All Hallows Eve

Our annual church Fall Festival was tonight.

I had the opportunity to help with the cake walk. The prizes were cupcakes of all sizes and decorations in groups of six, twelve or twenty-four for those midget cupcakes that are all of one bite big.

There were games and prizes of candy and toys and pencils for all the kiddos who came to participate with their families.

Beth organized the activities and I have to say I liked this a whole lot better than the chili supper Fall Festival nights we've had before and I'm not just saying that because she's my best friend. Even if she was a total stranger, I'd like it better.

It was bada-bing, bada-boom from one activity to the other. First the games inside, then the costume parade, then the trunk-or-treat. While the outdoor trunk-or-treat took place, the inside events were cleaned up, chairs stacked floors vacuumed and people left about 8 p.m.

Well, except for those of us who hung out to talk, but we'll get to that in a little bit.

As we were cleaning up, there was a paper plate with a lone cupcake and a couple of pencils and some spider rings on it. I was tasked with finding the owner of the plate to prevent possible tears of the child who would later wonder where their loot went.

Through the parking lot I carried it asking if it belonged to anyone and receiving some almighty odd stares as if I was offering them either a bloody skull or Medusa's head. Which, come to think about it, would have been DANG COOL!!! But I digress...

Finally, the owner's Dad claimed it and I was free to join the last of the loot gathering revelry in the parking lot.

Sophie, Deane, Beth, Pete and Thomas were gathered in a huddle near our three respective vehicles while the merry parade of pirates, fairies, princesses and phantoms passed by to receive their just desserts.

As I stood there, Elita came and was  holding out a piece of candy saying "I found this."

Fool that I am, the mother in me stuck out my hand to receive a piece of sticky, saliva coated wonder that I was certain had flunked the 'taste test' and was now on the 'you take care of this for me' reject pile.

Then, I walked to Sophie, thinking Elita had pulled this little gem from her mouth to have her own Mom sort it out, only to have Elita reveal that this particular piece of germ ridden filth did NOT come from her mouth, but instead was found on the ground.

Yippee.

Test me for bubonic plague now, please.

Sophie's hand was now coated in the goo as I had stupidly passed along the joy and rapture of our ill-informed thoughts of kids we know spitting out candy they didn't like.

I went to the truck and pulled out the little bottle of hand sanitizer that the local Health Department gave everyone who attended their 'drive by jabbing' flu shot clinic. It's part of their effort to keep people from spreading germs.

If only I had thought ahead, I could have simply coated myself beforehand instead of hoping that preventative measures will keep my hand from rotting and falling off in the night. Or is this the kind of germy goo from a stranger that creeps up your arm and poisons your entire body surreptitiously, until one day you simply explode into a mass of gelatinous goo in the line at K-Mart?

Hmmm.

And people wonder why I'm not a big fan of Halloween.

Of course, children are forgiven for not realizing that being the carrier of diseases isn't a job description they should seek after. It isn't exactly listed in the admonitions of Paul.

While we were all gathered up chitting and chatting, Deane was regaling us with perhaps the WORST job description in the history of bad jobs. I cannot imagine even putting this on a resume when you moved on to, pardon the pun, greener pastures.

The job: Bull milker.

Yep. It's a real job. The person who performs this job isn't seeking heretofore undiscovered dairy products, but rather the product that puts the kicker in the magic bullet for artificial insemination used in selective breeding in the bloodlines of cattle.

I can't imagine why ANYONE would ever want to shake your hand if they knew what you did for a living. Worse yet, how would you tell anyone what your job consisted of?

"Sure thing, Abner! I went right on down to the state employment office and they got me hooked up with this job right off. They said it was workin' with cattle in some special vet's office and then the lady kinda laughed and said she hoped I had some rubber gloves."

I'm sure the job pays well. It would have to. Otherwise, how could they retain any skilled employees? Then again, it might not require too much skill.

Of course, there is an element of danger. Most bulls I know are pretty mean and I expect they would be inclined to be MORE mean when you are, again, pardon the pun, manhandling their manhood... or bullhood.

It's a good thing the kids around us were little, otherwise this conversation which left us all laughing our heads off and gasping for air would potentially scar them for life.

Then again, isn't that the whole point of Halloween? To scare the bejeebers out of kids and possibly scar them for life while we all pretend candy makes up for it? I gotta say, some people really go on the cheap when buying candy. That 'peanut butter taffy' candy that comes in the industrial bag for a buck fifty isn't fooling anyone.

Even the bull being milked knows that stuff isn't a rewarding experience anymore than the one he's having is.

But now that the evening has drawn to a merciful close, we must remember two very important things: if the candy didn't come out of your mouth, you don't need to pick it up and share it with the closest thing to a mother you come across in the parking lot. Second, no matter how attractive the benefits package appears to be for bull milking, just say no.

After all, how are you going to explain why you've gone blind and have hairy palms when you are trying to give the Bishop your tithing check that he just doesn't want to handle?

Happy Halloween.

And please bring me unopened, unlicked on, unslobbery candy that doesn't require the use of a disinfectant.

Jalapeño Lipstick

I am a fan of the hot stuff.

The tingly sensation and the back of the throat match strike that brings on the heat is a delightful moment of pure bliss.

But on chapped lips... uh, not so much.

For whatever reason, fall into winter turns my lips into so much shredded skin. Copious application of lip balm, lip treatment, lip therapy and a virtual host of other alleged lip saving gels, ointments and sticks seem to do nothing but make the cracked skin supple little giblets that render my tender lips nothing more than an open wound waiting for oral offense.

We, the merry trio of escapees from daily life, stopped for lunch on the way to the Time Out For Women event at our favorite 5-Star Restaurant - Subway. It's truly one of the few places where you have total control on the meats, the veggies and the fire applied to your chosen sandwich bread. Beth, Xan and I bellied up to the counter to place our orders for lunch.

I just love turkey and Black Forest ham! They, when judiciously combined with a boatload of vegetables, make a mighty, unbeatable and tasty combination. I asked for a helping of everything but the nasty little banana peppers, which always seem to look like shrivelled yellow skin rings, and the onions which make my breath offensive to myself.

We got our food, sat down at a booth and 'took the curse off of it' with a prayer, then dug in for a treat.

Vesuvius, Pompeii, Mount Saint Helen's, Mount Etna, Mount Fuji... Which volcanoes past and present did I leave out??

HOLY FLAMING PILES OF BURNING LIP REMNANTS!!!!

I have been assaulted by jalapeños... and they are laughing. No, not the jalapeños, the other two women on this ride. Okay, maybe the jalapeños are giggling just a little bit, but that isn't the point.

The two partners in crime for our weekend of freedom are sitting there thinking I have turned into a snivelling wiener who "can't take the heat"!

This isn't heat. This is lava.

One stinking little pepper piece. Direct from the heart of Pele's fury.

Get that people! It was a ring of fire... hee hee.

Even in my suffering, I am a brilliantly witty individual. But I digress... back to the lips, or what remains of them.

Water welled up in my eyes, I couldn't breathe well and I am sure my face was a shade or two darker in the red spectrum due to the volcanic influence of the pepper.

I wiped my eyes and sucked back a voluminous amount of water while they were exhorting me to tell them what was going on.

Let me explain something ladies... when your face is on fire, talking isn't exactly an option. I'm not even sure sign language would have helped since at that moment the signs I would have rendered would have been the flagrant variety that your Momma told you were in "extremely poor taste" and not ever used by "a lady of quality". That I know about them should indicate something about my character, but I'm working on it, okay people?

When I was finally able to articulate something more than the moaning sounds of a woman being put to death by peppers, Beth decided I was exaggerating. Either that or her old army days surface compelling her to 'man up' and show me what a crybaby weenie I was.

Then she enjoyed the God of Fire.

Pele loves his little jokes.

The rest of the weekend was spent in the furious application of various lip remedies which each of us had at the bottom of our purses... don't they all migrate there?

I just have to say that if you are looking for a way to incapacitate the enemy combatants of the world, I believe this little bit of chemical and biological warfare would do more than a host of other weaponry.

Short of jalapeño eye drops, I believe this alone would render the combat troops of most nations inert as they kept having to radio headquarters to air drop more medicated chap stick to salvage the lip remnants remaining on the faces of their horrified troops.

It's just a thought...

By the way, Pele, you had your fun. But remember payback is a .... oh, yeah, another moment where a "lady of quality" shouldn't know that next part.