I'm not giving you any candy tomorrow.
Don't come to my
darkened door. Don't look for my jack-o'-lantern. You can play all the
"tricks" you want, but there will be no treats to be had at Casa de
Mayrav this All Hollow's Eve.
Store's closed. Goodbye.
quit your whimpering. You had your chance. For years, I bought great,
big Costco bags of candy, rushed home early from work, set up families
of lovingly carved pumpkins on my doorstep and waited. And waited. And
You never came.
I have always loved Halloween – the
pageantry, the costumes, the candy. As a little Jewish girl, I
appreciated any holiday that didn't begin with long hours of prayer and
end with brisket. I could never understand the people who turned the
lights off in their homes and waited out the night without passing out
a single piece of sweet holiday cheer. What kind of witch would
actively avoid a holiday as cool as Halloween?
So when Hubby and
I got our first apartment, I was so excited to give out candy I could
hardly speak. I wanted to dress up as a witch and deliver sweets from a
dry ice-filled caldron. Hubby talked me out of it, but he couldn't
dissuade me from buying three different kinds of mini chocolate bars
and a large orange bowl to hold them.
"No one will come," Hubby
said. Our street was populated by musicians and artists and stray cats.
There were exactly no kids on our block. Plus our wood gate largely
obscured the view of our front door from the street.
"Of course they will come!" I said.
course, you didn't. I was waiting for you, you massive throngs of Darth
Vaders and Dora the Explorers. I had dreamed of adorable little faces
and grabby, sticky little hands. Years after being young enough to go
trick-or-treating myself, I wanted to feel part of this ridiculously
fun holiday. You were supposed to give me a role in all this revelry.
So where were you?
That first year, exactly two kids showed up,
Dracula and his little princess sister. I was so overjoyed to see them,
I gave them each two giant fistfuls of candy and made them pose for a
photo with my stuffed gorilla. The following year, not even they
Since then, I've spent every Halloween like a grown-up Linus, waiting pathetically for the Great Pumpkin to appear.
we moved to our first house, Hubby and I went to a party on Halloween,
but we were careful to leave that big orange bowl full of candy at the
door with a note, saying people should take just one piece.
Either we had very conscientious neighbors, or – more likely – the Halloween Horde failed to show up again.
candy bowl was similarly untouched last year at our apartment. So this
year, when Hubby offered to do the Halloween candy shopping, I told him
not to bother.
I'm sick of snacking on all the Snickers you fail
to claim. Sick of waiting like someone's neglected grandmother for you
to show up at my door.
You had your chance, but now it's too
late. We're not buying any more candy for you – and we always bought
the good stuff, too. None of that candy corn/circus peanuts nonsense.
don't know where you've gone all these years, what pleasant little
cul-de-sac you favored in place of my eager abode, but I hope you're
happy there. Because this year, there will be nary a Butterfinger to be
had around these parts. We're taking Zev (or, as he'll be known that
night, "Chewbacca") to a carnival, and we'll be leaving our front porch
That's right. All those years of rejection have
turned me into one of those darkened-home witches who always puzzled me
as a child. So this year, I'm greeting you all with the Halloween
equivalent of "Bah humbug" – namely, a doorbell ring that goes
(Unless, of course, you really are going to be coming
this year … in which case, well, maybe I should buy one little bag of
candy. Or three.)