So, we have a lot of kids in our neighborhood. A few surly teenagers, but mostly the under-10 set. The family that lives across the street from us has about 6 kids all on their own, and there are several other big families on the block, not to mention the standard 2.7 kid families like our next door neighbors. So I was expecting a fair number of trick-or-treaters for Halloween. Minneapolis is a pretty trick-or-treaty town; in past years we’ve gone to friends’ houses and been inundated with small pumpkins, witches, and monsters demanding sugared loot. Not wanting to risk the embarrassment of running out of candy – heaven forfend! – I stockpiled a considerable quantity and variety of halloween goodies. I got the primo stuff, too – none of your crap dum-dums or those weird peanut butter taffy things. I’m talking Hersheys, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Almond Joy, KitKat – and Skittles and Starburst for the non-chocolate crowd. And you know how many trick-or-treaters we got? Ten. Ten! Ten lousy trick-or-treaters. Sure, they were cute and all, and the Hatchling enjoyed answering the door with me, and we didn’t get any of those “trick-or-treaters” who are taller than me and whose “costume” consists of a backwards baseball cap, baggy jeans and zits. (Mr. Squab hates those trick-or-treaters. He figures if you can shave, it’s probably time to quit asking for free candy.) But just ten! WTF? And what the hell am I going to do with all this candy?
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