Strangers with Candy

This Halloween, we actually lived in a neighborhood that contains children. I'm not a huge fan of kids, but in the spirit of the holiday I wanted us to distribute candy. So I bought five big bags, dumped them into a big bowl, and waited by the door.

Now keep in mind that because this is Indiana in November, it was already pitch-black outside, and to top it off it was raining. Because of this situation, most of the trick-or-treaters in the neighborhood were being driven from house to house by their parents, plus most were wearing plastic rain ponchos and carrying umbrellas, so it was really tough to tell what anyone was. (This was actually okay with me, because it saved me from having to make a comment about how cute their costumes were. I never know what to say in those types of situations!)

My first customer was this drenched little bumblebee. I offered the bowl to him and said he could pick his own candy. He got this really excited look on his face and grabbed a Butterfinger. I didn't realize getting the liberty to choose your own candy was so rare...and apparently word got around. The kids were ecstatic at the prospect of actually picking out stuff they liked, as opposed to getting stuck with mini granola bars, circus peanuts, raisins, or other objectionable items.

Then a group of about six kids, obviously all related, landed on the doorstep.

They were ready for me.

The oldest one, a girl, marched up to the bowl, grabbed a candy bar, and said, "Can I have two? My great-grandma couldn't come with us, so I'm collecting for her, too."

At this point, I figured I had three options:

1) act all establishment and enforce the one-piece-per-kid rule;

2) try to expose the scam by asking a series of tough questions about this great-grandma;

3) let her have it, and see how far they'd try to take the scam.

So I went with #3. I figured it was a good experiment in human behavior. After all, isn't it human nature to, when a fellow human being is giving you something for free, try to talk that person into giving you another one for free?

One of the kids in her group who'd timidly taken one Blow Pop from the bowl right before his sister immediately spun around and came back. "I need one for my great-grandma, too," he said, grabbing a Hershey bar.

Another one charged forward. "My brother's sick and I'm trick-or-treating for him, so I get four, right? Because we each get one for our great-grandma, too?"

Now, I'd had my doubts about Great-Grandma before...but now I was pretty sure she either didn't exist, or lived in a whole other state and had no idea she was being used in this way.

Due to my curiosity about how the human mind works, I ended up having to dip into my husband's peanut-butter-cup stash to serve the last two trick-or-treaters.

Next year, I think it would be fun to give out ONLY those orange circus peanuts. Now THAT's an experiment.

Here, Kitty, Kitty...KITTY?

One family member who is settling in nicely into the new home is Blackjack the cat. In fact, I think home ownership (well, shamelessly mooching off the actual homeowners) has triggered a nesting instinct in him. And though I know it's not technically possible due to the fact that he's been neutered, I think somehow, in some way, he is out there making copies of himself.

I say this because every time I let him outside, I'll see at least one other identical black cat somewhere — off in the pasture behind the house, over across the street staring at me. In case you think I'm being overly paranoid about this, I have to add that this also happened back at the apartments we used to live in. One night I opened the glass door to let Blackjack in, and there were two of him out there. I'm pretty sure we brought the right one with us....

One way that this cloning process may be happening? OK, way back in the day, there was this comic strip called Calvin & Hobbes. (Pause for nostalgic music and fond memories.) Calvin was this precocious kid who was always getting himself in some kind of trouble due to resisting his parents' authority, smarting off to the teacher, Miss Wormwood, or getting into boyish mischief involving mud, snow, or bugs. He also had a stuffed tiger named Hobbes, who would only come to life and have conversations with Calvin when no one else was around.

Calvin lived in an almost-constant fantasy world, and one thing he decided to do for several strips was make copies of himself so the original Calvin could go out and have fun while his duplicates managed the unpleasant parts of his life, like homework and going to bed at a reasonable hour. The duplication process began when he got into this cardboard box (I think it was called "The Calvinator") and pushing a button drawn on the side. His duplicate would then hop out of the box and cheerfully go about Calvin's menial tasks while the original was off planning snowball or water-balloon attacks on his female archrival, Susie.

I think, somehow, Blackjack has figured out how to do this, because everywhere we go we are awash in duplicate kitties. I hope they don't get too close or act too cute, though, because I have a soft heart. And now, with the whole homeowner thing, a yard.

That reminds me, I still want to get a dog....

When you shop Menard's....

You're hearing that ridiculous commercial jingle in your head now, right? "Save big money at Menaaaaaard's!"

Now I have to admit, having become a homeowner just recently, that my husband and I will be spending probably every weekend arguing in the aisles of this place. (There's this episode of King of the Hill...or maybe it was Beavis & Butthead...but anyway it was this animated show where an animated character with the voice of Hank Hill was wandering around a Home-Depot-style store called "Home Labyrinth." Until now, I didn't truly feel his pain.)

I'd post a picture of the house, and it pains me to say this, but to be honest I'm a blog newbie and I have no idea how to do it. We should have known that a real estate listing that used the phrase "well-kept manufactured home" really meant, "home with multiple abandoned home improvement projects going on." Every time we open a door, we come face to face with another half-finished project.

For example, in the living room, three of the four main walls are covered in circa-1982 hideous brown paneling. One wall, however, has had white wallboard nailed to it and a nice window installed. Another curious feature of the living room (and most of the other rooms) is that almost all of the electrical outlets are installed upside-down, with that annoying third prong at the top instead of the bottom.

Same in the bathroom...new sheets of vinyl (designed, of course, to LOOK like tile) have been nailed to the walls, but they don't line up exactly right in most places. We also noticed that one wall wasn't exactly nailed down yet. Like the aspiring Bob Vila who previously owned the place ran out of nails right before attaching that one piece...so he solved the problem by propping the sheet of "tile" against the wall. I'm figuring he just couldn't stomach another trip to the home-improvement center.

So there are a LOT of trips to Menard's, Lowe's, Home Depot, and any other place that sells fixtures, flooring, and tools in our future. And where there's home improvement, there's comedy....

More house-related anecdotes as they roll in....

How to get arrested...

If you are not a fan of FOX's beleaguered show Arrested Development...oh, just become one. One of the things that's been annoying me lately is the fact that this show is in immediate danger of going off the air, and shows like Wife Swap somehow persist.

To do your part, visit www.getarrested.com and sign the petition.

(Now!)

Feline Time

One bitterly-cold winter night, this friendly little black cat came to our door. Meow...meow....meOW....MEOWWWWW. This went on for a few minutes before we couldn't take it anymore and started rummaging through the pantry for something to feed the little guy. (Or girl; at this point, we didn't know.)

This cat was not exactly a stranger — he'd been spotted cruising around the apartment building for at least a year or so. Rumor had it someone had abandoned him when they moved out of their unit, leaving him to fend for himself. He'd allow himself to be petted and fed, then disappear into the woods, and occasionally stalk small birds and the evil attack Canada geese that roost annually on the roof, honking, hissing, and making a mess. So we'd seen him before.

Anyway, I popped open a can of tuna, scraped it all out onto a paper plate, and carried it to the sliding glass door, where Mr. Kitty was still meowing pitifully and staring in at us, all warm and cozy and watching Survivor. When I opened the door, he blinked up at me, and my husband said, "Aww, it's so cold out...let him come in for a few minutes while he eats."

You cat lovers out there can probably guess what happened next.

Fast-forward to that weekend, when he was allowed to spend Saturday night and Sunday afternoon hanging out with us. All the rest of the next week, he'd be waiting by the door as soon as we came home from work, ready to eat. (I finally had to break down and buy some Nine Lives on my weekly shopping pilgrimage.) By the time a week had passed, I was out shopping for such feline necessities as a litter box, a huge plastic vat of kitty litter, a collar (with bell, to give our pet birds some fair warning), a little pink kitty brush, fish-shaped kitty treats ("now with more tuna!"), and of course the required squeaky mouse and little bag of catnip.

Yes, this little black cat had claimed us as his family.

Kitty appeared very healthy, with one exception. Well, two. For one thing, he'd randomly drool for no apparent reason. Secondly, it was pretty likely he hadn't had a shot for anything in years. I knew what I had to do...take him to the vet. While I'm glad now that I did, I am also glad that the ordeal is now over. (I'm still not sure who it was worse for, me or Kitty — I mean, at least he got to be loaded with some really great anesthesia!)

In addition to jabbing needles in him for rabies, distemper, and kennel cough, they determined that he had a pretty bad infection in the gums on one side of his mouth. Not only did I have to take him to the vet for shots, now I had to bring him back for dental work! Up until now, the ideas of "cats" and "dentistry" had never seemed to go together. So I took him, and they pumped him full of drugs and ended up having to extract two teeth. I know he must feel a lot better now...but I still feel pretty guilty.

This being my first cat (I've always been a dog person), I'm now finding out a lot about felines, including the fact that cats are masters of the art of the guilt trip. Let's just say Kitty's been gulping down a lot of those fish-shaped tuna treats lately....