I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
November 1, 2005
Ah, the pageantry, the excess, the gaudiness that is Suburban Halloween…
We did it up right last night, in so many ways.
For starters, Hubs and I forced our croupy, cranky baby to dress up in a ballerina costume and go begging around the neighborhood for candy- candy that was clearly for Hubs and me. Oh, there were enabling phrases bandied about, like ‘she would feel left out’ and ‘she’ll love seeing the other kids all dressed up’, but let’s be honest people. Hubs needed Kit Kats. Lots and lots of Kit Kats. And that’s exactly what he got.
Meanwhile, 12 and 15 grabbed a few friends and relieved every house within a 50 mile radius of its candy. At least their costumes looked good- 12 was a biker chick and 15 was a dead ballerina (contrasting nicely with our croupy, cranky one). Some of their friends, on the other hand, merely donned a mask or a baseball jersey. I have a problem with that. Don’t you?
Also, why does no one say “Trick or treat?” anymore? Is it too much to ask these kids to wear a real costume and say “Trick or treat?” But I digress…
Once we had wiped out our own neighborhood, we made a special car trip to one house that had taken 30 days to decorate. Festooned with thousands of orange lights and featuring 450 pounds of dry ice and at least 50 headstones in the front yard, the piece de resistance was the Elvirish doyenne holding court at the front door. She held a microphone on reverb attached to a karaoke system.
“Hello, my darlings…” she drawled in a southern-tinged Transylvanian accent as children hesitantly edged up her front steps. “Don’t be afraid, my dear ones. Happy Halloween, everyone. Everyone!”
Judging from her delirious expression and blissful swaying, I got the impression she’d been waiting for this moment in the spotlight all her life. She seemed not to notice the crowd of parents that had gathered on the street outside her house, some laughing, some staring in bemusement, one (surely the neighborhood association president) gaping in abject horror as if he could literally see the property value plummeting on a number board above Elvira’s head.
Although the baby was sound asleep in her carseat toward the end of the night, I had one last act of cruelty to impart on her before I was done. 12’s friend lives in a neighboring subdivision that’s about as cookie cutter as it comes. Back in September when I was dropping the friend off after soccer practice, I noticed her neighbors already had their Halloween decorations up.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Some band named Cinderella lives there.”
“There used to be a band named Cinderella in the 80s,” I said doubtfully.
“Yeah, that’s it,” she said. “They all have long hair and they all come over and practice sometimes. ”
“Cinderella? Lives there?!” I cried despite myself, eyeing the trim and tidy two-story brick house. “They were huge in the 80s! Like the Backstreet Boys,” I said, noting some tweenage disbelief in my rearview mirror. “You know that song, ‘Don’t know whatcha got… till it’s gooooonnnnneee…” Despite my soulful falsetto, they didn’t recognize the tune.
“Well, anyway, they were big!” I said gleefully. Oh, this was rich. Cinderella had gone suburban. Just. Like. Me. Awww yeah, how the mighty had fallen!
Last night, I made Hubs drop Baby and me off on Cinderella’s front lawn. I was hoping for a repeat of last year, when, I’m told, the lead singer dressed as Count Dracula to greet the trick-or-treaters. This time, though, a tired-looking young woman answered the door.
“Hi,” she said flatly, dumping some candy bars in my, I mean, Baby’s trick-or-treat bag as I, grinning uncontrollably, peered around her, straining to see inside Cinderella’s digs. I couldn’t see much, but I distinctly smelled something unusual as the door slammed in my face.
And of course, I’ve saved the best for last. I’ve seen all kinds of interesting Halloween items dropped in my girls’ pillowcases over the years. But last night took the cake. Inside 15’s bag was a paltry Hershey bar taped to a brochure and business card for an insurance agent. Oh. My. God.
Uh. Edward Jones dude. Get a life.
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