Halloween is my all-time favorite holiday, but I think this is the most lethargy I’ve ever displayed. My head was full of big ideas, like maybe I’d have a costume party this year and actually put some gusto into decorating the yard (as Chooch sits on the couch, watching “Goonies” and spitting out “Oh shit!”s every two seconds – real time play-by-play). I managed (with the aid of Henry power) to erect a slipshod cemetery against the front of the house, and I scribbled generic faces onto pumpkins which Henry then spent an hour carving, only to have the crazy Indian Summer-turned-snowstorm shrivel and mottle the fucking bastards. Then I thought it would be fun to dress Chooch up as David from The Lost Boys but only felt inspired to spend 20 minutes scouring the Internet for a toddler-sized trench coat before abandoning my search in favor of downloading some metalcore. Instead, I waited until the last minute before clicking a button, and a plastic-packaged Frankenstein costume arrived on my doorstop yesterday. Maybe Henry will at least paint Chooch’s face green to pull the costume together, but I won’t know since I WILL BE WORKING.
I always start thinking about Halloween in July, but then I get side-tracked by the forty-seven OTHER things I want to work on, and then guess what – nothing gets done. Halloween becomes half-baked just like the thirty books I’ve said I was going to write, the trip to Romania I said I was going to save up for, the kickball tourny I wanted to arrange, and the scavenger hunt I said I was going to organize. Henry keeps lecturing me, telling me I need to pick ONE THING and go from there, but instead, I have to do things my way and dabble in three different mediums on any given day and then I wonder why I can’t fucking sleep at night and why I find myself missing half of whatever TV show Henry and I are watching together because I’m staring at the wall, completely zoned out.
I think I need to spend one weekend alone, in a cabin somewhere. Preferrably one that includes in its itinerary:
- a suspicious and unsettling gas station attendant a mile down the road
- a curious phone-line disconnnect
- a bear trap meet-n-greet for my feet while fleeing a murderous rapist
- an evening in front of a crackling fire, full of psycho semen with an axe protruding from scalp
Last night, Henry and I were supposed to go to a haunted house when I was done working, but my mom and aunt (the begrudging babysitters) were already at my house when I came home, acting like it was second only to Hell as the last place they’d want to be so I was all, “You know, I guess we just won’t go then” so they flew out of my house with an eagerness typically reserved for a copraphagist in the midst of having a giant scat loaf churned out into his salivating maw.
So instead of being chased by chainsaws, Henry, Chooch and I went to the grocery store where we saw several shoppers clad in slutty witch costumes, clearly on their way to a party. I stared after them longingly, wishing I was going to a party too. I haven’t been to a Halloween party in years. I haven’t worn a costume in years. I don’t care if I have to sit alone in a cemetery, dressed as Raggedy Ann, I should be doing something tonight and aside from working, I’m just not.
Chooch better get A LOT of Reese’s Cups tonight. Mommy needs something to eat while drinking herself into a stupor.