Lame Confessions: Halloween Edition
Not every Halloween can be the stuff of legends, and that’s why there’s Lame Confessions: Halloween Edition! Drag your pumpkin spiced tushies over here and hear my nightmarish tales…or rather, my lame tales of Halloween past.
Every kid ought to have at least one good Dolly Parton Halloween story, right? Alright, maybe just me then.
When I was about nine or ten years old, my mother and grandma put their heads together and decided I would be Dolly Parton. They used my grandma’s bra, clothes, and one of her wigs. They filled the bra with balloons and took me door to door for candy.
Every house we trick-or-treated that year:
Me: “Trick or treat!”
Adult: “And who are you supposed to be?”
Me: “Dolly Parton.”
Adult: *Much laughter, calls all other adults in home to bear witness*
I knew who Dolly Parton was, but that year I felt more like I was dressed up as Grandma. And I really didn’t understand why the adults got such a kick out of it. It also confirmed my theory that adults were weird.
When I was thirteen, my friends and I decided we were too old for trick-or-treating, instead, we decided to opt out of the treat part of trick-or-treating and focus solely on the trick part. I know, trust me. What a little fool I was. I should have trick-or-treated until I was 30.
I stuffed my jean jacket full of toilet paper and my pockets with bars of soap and headed straight for my friend V’s (No names. I must protect their identities at all costs.) house. Her parents, of course, noticed a difference in the fit of my coat, but they were cool about it. Her dad poked at my rib area and asked if I’d put on weight. Her mom, always practical, “Stay out of my bathroom, V. I’m not going back out for toilet paper tonight.” We left to meet up with the other girls, full of giggles and schemes.
Our first stop on our reign of terror (of the town that boasted a population of less than 200) was to my neighbors, a family I knew had a good sense of humor since I babysat and housesat for them. We set to work on the man of the house’s truck (his wife’s car safely tucked away in the garage). We toilet papered and soaped it, and I believe one of the girls even used cling wrap on it.
We were high on mischief that night. We glided through the streets, keeping to the shadows, stopping only to toilet paper and soap. The pride we felt at our own super-sneaky ways grew and grew. We were unstoppable.
The next day, I walked out the front door with a little something extra in my step. I sauntered to the end of the drive, and my neighbor shouted for me to wait up a sec. I smiled, knowingly, planning to fully deny all allegations, if he even suspected.
The man strolled up to me with his own saunter and an evil smirk to match my own. My confidence faltered.
“You left something behind last night.”
He tossed something through the air, and I caught it on impulse. I looked down at a pill bottle. My brow furrowed. I twisted the bottle to read the label. Shit. My friend, J., had dropped her medication in their driveway on our super-sneaky mission.
I looked up into the face of a man smiling the smile of someone who’d won. Which leads us to our next tale…
What Was That?!?
Be careful who you trick. Some people will play at a whole different level. I poked the bear so to speak.
Since I was no longer trick-or-treating, my mother figured I could start handing out candy. I didn’t mind. Cute kids’ costumes and all the candy I could eat? Of course, I’ll sign up for that. I set up my tiny TV, laid out on the floor, and watched scary movies while handing out candy.
I laid on my belly, staring at the tiny tube, enthralled with whatever scary movie I was able to pick up with rabbit ears. A loud crash sounded behind me, and I rolled to my side to look. A large man in a buttoned-up flannel, wearing a mask burst through the back door.
My eyes widened and so did my lungs. I screamed for all I was worth. The big man closed the distance, standing over me, ax in hand. I screamed and screamed until I finally heard it. The man laughed, throwing off his mask, revealing himself as my neighbor.
He didn’t want to get hit or worse, so he had gotten permission from my parents. He said when he snuck across the backyard he had panicked. The motion detector had set off the light and there he stood in the middle of it, mask, ax, and looking up to no good. He sprinted for the light and unscrewed it and then continued his creeping.
I took the tiniest of victories in the idea that he had panicked, just a little, in that security light.
Code Orange! Code Pumpkin!
My mother loves the fall “look”. Every year she bought corn, pumpkins, and gourds to adorn the outside of the house. And every year, she would become quite miffed when the local hoodlums (of the town boasting a population of less than 200) would smash her pumpkins right in front of her house.
I knew who smashed her pumpkins. Hell, I encouraged them to smash her pumpkins. The woman made my life hell, and it was just my way of giving back a little. It’s the little things.
The problem, you see, is she nagged my father about it. My father hated to be nagged, but it was more than a nag really. My mom doesn’t just nag but knows how to throw in that special twist, almost a challenge.
My father is an electrician. He rigged up sensor plates in front of the house. They set the carved pumpkins on the wooden plates and waited. The plates were set so when the pumpkins were removed, it’d sound an alarm in the house, so we could catch the dirty criminals.
Halloween night tucked into our beds, sleeping like the dead. The loudest alarm I’d heard in my life went off. We all bumbled out into the hall, confused, not quite understanding why there was this obnoxious noise in the middle of our beautiful slumber.
Except for father, that is.
He was a third shifter. He was at work. He’d left his funny surprise for his wife and kids. My father has a great sense of humor. Mom didn’t ask him to rig up any more pumpkins…in case you were wondering.