The Tao of Martha (34 page)

As for me, the time has come to face my most personal of demons…the purchasing and wearing of a costume. I thought that a banana suit would be a hilarious choice, à la
Arrested Development
’s Gob Bluth, but the shipper couldn’t guarantee delivery until mid-November. Um, no.

Ironically, I pick an outfit inspired by my great dislike of doo-wop music. I find a complete fifties-girl ensemble that comes with everything from a chiffon scarf to a crinoline to puff out the poodle skirt. I make this choice because it’s about the only thing I can find that doesn’t have “sexy” in its description. Also, being plus-size severely limits my options, so it was this, sexy opera singer, or sexy pirate wench.

With the costume business under my belt, I can concentrate on the main event: the treats. Because candy was so important to me when I was young, I want to do something extraspecial for the kids who trick-or-treat at my house. Martha had wonderful plans for spooky sugar cookies and popcorn balls, but I’m not sure how homemade treats would be received, so I’m going the more traditional route of packaged candy.

The first few groups of customers will receive the most adorable custom treat bags, in their choice of witch or witch’s broom. I spend two hours putting them together, and they’re each filled with more than ten fun-size bars apiece.

Seriously, come on!

TEN fun-size pieces?

I’d have to go to ten houses for ten fun-size pieces as a kid! That’s an entire city block! And I still remember when I’d go to the cheap people’s houses and they’d give me a freaking peppermint or a single Life Saver. I put on Ace Frehley makeup for
this
? Or what about the guys who’d give out pennies, and not even a handful, just a single coppery (hateful) Lincoln? Are you kidding me? Why bother answering the door? Why not cover your windows in garbage bags, Mr. and Mrs. Whatever-the-Halloween-Equivalent-of-the-Grinch-Is? You and your crappy apple can kiss my moon boots.

Point? I kick
ass
. I’m going to own Halloween. And this makes me very happy.

My friend Joanna’s a dietitian, and she tells me when she first started getting trick-or-treaters years ago, she’d pass out Halloween-themed pencils and stickers, because she figured the kids were already getting enough sugar. As soon as she married Michael, he insisted on doling out proper chocolate, rationalizing that he didn’t want to spend the day after Halloween scraping jack-o’-lanterns and black cats off his car. He wasn’t wrong.

Because I feel a real karmic debt for shuttering my home for the past decade, I’m going all out and giving away full-size candy bars after the badass treat bags are gone. Heck, I still remember who gave me big bars almost forty years ago, so I love the idea of being the house that kids recollect fondly when they’re adults.

And…if full-size candy bars keep local kids from playing mailbox baseball at my house when they become teenagers?

Then all the better.

Such is my Halloween spirit that even Fletch participates. He dons his army-surplus gear and straps on his ridiculously realistic Airsoft BB guns with bonus ammo vest. He settles in at the dining room table with me to
wait for the hordes of local youths hankering for ten ccs of Twix bar, stat!

I’m ready. Let’s rock this.

At four-oh-one, one minute into the official Lake Forest trick-or-treating hours, our bell rings. Showtime! Fletch answers the door while I dash to retrieve the tray full of booty. With my back turned, I hear the mailman gasp when Fletch’s body armor/arsenal pretty much scares the pants off him. Judging from the mailman’s reaction, I guess he doesn’t usually deliver certified letters to the fully armed.

Clearly he’s never carried mail in the city of Chicago.

Fletch then compliments the postman on his realistic costume and the guy doesn’t even laugh a little bit.

Pfft. No candy for you, pal.

While we wait for business, I anxiously rearrange my enormous silver candy platter. Why the hell do I feel nervous? I used to get tense when I was trying to dodge the trick-or-treaters, so afraid they’d catch me unprepared.

But today?

I couldn’t be more ready for them today.

The house is superfestive, the favors are bangin’, and we’re both in costume, with bonus positive attitudes! Fletch is particularly compliant because he’s secretly proud that his ensemble scared our feckless mailman.

He had me take a bunch of pictures of him in his costume and then posted them on Facebook, adding a caption on how he was dressed as an Army Special Forces guy, and not a Navy SEAL. He wrote that you
could tell he was a Green Beret because his hands were in his pockets. I said that would make no sense to ninety-nine percent of the world, particularly since he wasn’t wearing a beret, but he promised me that his enlightened followers on Facebook would find that absolutely hysterical.

Um, yeah.

I’ll have to take his word on that.

(A week later, we see Stacey for my birthday and she compliments Fletch on his authenticity with the whole esoteric hands-pockets thing. He positively beams, completely unaware that she’s messing with him.)

Anyway, I feel an odd little twist in my stomach, and today it’s not because of doughnut overload. I don’t understand why I’m edgy, because I’ve executed an outstanding version of a
Living
Halloween. This day has Martha’s stamp of approval all over it. I really put in the effort to make everything special and elegant. Given that my last go-round at a Martha-type event on the Fourth of July turned into a redneck, whitetrash, hee-haw hoedown, I raised the bar here exponentially. As I take in my surroundings, I’m confident in my creation and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Yet I’m jittery all the same.

My commitment to Halloween planning has given me a real sense of satisfaction and the kind of peace of mind I’ve been hoping to gain ever since I started this project in January. Once I came to terms with my initial misgivings and threw myself into the process, I’ve had the best
time. In fact, when I was glittering my gourds last Saturday, I couldn’t stop saying, “This is so fun! I can’t believe how much I love this!”

When I was decorating yesterday, I realized I was singing to myself. Badly, of course, but that’s not important. Breaking into song is my good-mood barometer, and I haven’t done it since we lost Maisy. This is so significant. A month ago, I honestly worried I’d never feel joy again. I couldn’t get through a day without crying. But here I am, moving on, letting happiness in without feeling guilty for it.

Turns out I’ve not only embraced the Tao of Martha finally, but also the Tao of Maisy. This realization causes my anxiety to magically melt away, and I address my tray with renewed vigor.

I merchandise the big bars in attractive rows and I group the treat bags together. I decide I’m going to let the kids decide if they want a full-sizer or, if they’d like to pick what’s behind curtain number two. (Personally, I’d go for the unknown. Could be a bag of candy; could be gold bullion!)

As I survey the bounty, I hope I made the right choices. From what I understand, children need to be hermetically sealed in a bubble until the age of eighteen, so I’m concerned certain chocolate bars may be an issue. Joanna’s sister-in-law recently told me that in her kid’s pre-K class, there were four peanut allergies, one strawberry allergy, two gluten-frees due to issues with wheat, one corn allergy, and one lactose-intolerant child. This is out of fourteen total students! What do parents bring in for birthday treats? Pencils and stickers?

“Is it okay that some of these candy bars have nuts?” I ask Fletch.

“What do you mean? All the best chocolate bars contain nuts. Everyone knows that. See, you’ve got your Baby Ruths, your Snickers, your Paydays, plus Reese’s cups and Mars. Also, Butterfingers count because they use ground roasted peanuts. Candy bars with nuts are at the top of the sweet-based food chain. Fact.” He pauses thoughtfully and then makes a face. “Except for Almond Joy. Those are just wrong.”

“Yeah,” I agree, though I’m not convinced. “But what if parents give us shit for passing out bars with nuts in them?”

He shrugs. “Then I’ll suggest that they stop encouraging their children to take candy from strangers.”

“Is that the Tao of Fletch?”

He nods and goes back to his Facebook page on his iPad, waiting for everyone to comment on his hilarious pockets joke. Suspect he’ll be waiting awhile.

Speaking of waiting…er, hello? It’s four fifteen p.m. and we’ve seen no one. Nary a ghost nor Power Ranger has even walked past the house, let alone come down the drive.

Four twenty p.m.

Nothing.

Four thirty p.m.

No one.

Four thirty-five p.m.

I open the front door and yell, “Kids? I have lots of candy! Please come ring my bell!”

Fletch comments, “That didn’t sound menacing or creepy
at all
.”

Four forty-five p.m.

I’ll just have a little glass of wine while I wait.

Four fifty p.m.

Did I turn the porch lights on? I double-check. Yep, they’re on.

Five p.m.

Yo, yo, yo, where my trick-or-treaters at?

Five-oh-five p.m.

Maybe I’ll have a splash more wine. Possibly two splashes.

Five fifteen p.m.

“Yeah, you can top off my glass, Fletch. It’s not like I’m
busy
giving anyone
candy.
”

Five thirty p.m.

More wine. New bottle. More wine.

Five thirty-five p.m.

Spill my glass, prompting Fletch to exclaim, “Please don’t lick wine off the furniture.”

Five forty p.m.

I tweet: “COME AND GET YOUR DAMN CANFY BEFORE I AM TOO DRUNK.”

Five forty-five p.m.

It’s wine o’clock somewhere. But mostly here.

Five fifty p.m.

I tweet: “I am Linus in the GD pumpkin patch right now. Come get your stupid candy, you stupid kids. AUGH, I HATE YOU.”

Six p.m.

“Maybe all the neighbors have been busy with soccer practice and dinner and they’re just now getting to trick-or-treating,” Fletch suggests.

Six-oh-five p.m.

Then I’d better fill up before the onslaught.

Six ten p.m.

Onslaught? Onslaught? Anyone? Onslaught?

Six fifteen p.m.

How long does it take them to remove their cleats and eat some chicken fingers?

Six twenty p.m.

Yes, I will have more wine, thank you.

Six thirty p.m.

Am starting to see two Fletchers. One of them has his hands out of his pockets. Must be a Navy SEAL.

Six forty-five p.m.

“What are we doing for dinner?” Fletch asks. I respond by chucking a Milky Way at his head. He says nothing, opting instead to bring me more wine.

Seven p.m.

I open the door and shout, “I HAVE FULL-SIZE CANDY BARS, YOU LITTLE ASSHOLES! COME AND GET THEM RIGHT NOW SO YOU CAN HAVE YOUR MAGICAL MARTHA FUCKING MEMORIES AS AN ADULT.”

Behind me, Fletch mumbles something about needing some pizza to sop up all my excess Halloween cheer.

Seven ten p.m.

I kind of forget what happens after this.

Eleven forty-three p.m.

I wake up in full poodle-skirt regalia, my cat-eye glasses tangled up in my high ponytail. I’m surrounded by snoozing dogs, an empty pizza box, and one very smug spouse.

Fletch tells me that he had to keep me from accosting the pizza guy when he rang the bell a minute before the official trick-or-treat end time of eight p.m. Fletch sent him on his way with an extra-large tip and a couple of Snickers bars. I have no recollection of this, but I suspect he’s telling the truth. (Green Berets are notoriously honest.)

I’m still a little groggy as I change out of my costume and don my pajamas while I reflect on the whole Halloween experience.

I did it.

I faced my enormous fear of Halloween and, with Martha’s guidance, I got through it.

In fact, I got
over
it. I don’t despise Halloween anymore.

I’m not sure I love it, but I’m no longer going to go all Jehovah’s Witness in the face of it.

I began traditions this year that I’ll continue. Maybe I won’t ever wear my costume to the bank, but I sure as hell will glitter up some gourds. I’ll decorate my house. Maybe I’ll even host a party for my friends’ kids, because, damn it, someone needs to receive some full-size candy bars, even if they’re not my neighbors.