Every year, as the leaves turn crimson colors and the brisk air forces jackets out of closets, I stop in the candy aisle. There, sitting in the same spot as it has for what must be a few years now is the big pile of candy corn bags. I pick up a bag of candy corn, brush the dust off of it, and throw it in the cart.
The bag comes home with me, where I joyfully open it, usually the moment I get in the house. In my head I think, this is the year!, as I pop one of those yellow and orange suckers in my mouth. Excitedly, I bite down, waiting for nostalgia to bring me back to a time when I loved munching candy corn.
Then, as the disgusting flavor of disappointment and sugar fills my mouth, I sigh because every single fucking year I dupe myself into picking up a bag of disgusting candy corn. Why do I do this to myself? I know candy corn is nasty, but a part of me expects them to change the recipe to make the little Halloween mainstays at least somewhat edible.
I tried giving candy corn to the kids, as a reward for using their potties. The first few times it went smoothly. My sweet kids would take the candy corn with a smile and eat a few before realizing the same thing I do; candy corn is awful. Not to hurt dad’s feelings, they then go behind the couch to spit chunks of orange nastiness onto the ground. My dog, who eats her own poop, doesn’t even go back there for the discarded treats. My kids also refuse to use the potty now because of candy corn.
I am not saying candy corn has ruined my life, but I am heavily inferring it.
One of the cool things I decided when my kids were born was that every Halloween we would match our costumes. I told my wife this will go on the rest of their life, as I sat there and plotted the next twenty five Halloweens. The first year we went as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which was really cool.
Year two, I got hooked on Pinterest and decided that we needed to make their costumes. What could be so hard about turning my family into a tribe of proud
Indians Native Americans? As I sobbed internally, my hand remained super glued to feathers that were supposed to be superglued to a headband and not my body. He Who Tries Standing On The Baby and He Who Takes Off His Diaper To Pee On The Sleeping Dog refused to wear their headbands, forcing my wife and I to wear them.
This year, with the Baby in the mix, we have opted to stay away from the glue gun and feathers in favor of costumes from the store. I want to dress them as knights, so I bought them swords and little suits of armor. The welts on the back of my legs from their constant surprise attacks makes me think arming toddlers is probably not the brightest idea I have ever had.
This year, we were invited three different places to trick or treat. I enthusiastically RSVP’ed my family to all three invitations and now have to sit here weighing the pros and cons of the only three friends I have that are nice enough to invite my kids over after countless times of hearing me apologize for something broken or destroyed by my offspring. I am thinking Halloween night we all catch a virus and haul ass across state line to Rhode Island where no one will recognize us and we won’t look like horrible people who blew everyone off.
The real problem is now I can’t take pictures on Halloween because it will be evidence. This Halloween will be filed in the mental memory database, the same one that keeps making me think there was a time in my life I enjoyed candy corn.
We tried to carve pumpkins this year. After going to a local little market, we picked out the most perfect pumpkins in the history of gourd. They were gorgeous gourds of gourdyness. Not learning my lesson about handing my kids things that could be used as weapons, I handed my son the little carving tool before having to take it away as he tried to cut my fingers off. While emptying out the guts, my kids decided it would be HILARIOUS to fling orange gook at the dog. Terrified, our dog attempted S-style evasive maneuvers, all the while being pelted with pumpkin insides we had planned to Pinterest (I never learn my lesson on anything) into pumpkin pie. Then, after all was said and done, the kids cried at the door because their pumpkins got to stay outside but they didn’t.
With Halloween comes the next few months of everyone talking incessantly about The Nightmare Before Christmas, or as I like to call it, The Whiny Goth Kid’s Bible. I really have never found this movie to be good and have discreetly tossed the copies people have given my kids as gifts. I actually cringe a little when it flashes up in Netflix, worried one of my kids will point to it and make me turn it on.
I don’t know what it is about that movie but I just fucking hate it.
Last year, I got in trouble for eating all the candy. My wife and I each claimed one of the kids candy loots as our own before dividing the baby’s candy equally. Having a kid allergic to peanuts is pretty awesome when you realize it is your parental duty to eat all the Reese’s and Snickers. We weren’t selfishly hoarding their candy, we were protecting my son from an allergic reaction. Anyways, I would pack some candy for work, while my wife left her candy alone and uneaten on top of the fridge. As my candy stash dried up, it wasn’t fair to look at her overflowing plastic pumpkin of sugary sweets, so I ate her candy while she was out and didn’t regret it once. If she wanted it she would have eaten it, not been angry when she noticed her bowl was filled with wrappers and those nasty Lifesavers Gummies.
There is no point to this post, other than I felt I needed to write something about Halloween. I really hope there is a house that hands out ecstasy, because I could use the pick me up for when I go to work after taking the kids trick or treating. I hope everyone has a wonderful Halloween, fuck candy corn and The Nightmare Before Christmas.