Shake and bake

I just got home from a trip to what surely must be the capital of American manliness - the night race at Bristol Motor Speedway.
That’s right, I went to Bristol, baby! And I was INTO it!
My husband and I are not diehard NASCAR fans, but we both wanted to go to Bristol once just to experience it.
The bad news for him is that I may want to go back.
I’ll admit it, y’all …I had fun from beginning until … well, until Kyle Busch won and we had to walk back to our truck in the dark with 150,000 drunk people.
Other than that, what’s not to love?
We parked about two miles from the track and rode a shuttle while admiring the view of the beautiful hillsides of Sullivan County and the acres of race-fan RVs populating the nearby campgrounds.
The shuttle dropped us off next to the fan midway in the rear parking lot, where we were free to peruse booths and trailers offering the manliest swag I’ve ever seen.
It was like a testosterone convention. The Jack Daniel’s tent had barrel tables and a live band. Toyota displayed every version of its Tundra pickup imaginable. Ford showed off an F-350 pickup specially painted with Navy SEALS landing on a beach and Desert Storm soldiers in full battle gear.
On one side of the midway, the Coors Light girls looked like they had entered an unofficial tank top battle with the ladies representing Red Bull.
The U.S. Marines booth had an actual pull-up contest. For those less physically inclined, Aaron’s Furniture offered a tent full of recliners.
About the only manly pursuit not represented was some kind of creative facial hair contest.
And the giveaways! We loaded my see-through backpack (bought specially to avoid a longer security line) with free Goody’s powders, Tums and even free full-size bottles of Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce.
That right there is a good day. I don’t care who you are.
In fact, later when we shared a picnic table outside the fried Oreo booth with race fans from Pennsylvania, one lady told us she was going back to the Sweet Baby Ray’s tent because she’s gotten three bottles the night before and hoped to get at least two more.
Inside the track, the pre-race show was both manly and patriotic, with the drivers’ kids singing the national anthem and the winner of the Irwin Tools Ultimate Tradesman Challenge saying, “Drivers, start your engines.”
Guys flew parachutes into the stadium to the strains of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” (goose bumps!), and a military jet flew over twice.
Why? Because it’s always awesome. And because they can.
I’d always heard about how loud the cars are at Bristol, and several folks warned us to rent headsets beforehand so we could protect our ears and talk to each other.
Still, I had no clue that it would be louder than any concert I’d ever seen. The roar and rattle from the cars below us was seriously louder than the time I sat in the seventh row at Aerosmith.
Unlike most Titans games, I watched every second of the action on the track in front of me. Bad blood from a race the night before set up a classic villain in the #18 driver, Kyle Bush, and when #12 Brad Keselowski called him out during the intros, I, along with the entire crowd whooped and hooted in a kind of redneck, “Oh no he di’int.”
Luckily my husband sprang for the good seats, since it was an anniversary gift (Oh yes he did!). We sat among some serious race fans instead of the drunk, cussin’ deadbeats who rode the shuttle bus with us.
Another lucky thing for me: I wasn’t trying to be anybody’s mom. I was thankful we didn’t bring the kids because we did pass quite a few shirtless guys whose eyeballs were practically swimming in beer and because the hill we had to climb on our way out through the All-American Campground nearly killed me.
As they say, it ain’t for everybody. But this first time, Bristol was for me.

Enough is enough

During the months after the 9/11 attacks, TV "news" shows thankfully took a break from their focus on celebrities. Rather than subjecting us to endless speculation about Britney Spears, they dealt in the currency of the day: good news. I remember it was a welcome respite from the nonstop worthless coverage of famous people being bad. It's the kind of pointless obsession that turned the paparazzi culture into what it is today, something like junk food TV that you might get sucked into watching but regret immediately.

Nearly ten years later, news media outlets are back where they were in 2001, as far as celeb obsession. Maybe it's a bit worse. Need proof? Well, some think the National Enquirer should get a Pulitzer this year.

Apparently that blessed period of media coverage after 9/11 was like Christmas, when we all spread peace and say, "Wouldn't it be great if we could act the way we act on Christmas throughout the year?" Going by that dream, I'd say we're in July right now and that Christmas peace is a distant memory.

For TV networks, though, Christmas Day will come this Friday when Tiger Woods finally shows his face. "His people" announced yesterday that he will hold a press conference Friday. They then allowed a photo agency to take pictures of him jogging on the same day as if to say, "See? Here he is, being normal, taking his first metaphorical steps toward a new life (i.e. image repair)."

Tiger has been like the Loch Ness monster since his bizarre Thanksgiving last year. Well, he's been elusive, but coverage of his apparent escapades has not. In fact, I am tired of jumping on the TV mute button whenever ESPN brings him up in order to shield my sports-fan boys from the icky details.

When I first heard about the press conference, though, naturally I was intrigued.

Then I read about the arrangements being made for his carefully orchestrated piece of drama. Employees at the golf club where he'll finally show up will come into work at 4:30 a.m. to prep the course, not for golf, which is what Tiger should be known for, but for Tiger's privacy. Then they're only inviting six reporters into the room where he'll materialize, though they will not be allowed to ask questions.

All the kowtowing is making me sick. I wouldn't be surprised if workers had been digging an underground tunnel from his home so he won't be subjected to his worst nightmare: someone catching a glimpse of him that he didn't want seen. Oops, too late!

First, he turns police away three times when they try to talk to him at home right after The Incident. I didn't even know you could do that! I bet if I tried to tell the police, "Come back later," I'd get Tased.

Today, they expect Tiger to arrive in a fleet of black SUVs, like he's important. Think about it. They'll drive him in underneath the clubhouse, lest he be seen by commoners with cameras.

I happen to be one of those pain-in-the-butt people who thinks that multimillion-dollar paydays to one person are disgusting. I know sports are a business and that Tiger is a moneymaker beyond compare. But just who does he think he is ... Obama?

I heard everything I needed to know about Tiger Woods when CNN played the voice mail he'd left Jamiee Grubbs after his wife looked in his inbox. In it, he didn't say, "We have to stop seeing each other. I can't do this. It's wrong." He told her to take her name off her phone so it wouldn't show up when she called him again. More secrets, more lies, more attempts to make the public think he's somebody great.

It's no wonder, really, that he thinks "the rules" don't apply to him. He must have read his own press. After all, his father did compare him to Gandhi. His mom proclaimed him a uniter of nations because he has "Thai, African, Chinese, American Indian and European blood" in him. Even other pro golfers who've played against him have speculated that there's something supernatural about Tiger. That's a lot to live up to when you're really just very good at ... golf.

It turns out he's less supernatural and more superfreak.

Personally, I've had it with the fawning and the bowing and the scraping, and I'm not married to the guy. I think I'll give up all these so-called "news" sites for Lent so I don't have to hear about it.

Right after the Friday press conference.

UPDATE! Good news! Some journalists refuse to be told how to cover a story.

If the MPAA lived here

After watching the trailer for the new Jackie Chan movie, I realized that my house is usually rated PG, with "mild action violence and some rude humor."

FarmVille turned me into a nag

Ever since my twins started playing "FarmVille" on Facebook, I've been hearing some weird conversations in the house. It all started when one of their friends, of course, told them about the simulation game where you start with a bare square of green and plant crops, tend animals, and try to earn enough coins to build a house and there's something about fruit trees and I don't know what all.

What I DO know is that ever since they started FarmVille, we've regressed to a lot of the old computer-related conversations we used to have - mainly, how much they're over their time limit. Apparently life in FarmVille is as fraught with anxiety as real farming, because last week when they were going to be gone overnight, Mason was fretting about when some plant was going to be harvested because if he didn't get to it within the time limit, he wouldn't get any coins and all his hard work would be for nought!

The other day I was working at my desk when I heard Henry calling his brother to shoot hoops in the driveway. Mason said, "Let me harvest my soybeans first!"

That's something I never thought I'd hear in my house.

Deck the halls with pilgrims and turkeys...please!

While driving around Brentwood today I noticed that both Brent Meade and Fountainhead subdivisions have decked out their entrances with Christmas decorations. So I guess it's on, y'all.

Still, I wish somebody would just designate a day already when everyone is supposed to put up their outside decorations at one time so we wouldn't have to endure these awkward few weeks when some people hang tinsel and garland while others, like me, still have pumpkins on their porches.

It's bad for my chi to see competing seasonal gee gaw out there. It absolutely drives my son Henry insane. He gets so put out when he thinks people or stores bypass Thanksgiving and head straight for Christmas. I would not be surprised if he starts a "Give Thanksgiving its Due" Facebook group.

I guess not everyone wants to extend their "harvest" celebration one minute longer than they have to. If you think about it, though, at no other time during the year does this seasonal overlapping take place. You never see valentine hearts competing with Christmas lights or shamrocks getting in the way of the Easter bunny.

Wait, I just noticed that Thanksgiving is at the tail end of November this year, which means there'll be less time between Black Friday and Jesus's birthday to get all my decorations up. Guess I'd better go chuck those punkins!

You won't find us where the wild things are

We are not big puppet people around here. My husband and I both have always found puppet shows particularly cringeworthy, and it looks like that aversion has passed down to our kids, especially Owen.
Well, the twins weren't morally opposed to puppets the way Owen is. They at least would watch Sesame Street, and I have always given credit to Sesame Street for teaching them letters and numbers as well as, you guessed it, cooperation.
Owen, on the other hand, gets pissed if you try to leave the TV on a program with puppets. His unexplained opposition to this kind of kid's show is legendary around here, so we're usually watching the History Channel, the Military Channel, Discovery or House Hunters, which teaches a surprising amount of geography. I guess his one exception is Phineas and Ferb, which is hilarious enough for adults but has no snotty twins calling people "loser."
So I wasn't too concerned about hitting Fandango to get tickets for Where the Wild Things Are. Though it's a classic, we don't even own the book. Owen said he had seen that book at preschool, then went back to playing Star Wars. Tim brought it home from the library because, of course, neither of us had read it since childhood.
You know what? I thought it was a terrible kids' book. I really could not believe that Maurice Sendak would start a book and then just stop writing in the middle when it's getting good. I guess when it came out it was a fun idea to think about kids going to their wild place. But I much prefer The Salamander Room for imagination.
My interest in the movie version of the wild things piqued when I heard it was directed by Spike Jonze. Still, I'll stick with what I think are Jonze's most important contributions to date, which are showing us that Christopher Walken can, in fact, dance like a mofo and introducing us to his spoof with the Torrance Community Dance Group performing to the Fatboy Slim song Praise You.
There be genius, and it won't depress my kids.

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

Read all about how picking up your kids from school can be so unexpectedly stressful.

There's no food in your food

I think it was Neil Armstrong who said, “Houston, did y’all pack my Gatorade Xtreme?”
OK, maybe that’s not his most famous quote, but I’m sure Armstrong and his Tang-swilling Apollo crewmates would feel right at home eating out of a typical school lunchbox these days.
It's time for me to get back into the lunchbox mindset, and I'm starting to feel like I’m preparing my brown-baggers for a space voyage every time I pack lunches for school. Nearly everything I put in looks and is named like it’s packaged to endure a three-year journey to Mars.
Take Go-Gurt “portable yogurt,” made by Yoplait. You rip off the end and suck it out of a plastic tube. The Danimals Crush Cup is even worse. No complicated spoon needed, and no crumbs to float away and get stuck in the instrument panel.
The flavor names sound like a nuclear acidophilus reaction is imminent. While mom is content with blueberry or peach yogurt, kids have been hypnotized by commercials to believe they need “watermelon meltdown” and “extreme red rush,” whatever fruit that’s supposed to be.
Fruit Roll-Ups and Fruit-by-the-Foot are favorites with my kids. It’s basically fruit (and sugar) jerky, but the name’s the thing with this product. My picky eater wasn’t interested until he found out I had bought “Tropical Tango Twister,” which may or may not be in the citrus family.
I guess adjectives I grew up with, like “great-tasting grape,” aren’t convincing enough. Food marketed to kids can’t just be food anymore. It has to be extreme and fierce and thermostabilized with lots of other descriptors you’d hear in the halls of the Oak Ridge National Laboratory.
For a few years now we’ve seen snack foods miniaturized even as our butts and guts have maximized, so that lunchboxes are full of Mini Oreos, Baby Goldfish crackers and, occasionally, baby carrots with itty-bitty ranch dippin’ cups.
By the way, you should know that Pepperidge Farm has “flavor blasted” those innocent little Goldfish.
The metamorphosis of beverages is the most hilarious, though. To improve “the science of hydration,” the guys at Gatorade have taken the same four or five fruit flavors we’ve always had and added “fusion” or an X to the name to make it seem different.
Thanks to the science of marketing, I have to search Mapco’s drink cooler for Cascade Crash or X-Factor flavors on the way to my kids' games.
Of course, as a child I was enthralled with the Sprite Lymon ads. Who didn’t beg their mom to glue a half a lemon to half a lime?
In fact, it’s probably good that my TV-loving generation wasn’t the first to land on the moon. It wouldn’t have sounded as cool to hear, “That’s one small step for man, one nice Hawaiian Punch for mankind.”

Camp fever

Is your child enrolled in a camp yet?
School was out before any of us realized it, and now we’re smack in the middle of summer break. Most moms, library-weary and waterlogged from the pool, are seeking something else to occupy their children, I mean, enrich their kids’ summer.
Around here, there is no shortage of camp choices. Fortunately, most camps are well organized and beneficial. The number of offerings is staggering. When I was a kid, your choices were overnight summer camp or YMCA day camp. In the ‘80s, specialized classes like computer camp hit the cultural radar.
Now there’s every kind of sports camp, dance camp, art workshops, space camp, horseback riding camp, chess camp, Spanish immersion camp, summer history camp at Travellers Rest, cooking camp at the Young Chef's Academy, drama camp, cheer camp and about a hundred others.
Locally, the FSSD Young Scholars program consistently gets rave reviews for its class selection and organization. Not every program, though, is done so well. Some are glorified babysitting for $150 per kid. Most are very expensive if you enroll multiple children, and classes can be canceled at the last minute because of low enrollment.
Other times camps are hit by random acts of government. When my twins were 8, I signed them up months in advance for zoo camp, which I assumed would be a weeklong wildlife experience from 9-3 every day.
Because Metro government cut funding to the program that spring, organizers were left without a school bus to take the kids from the round-up point at Croft Middle School to the zoo itself. A zoo board member donated a smaller van, which meant kids would visit the zoo every other day.
I didn’t expect my boys to be leading elephant rides, but with it being called ZOO camp, I did expect them to be at the zoo. It turned out to be much more of a classroom experience than they anticipated, with an emphasis on conservation. That being said, the boys had fun, and the counselors brought small animals from the zoo to the kids on the days they didn’t go.
I’m thinking of starting my own camp next year, though. For only $99 per child, I will conduct a “domesticities experience” where your kids can learn valuable life skills while having a ball cleaning my house. An after-hours session on cooking dinner will be available for an extra fee.
For those who prefer outdoor play, my husband will offer a weekly lawn-mowing and Weed-Eating camp for half the price.
Sign up early so your kid won’t be left out!

Sounds like...

I only recently played Pictionary for the first time. It's turned out to be a good game for our whole family because everyone, even the 5-year-old, can draw something.
I never knew, however, that the funniest part about playing Pictionary is not making fun of everyone's marginal artistic ability. It happens when you look at your team member after they didn't figure out what your drawing represented and say, "How could you get that close and not get it?" In other words, why would my husband say, "It's a, uh, a speaker...in...your earhole!" Why would he not just say "hearing aid"?
Other gems from our last round include "spinning rocks," Mason's guess for Rolling Stones, and "ramp a kid goes down next to the swings on the playground." Just say "slide" already!
Tim definitely had the most obtuse guesses, which should be no surprise because it's pretty much how he communicates on a daily basis. He explains things in a vague, deconstructed way, such as,"You know, the guy with the thing in that place that time?" and expects me to translate. So I guess I should not be surprised that instead of "vampire," he said, and I quote, "A flying bat man...through the air... with fangs."

Dreadlocks optional

I wish I could buy this house just because of the address. Then I would joyfully sing the lyrics to Eddy Grant's 1983 smash hit every time I drive down that street into my driveway.

"OH, we're gonna rock down to..."

You know you know the words.

Footwear, above all

Since we took our family vacation early this year, I'm offering my helpful advice on how to go from an "after" to a "before" on your summer vacation.

1) Choose shoes based on looks, not function. I was so excited when I bought my adorable Crocs Patricia sandals. (Crocs also makes wedges now! I know!!!) I stood in Macy's and proclaimed, 'These shall be my Disney sandals!' because they are comfy, somehow very lightweight yet supportive. Also, they're Crocs, so it wouldn't hurt them to get wet since we'd be riding Splash Mountain and sitting in the Soak Zone at Shamu Stadium. I hurried home to plan all my Orlando outfits around these vaunted shoes.

I did not anticipate 95 degree weather in early May or the Florida humidity. These, coupled with a 12-hour car ride and many more hours standing and walking than I am used to, caused my feet to swell and the evil Crocs sandals rubbed a nickel-sized blister on the top of my left foot. Actually, I knew by the time we walked across the concrete prairie from our truck to the Seaworld entrance on our first day that my feet were in trouble. Of course, I'd packed Band-Aids in case THE BOYS needed them, but I used at least a dozen that day.

2) You might not think a blister would affect your look. That leads me to tip #2, which is the blister walk. I had to modify my walk to compensate for that blister as much as I could, so other Seaworld visitors must have thought I was smuggling baby sea lions out between my knees as I hobbled across the park. I resisted complaining audibly and instead chided myself for thinking I could be cute at a theme park. On Day #2 at Animal Kingdom, I still refused to succumb to tennis shoes and wore my bathroom flip-flops because they didn't rub the blister spot. After only an hour in the simulated jungle, my legs were so tired that I walked like the 80-year-olds. Actually the 80-year-olds were doing great on their scooters and Hoverounds. Between the motorized old folks and the stroller brigade, we were about the only people walking!

3) Ride the wettest rides first, so your freshly sprayed hair will get soaked and form an impenetrable crust that looks wet all the livelong day.

4) Drink much more lemonade and Diet Coke than you usually do since that's what you can get in your refillable Disney mug.

5) Accidentally leave your expensive face soap at the Hampton Inn in Cordele, Georgia, so that you have to use the super fatty Mickey soap provided by Disney resorts.

6) Slather sunscreen on your face, especially if you usually don't, then try to put on blush as you normally would. Coppertone does wonders for powder makeup, making the colors more vibrant and clownlike.

7) Finally, accept the fact that no one at the theme park except your youngest children ever looks at you. They are all just trying to survive the crowds with their own family members intact. Fashion is not a consideration. If you want proof, scroll down to the photo of my boys in front of the Animal Kingdom gate, click on it and look at the crowd in the background. That's what everyone looked like. See the grown man wearing Mickey's magical wizard hat? People wore that stuff all day. I saw dads wearing rhinestone-studded, princess-themed Mickey ears that their daughters had discarded on the Peter Pan ride. NO ONE cares what you wear. By the third day I did something I would never do in Brentwood. I pulled out the only pair of capris I'd brought and wore them with my tennis shoes, which mercifully did not hit the blister. And I walked from Pirates of the Caribbean all the way to Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin with nary a limp.

8) Don't forget to pose for pictures without sucking anything in so you look pregnant. Clutch your giant lemonade as if life depended on it. Be sure to turn so that the angle showcases the fleshiest part of your arm. Ahhhh, success! I've included the above photo for demonstration purposes only. You results may vary.

The Happiest Place on Earth

...except for Henry.
We posed for this photo on the last day of our 2001 trip to Walt Disney World, when the twins were 5. I found it while looking for photos to show Owen, who now is 5 and will visit Disney for the first time when we go next month.
This picture perfectly displays the dynamics of that entire trip because Henry was not sad. He was PISSED. He did not want to go to that breakfast at Chef Mickey's because he was terrified of characters. We knew this and tried to be sensitive about it the entire week, not forcing him to get too close to any giant upholstered mammals. Fortunately the Disney characters are excellent at backing off when they see that a child is shy or scared.
On the morning documented here, however, I was bound and determined to get my photo, which was included in the pricey package we'd bought. By the time we posed here, Henry had already ignored Minnie Mouse and slid from the booth under the table as a man-sized Chip from Chip and Dale approached us. As we got to the picture area, there just happened to be a ginormous Goofy standing nearby in a chef's coat. Henry balked, I insisted strenuously, and I got my picture. I guess Henry decided he'd make me pay by ruining it.
But I think that face makes it even better. Click on the picture to see it in full effect.

Perhaps I should give up reality TV for Lent

Rev. Cliff Wright, as he processed out of the sanctuary after the Ash Wednesday service, finished his prayer this way: "...and the amazing Grace of the Lord as it comes into your life."

Owen: "I thought he said, "And The Amazing Race is coming on tonight."

Puttin' on airs

I adore offbeat shirts and accessories, like this crime scene tape scarf I found on Girlz Lyfe.com.

My problem is that I usually get stuff like this and then, the first time I wear it out into The World, I'm overcome by a fit of self-consciousness and wish that nobody would ask me about my really cool item that just begs to be asked about. I know I've written here before about this old T-shirt I had that read, "Just researching my novel." One time as I stood waiting for the Sam's Club guy to check my receipt on my way out the door, he said, "What's your novel about?" I never thought someone might not buy into the irony of my oh-so-clever T-shirt. And some things just turn out to be stupid when explained.
Once Tim got me these awesome earrings that are miniature levels, the kind you'd find in a toolbox, but I cringe when people lean in to get a closer look. I know, 'Make up your mind, Mrs. Passive-Aggressive Deviationist! Notice me! Don't notice me! Which is it?'

I could just keep getting this stuff and enjoy it without an audience. The truth is, though, it's no fun to be fabulous at home all day. The kids are not adequately impressed by my intermittent eccentricities. I like to wear stuff that has a sense of humor. I just get embarrassed when everybody's not in on the joke.

Jesus rocks, too

While listening to a tobyMac song as we drove to his brother's basketball practice, Owen said, "He doesn't sound like he's singing about God."

At least it's not bills

Pottery Barn’s annual yuletide attack on my mailbox has begun.
I’ve ordered maybe three things from them in my lifetime, but apparently that’s not enough. They want me to want more!
It’s not just Pottery Barn, though. It’s the stepchildren, PB Kids and PB Teen. Plus, Pottery Barn and all its kin are owned by Williams Sonoma, so if you let one of them in, you’re also inviting in the folks from Williams Sonoma, Hold Everything and the ultramodern West Elm home décor catalog. Each week leading up to Christmas, they visit my mailbox and overstay their welcome.
Our recent summery weather didn’t do much to put me in a fall magazine or catalog-shopping mood anyway. Sure, it’s cold now, but Southern Living’s “Celebrate Fall with our Blackberry Cobbler and Apple Dumplings” issue arrived on an 89-degree October day. On the way back from my mailbox last week, I glimpsed velvet curtains on Pottery Barn’s back cover and almost passed out on the steaming driveway.
I brought this catalog assault on myself, of course. I no longer believe the Internet is the work of the devil, and I have indulged in a bit of lazy (I prefer the term “efficient”) online Christmas shopping. Mail order companies now know me as “direct mail bait.”
Lots of companies bombard us with catalogs, but Pottery Barn and Lillian Vernon in particular seem to have it out for American postal carriers. Their catalog onslaught has the desperate air of the stalking high school boyfriend who would call you eight times before you left the house in the morning.
“Hi! It’s Pottery Barn again. Just wanted to be sure you saw our $40 pillar candles that will make your mantle look so elegant for Christmas, but only if you buy at least six of them because you don’t want your holiday mantle to look skimpy, do you? OK, well, see you tomorrow.”
As if I had room in my budget for $240 worth of candles.
I guess the catalog printers will survive the economic downturn, even if my mail carrier doesn't.

Life Before Kids

My favorite Halloween costume EVER! Tim and I went as Guns n' Roses, circa 1992. He's the one in the kilt.

Code Kablooey

Last night was the first time my 12-year-old twins attended a Titans Monday Night Football game, and we still made them catch the school bus at 6:42 this morning. I'm guessing that the late night is hitting them right about now, as one sits in science and the other in English.

ZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz

Trip or treat

Costumes? Check. Jack-o-lantern? Check. Candy? Check. Proof of residency?
Huh?
Surely you’ve noticed that trick-or-treating has changed. Kids don’t just throw on their costumes and run up and down the block with their friends anymore.
I’ve noticed a tendency for trick-or-treaters to migrate. They don’t always stay near home but go where they can get the most candy for the least effort.
If you live in a neighborhood with ¼-acre yards or less, such as Forrest Crossing or Fieldstone Farms, you may only recognize half of your trick-or-treaters as neighbors. These areas are prime targets for migrating trick-or-treaters because all Mama has to do is keep the van idling on a corner in your neighborhood while the kids hit house after house.
One reason so many treat-seekers migrate to denser neighborhoods is that, with one-acre yards like in Brenthaven, River Oaks or Redwing Farms, trick-or-treating is just exhausting. Often, there are no sidewalks, so you just tromp through the grass. By the time a 6-year-old has dragged a dinosaur tail through four or five of these yards, he’s ready to be done.
A lack of sidewalks and fewer streetlights in older neighborhoods usually means no curbs or storm drains either, hence the yearly spike in ankle injuries from tripping over culverts or stepping in ditches.
The payoff when crossing bigger yards had better be worth it. Kids who had to walk an acre only to find that no one’s home invented the retaliatory flaming bag of poo. If you won’t be home, be sure to display the universal Halloween symbol for “not home,” which is to turn off anything in the house that emits light, including the microwave clock.
Most homeowners love seeing adorable princesses and tiny action figures on the porch. But there are always a few kids who are too old to trick or treat and old enough to know it. One Halloween I opened the door around 9:30 to see three towering boys wearing wigs and holding pillowcases. I wasn’t sure if I should give them the Snickers or my silver.
If you just don’t want to deal with the door-to-door process, there are alternatives. Children can trick or treat merchants at the mall, which to me should only be a last-minute rainout plan. Kids also can do what’s known as a “trunk or treat,” where a church or other community group gathers in the facility parking lot and lets kids go from car to car seeking treats out of car trunks.
Just keep an eye on your jumper cables.