I know Pat doesn’t either. Even though he didn’t really take care of me, it was nice to know there was someone who could take care of me when I’m sick or sad. And now there isn’t.
Will I die alone?
Yesterday was nothing short of poignant. We met at the bank and had our papers notarized by one of the employees who has known us for 20 years. I was good and didn’t cry – came close once. Pat was nice.
Then we went and had lunch at Whole Foods, laughed, talked, just like an ordinary lunch. Bought Kelsea a double cupcake. We were kind to each other.
We drove together to the courthouse. We sat together at the table before the nice judge. All of our papers were done, so we had our “hearing”. We both felt the irony of having to say “I do” upon being sworn in. We consulted each other on things like dates for finalizing things. I went through a lot of Kleenex. He rubbed my back. I put my head on his shoulder. Like two people who love each other. But still, two people who can’t live together, can’t make their marriage work.
I could barely gasp out “yes” though my tears when the judge asked me if this marriage was irretrievably broken. I found myself wishing he hadn’t said yes. But the answer was reality, and the answer was yes.
Irretrievably broken.
What horrible, final words.
We hugged each other afterwards, joked about things. I am hoping that we will continue to be kind to each other, and that we will find we like each other better now that we are not married, will make more of an effort to get along and treat each other with respect, will be friends.
The decree won’t be issued until January 4th, so we will continue the financial stuff as is until then. But after that will be the test of his mettle, to see if he really can make his own way without going back on any of the terms we’ve agreed upon.
And so, that’s it. Except for the emotions, which will continue to ebb and flow for the foreseeable future. So, the Divorce Diaries will continue.
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I want to pay tribute to a sweet friend who passed away on October 22. Trixie probably had one of the best lives ever.
You know, I really thought I was okay. I finished up all the paperwork this morning. It is sitting in its orange folder, waiting to go to the notary and the judge, just a couple of points outstanding that we need to discuss. Amazing how an entire relationship of 25 years, one-quarter of a century, now comes down to a slim sheaf of papers in an orange folder.
And what do we have to show for it? A beautiful daughter. A falling-down house. A lot of happy times. And a lot of tears and memories of anger and despair. Not much in the way of possessions or savings. Certainly nothing that reflects how hard I’ve worked.
I was unemotional filling out the papers. Just business. Calculations. Trying to be fair. (I am hoping he will be fair as well, but I have hoped that for our whole life together, so I don’t think I can rely on it.) But when I was done, I called my brother. All the family I have left. He’s been trying to reach me for some weeks now, and I have been remiss in returning his calls. He’s been through this twice himself, so he understands that there are emotions around it, and he understands me. I guess I wanted him to tell me how I should feel, since I was feeling odd — numb, practical, abnormal. He being a boy, his emotions around his divorces were not as much sad, as they were peeved (what a great word) and relieved. As we were talking, I just started to cry. And now I am having waves of tears. It was good to talk with him. I could feel his support over the thousand miles that separate us.
Last night, a friend pinpointed this whole experience as “the death of a dream”. That is exactly it. I never had big dreams for my marriage. No big house, no opulence. I had dreams of companionship, partnership, laughter, Joy. Contentment. With this person I loved, with whom I chose (for whatever reason) to spend my life. Dreams of the rest of my life. Yes, I wanted to travel. But I also wanted a beautiful garden, dogs, cats. A home. Love.
Divorce is admitting that those things, in this relationship that you’ve tried so hard to tend well for so long, are just not possible. And giving up the dream.
The garden is the perfect metaphor for our marriage. We had a beautiful garden for a number of years. It was always a work in progress. But we both enjoyed working it and we spent a lot of time in it. Days in the sun, evenings playing with Kelsea, having dinner, watching the bats swoop low above our heads. Then, somehow, Pat kept building things for me to tend, and I kept running out of time to tend them. He would do the building, but not help with maintaining things – or if he helped, he would berate me for not making more time to do the tending. I was working too much, just trying to keep up with the economy. It started to feel like a battle of wills, and something (just one more thing) I felt guilty about not doing, and then guilty about not wanting to do, because it was too much to maintain on my own, because I didn’t feel like I had a partner, because it was expensive, because things didn’t grow as planned and I was disappointed, because he was disappointed that it didn’t look like the gardens in the magazines. So much disappointment.
Now, what used to be our garden is in complete disrepair. Weeds taller than my head. Beds dug up by the dogs. Broken fences. Fences that cannot be mended.
Pat has no motivation to care for it. “I made it all for you,” he says, “It doesn’t matter to me anymore.” I hope that, since he’s living there, and he used to enjoy it so, sitting out in the dark with a glass of whiskey and being pleased with the property, that he’ll find it in himself to take pride in it once again. To try. But I’ve been hoping that for him for years. Maybe he will be better off without me.
I found my wedding ring this morning – I know, it sounds like I’m torturing myself, but it’s another metaphor. You see, it’s a beautiful ring. We designed it ourselves. It swirls and curves and has diamonds. And it doesn’t fit me any more. I guess I am not the same person I was when he slipped it on my finger 19 years ago.
I guess that’s why I am where I am today, alone, in a bed surrounded by sodden tissues and divorce papers. And not where I used to be.
Today is Pat’s birthday – he’s still living it up in Florida, but should be back tonight. Tomorrow is our date with the notary and the judge. Then we will be on the no-U-turn road to divorce. We’ll have to take a 4-hour parenting class, but hopefully that’s it. Then I have to figure out how to pay him every month.
How am I feeling? Like mush. My thoughts are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It’s impossible to concentrate. I was completely unmotivated to write this weekend. I am housesitting in my old house, which is bizarre, especially at this time. It’s been nice to be around the dogs and cats, and of course, Kelsea. I feel wounded yet numb, like I want to crawl off in a hole and hibernate, sleep for six months, awake to a spring where the myriad of emotions around divorce have settled into their proper nooks and crannies in my soul.
Friends who have been through this tell me that after tomorrow, I will have crossed a threshold, and be on the downhill side of it all – downhill side being a good thing. I can’t imagine that right now. Perhaps I will understand it better in 26 hours. Between the divorce and my pending unemployment, too many things are up in the air right now. Balloons without strings, stuck on the ceiling of a cathedral that is me. I just have to wait for them to lose their air and fall within my reach.
I’m scared.
Pat and I met yesterday to discuss the divorce. It was actually very amicable. The purpose of our lunch was to complete all the paperwork prior to sitting down with the judge next week. That didn’t happen. Instead, he said, “You just fill it all out and I’ll sign it.” Including his financial statement.
I guess I’m fine with that. I’m honest and I know I’ll be fair (probably more than fair). We’re both in agreement that we just want this whole thing to be as good an experience for Kelsea as it can be. But, at the same time, it’s one more thing for ME to do, and one more thing HE won’t take responsibility for. I have a feeling he’s in for a rude awakening when he starts having to pay his own bills every month.
I only cried once during lunch, which is not bad, considering how much I usually cry during these meetings. Somehow, I still feel like I need to apologize for all of it. As we were leaving, I said, “I tried to be a good wife to you.” And he replied, “You had your moments.” Then after I drove away, I found myself wishing he would say something like that to me. He’s the reason I’m leaving, after all. But he’s owned up to his own faults in this divorce once or twice when he was in his cups. I guess that’s as good as I’m going to get.
I am ready to stop apologizing.
Flu shots…do they really do any good, since there’s a new strain of flu every year? (They sure make your arm hurt.) Are they really just another money-making scheme on the part of endlessly greedy pharmaceutical companies? Conspiracy theorists want to know.
I miss the Weekly World News. The best trash ever. The website doesn’t live up to the print version.
It’s snowing. No, not just snowing, rain-snowing. Not enough for snow boots, but enough to soak through your shoes and make your socks wet for the rest of the day. Pat goes to Florida tomorrow for his birthday vacation, where, he told me this morning, it’s 80 degrees and sunny. Crap. I will never see a beach again. Everybody gets to see beaches but me. I’m feeling sorry for myself.
Wish I’d taken that shot.
Pat and I were supposed to finish the papers on Monday night, but when I got there, my brother-in-law/sister were there, so we didn’t. Besides, the Broncos were on. So we are getting together to finish them at lunch today. That should be good for the diet, huh? My biggest issue is that I can’t wait, now that I’ve filed, and if I’m truthful (which I am) and put my current salary down, it paints a very different picture from the one we’ll be seeing at the end of next month, when I lose my job. Conundrum. Good word. Pat says he’ll be reasonable, but I am leery of leaving anything to chance. I’ll keep you posted. At any rate, we’ll have to get them notarized on Tuesday after he gets back and before we go see the judge. Cutting it rather fine, seeing as how we’ve had six weeks to do this. I guess we’re now separated enough that this is a formality. But I don’t think it’s going to feel like a formality next week. Even though it’s what I want, it makes me unhappy and forlorn.
Why do things always seem to drip on me in the most noticeable and embarrassing places????
If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you’ll probably know that the final expression of my marital woes and the catalyst for me to exit a long-time relationship that wasn’t good for me, was an affair. And you may notice that I haven’t written much about my love life in many months – because there was nothing to write about. But I want to put the world on notice that I have hung the scarlet letter in the back of the closet – no, I’ll go one better, I’ve burned it in a bonfire in the yard under a full moon and danced around it. I’ll write an actual tale of that later, but suffice it to say that I’m done with that stuff. It’s actually possible I might have a date soon. Go figure.
Geez, if one crummy weather day makes me this morose, what am I going to do when it’s REALLY winter? (The answer is: run away.)
TODAY IS CAPS LOCK DAY. It is also the birthday of Curly (of Three Stooges fame), Deepak Chopra, and Joan Fontaine. They are showing “Suspicion” tonight on TCM – one of my favorite movies by Alfred Hitchcock, with Joan Fontaine and Cary Grant. How can you not love Cary Grant?
More later…
Today’s poet — Me
The Future At Night
I can hear the night breathing
Come to swallow me up,
Eyes unblinking bright across the dark field,
Cool breath
A gentle clack of teeth.
Silence so loud it buzzes and roars
And sparks the air
Between night’s jaws and me,
Feet cool, shoulders warm,
Coyotes rejoicing a kill.
Where is your warm shoulder
In which I bury my head
Protecting myself from questionable salvation
And protecting you from the endless blackness of the night
As it hungers, unfed,
Unfed.
On Sunday (was it Sunday?), I talked about angels. Today, I want to talk about vampires. Why, you may ask? Well, several reasons, the foremost being that today is Bela Lugosi’s birthday, and as you know, he was the most famous portrayer of Dracula on-screen (though he was kind of hokey).
It’s been interesting to watch the latest revival of interest in vampires with the publication of the “Twilight” series. Of course, Twilight seems to have seeped its way into every marketing gimmick ever imagined – candy, cards, music, clothes, games, posters, jewelry, bookmarks, switchplates, and heaven only knows what else. Kelsea said it seems to be taking over the universe. I haven’t read the book, but I have seen the movie, and I am missing the appeal. Unless it just sparks the imagination from a romantic standpoint – the whole thing of two people who meet and feel destined to be together, who seem to understand each other so well, who seem to be irresistably drawn to each other, who feel they want to be together, protecting and supporting each other, for eternity. Ok, that sounds pretty good when I put it that way.
Just ignore that eensey detail that one of them happens to be undead.
But this is not a Twilight rant. Nope, I’m not going to let Twilight take over MY blogging universe. This is about vampires in general and my rambling thoughts.
I’ve had a fascination with vampires since childhood. I was younger than Kelsea when one of my favorite Christmas gifts was “The Annotated Dracula.” I still have it. It’s a wonderful book, the original Bram Stoker manuscript with footnotes out the wazoo.
In 5th grade, my English teacher showed our class the 1922 silent German film “Nosferatu” with Max Schreck in the role of the vampire. Mrs. Bugg (my English teacher) thrilled us with the rumor that Schreck actually WAS a vampire. I’ll allow that he is one creepy dude in the film, in his previous and subsequent roles, and apparently in real life as well. Anyway, that film has always remained in my mind. It was truly vivid….those fingernails…those teeth…ewww. A real classic.
Bela never lived up to my expectations of a vampire. But most other film vampires didn’t do the trick either – Christopher Lee? No. John Carradine? Nope. Louis Jourdan? Closer (much closer). And then we got to Frank Langella, and he was wonderful. Handsome, suave, romantic – my dear friend Lisa Rohaly and I just adored him, and stayed out way too late one night in Columbus, Ohio to sit through the movie twice.
There it is – that fantasy-romance thing that currently appeals to teens, showing up in me when I was a teen. Hmmm.
Of course, as an adult, one knows such things more than likely aren’t real. There are people who are metaphorical bloodsuckers. And there are cultists who are sort of vampire-wannabes. And there’s some interesting viral stuff out there, purported to be from real vampires (who, by the by, are not undead), like this site: http://vampirewebsite.net/index.html.
I find it interesting that my daughter has a similar fascination with vampires and general supernatural stuff. It’s not something I intentionally focused on with her, although she has “the shine”, too, so it may just be innate for her, as it seems to have been for me. I will say she has more stomach for the disgusting side of creepiness than I do, like theatrical haunted houses and horror flicks.
Do I know if vampires exist? Nope. I know the mythology. And that, as with angels, almost every culture has a touch of vampire lore.
I know that I have seen people on the streets of New York who were so fascinatingly vampirical in their everyday appearance that they took my breath away and I literally could not stop staring at them. And that was really wierd for me, so wierd that I remember it now, almost 20 years later.
I know that, as Shakespeare said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” (That’s from Hamlet, if you’re not up on your Shakespeare.)
I know that there are many kinds of energy in this universe and, just as with angels, a vampiric energy could likely be used for good or for evil.
I know that, even though Halloween is not my gig, this is a spooky time of year, and it’s fun to speculate.
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