I've Got You Under My Skin

I've got a secret.

I don't like Halloween. I never really have. Of course, I have to pretend it's fun now that we have David and Trinity to think about. And I do have to admit that they were pretty cute in their costumes this year: David was Tigger (or "Orange Pooh Doll" as he called it) and Trinity was a Lady Bug complete with antennae and shiny silver wings. But even their cuteness can't overcome my deeply felt and long-held dislike of Halloween.

Here are the top 4 reasons that I am not The Great Pumpkin:

Costumes: Even as a kid I found it very hard to decide on what to be. And I always opted for a run-of-the-mill cowboy or pirate. And even these simple costumes annoyed me by the end of the night: an eye patch became a sweaty burden; make-up dried on my skin; some garment inevitably made it difficult to walk. This list goes on. And then there were the two years, 9 years apart, where I thought I'd had it figured out. 1977 saw me cultivating a true love of KISS. And for Halloween I thought I'd go as Peter Criss, the drummer, whose character was a cat (for those of you not in the know, KISS wore full-face stage make-up and lots of leather during the 1970s). Of course, I didn't have leather, or real boots back in 1977, but I did have long hair and my mom's make-up. So, with Mom's help, I donned a dark shirt, a denim jacket, blue jeans, and her boots with the tops adorned in tin foil. And, of course, the make-up. And off I went to the Ella B. Allen elementary school Halloween party. There was, of course, a costume contest, and all the kids got in a line and traipsed across the stage a couple of times. The judges then announced the five finalists: "The Princess, The Dragon, The Butterfly, Puss-in-Boots, and Sir Walter Raleigh. You are the five finalists. Please stay up on the stage." So, I lost. No big deal. I turned and started to walk off stage. "Where are you going?! You're one of the finalists!" "No I'm not," I said. "Yes! Puss-in-Boots!" My face turned a little bit red, I hung my head a little and muttered something like "I'm not Puss-in-Boots." "He's in KISS!" said a mystery voice from the audience. "Oh, I'm sorry! Oh well, you still need to get back on the stage." So there I was, demoralized, embarrassed, emasculated even (there's irony in that one). I ended up losing, of course. But that right there convinced me that Halloween costumes were for chumps.

Fast forward to 1986 in Isla Vista, CA, the college town for UC Santa Barbara. Isla Vista isn't much more than a square mile or so in size and already packed with thousands of college students. Halloween is one of the two big events of the year; the other is/was the Inter-sorority Volleyball Tournament. Anyhow, on Halloween, many thousands more come streaming into town, wearing costumes and packing lots and lots of mind-altering substances (to compliment those we residents were already sporting). It's a nightmare. And if that alone wasn't enough to solidify my disdain for the nasty little holiday, 1986 saw me deciding that I would be "The Sky." I would simply wear a blue sheet with some puffy clouds attached to it. My friend, and former roommate, Kai, had decided to go a "Vinyl Man" for which we melted down a significant number of his record albums in the oven and wrapped them around his arms and legs (I said there were mind-altering substances involved, didn't I?). In any case, I couldn't have picked a more uninspired (and uninspiring), uncomfortable, and unrecognizable costume if I'd tried. It was about 11:30 at night when it became clear what I should have been. Making my way back home down Del Playa, a guy dressed as a priest stopped and genuflected. I was puzzled for a second until I realized that I looked an awful lot like the statues of the Virgin Mary that adorned every CCD class I ever attended -- you know, the one where she's stepping on the serpent. "Bless you," I said, and went home to call it a night. That was the last time I ever wore a costume.

Candy: Don't get me wrong; I love candy. I love it too much. And so do David and Trinity, who must have gotten plenty of it at daycare. Both of them were begging, clawing, and screaming for "Candy!" when I pulled out the giant tub of the stuff for the trick-or-treaters that were going to be arriving any second. "No candy. You're too young and you've clearly had too much already," I said in my annoyed "World's Greatest Dad" way. Cue crying. Now, with two toddlers, an antsy dog, and a black cat that we decided to try and keep indoors for the night, we came up with a plan: one of us would sit on the porch with the candy while the other stayed in the house with the 4 beasts, and we would take turns doing this. One hour, several dozen trick-or-treaters, 96 tears (Trinity), 5 aggravated groans (me), 11 or so incantations of "Stop it right now!" (Nancy), and one broken window pane (David) later, we decided to shut down the entire operation and go to bed.

Terre Haute: Is there any other place on the planet where trick-or-treating is carried out over TWO nights? It's oppressive. And no one can tell me why it's done.

Teenagers: If you are taller than me and/or have bigger breasts than me, you don't get candy. It's that simple.

But Halloween isn't the only thing that's been irritating around here...

A little over a week ago, we started noticing some red bumps on David's back that were obviously itchy, too. We've been fighting a flea problem (thanks Peanut and Eddie!) and we assumed that they were flea bites. So, we did all the things you're supposed to do when you've got fleas: Advantage for the animals, washing the bedding, vacuuming the floors. But the spots kept on coming, and looking a little funky, too. So, we took him to the doctor on Monday thinking he probably had Chicken Pox. But the spots weren't behaving like Chicken Pox. Quite a puzzle.

Well, the long and short of it is that he didn't/doesn't have Chicken Pox. And they are not flea bites, either. My kingdom for Chicken Pox or Flea bites. Instead, he had... Scabies! WHAT?! What does that mean? Are we filthy beyond compare? Have we done something to make the Gods angry? Where did he get them? Can I get them, too? The answers to these questions, by the way, are: No (I don't think so); Probably; Daycare, most likely (though they deny this possibility); Yes!

For those of you who don't know, scabies is a highly contagious skin disease caused by a microscopic mite. You get through human contact (not usually pets or household items, though clothing can be a factor). And they look a little something like this apparently.



The little suckers burrow under the skin, set up house, and start laying eggs. The bumps get itchy and, if untreated, things go downhill from there. Luckily, only David ever reached the itchy stage, but we ALL had to participate in the treatment.

And so we got our prescriptions for 5% permethrin cream, covered ourselves and the kids from head to toe for 8-12 hours, washed all the clothes, blankets, and sheets, vacuumed all the floors, scowled a lot at each other, washed the cream off, and got on with our lives. The cream eliminates the scabies after only one treatment, thank goodness, so things are back to normal here we hope.

But I itch just thinking about it, and I can barely get myself to say the word. It just sounds like something you'd get from crawling around a grubby abandoned trailer in the middle of the woods after a family of raccoons had just gotten finished trashing the place. I feel sullied and abject.

But at least now I know what I want to be for Halloween next year...