Holiday Tips

This year's most popular holiday geegaw seems to be the inflatable Christmas lawn ornament. Yesterday's hard plastic, molded statues have been replaced by Santas and Snowmen stitched from nylon with blowers attached to their butts.

They're fun and make quite an impression as I drive home through our neighborhood each evening. My only problem is seeing these things in the morning, when the power has been cut to all the blowers. Every front yard has a Santa or a Frosty lying face down in the snow. You'd swear there was a clock tower nearby with some crazed holiday sniper taking potshots at our most beloved Christmas icons.

There's not a lot of snow on the ground right now. Otherwise I'd be tempted to spread a little red food coloring around one of the crime scenes. It's amazing the impact a little red on the snow has. Unfortunately I'm sure some people wouldn't think bleeding snowmen were funny. In fact, I know they wouldn't. A few years ago we built a few real snowmen facing our busy street. As an added touch, I plunged some sticks through their chests and squirted red food coloring all over the wounds. Turns out Deb found out later her boss had to avoid driving by our house because her kids didn't want to see the "scary" snowmen. That means there were probably a few other kids around the neighborhood terrified by our bloody snowmen (heh, heh).

I'm chock full of great ideas like these to help make your season bright. In fact, I'll start sprinkling them throughout the blog until we hit 2005.

Greg's Holiday Tip #1 - Substitute large-scale taxidermy for a tree this year. You'd be surprised how many presents will fit beneath a dead elk.

Moldavian Bonsai Burgers

Last week we had another I can't think of another way to prepare frozen chicken breasts night so we went to Red Robin.

Red Robin restaurant is a good choice for us. It's extremely family friendly and has the sort of middle of the road menu that caters to finicky palates like my wife and kids'. Plus there's usually a person in a bird costume prancing around shaking hands with all the seven-year-olds as if it were running for second grade class president.

When we got to Red Robin it was obvious everyone in our town was having the same frozen chicken breast dilemma. When we got a table (a thankfully brief ten minute wait) there happened to be a little butt parked in every highchair the restaurant owned. While our hostess looked for a shortyseat I sat Julia in front of me on the table. She seemed content to look around at the hustle and bustle of a busy restaurant. There were also quite a few birthdays being celebrated that evening so that gave my daughter an excuse to clap along with the "birthdayfied" renditions of popular songs sung by the wait staff. My favorite of all time:

This is your birthday song.
It's not very long.
HEY!

Next to us was a man in a Packer's sweatshirt who looked like Lenoid Brezhnev with Boris Yeltsin's hair. He looked very Russian. It was a noisy restaurant but I could swear he had the accent. When I looked at his watch I couldn't read the manufacturer stamped on the face and I'm convinced that's because the characters were Cyrillic. His clothing all looked new. From his neck to his feet everything looked fresh from the mall (Amerdikan blewjehns!).

At one point in the evening Allie crawled past the Russian and her foot touched his thigh. I apologized and he just looked at me and smiled broadly and nodded as if he were saying, "If we were in Mother Russia you'd be celebrating Christmas in a Siberian re-education camp." I know this sort of thing no longer goes on in Russia, but this guy looked like he could make it happen regardless.

Yeltsin Hair never thanked the wait staff the entire time we sat next to him. I noticed the restaurant manager kept checking on him to make sure everything was okay. At one point when the manager asked him if his meal was any good Yeltsin Hair said, "It's everything I ordered."

Whoa. That restaurant manager has no idea whether or not Yeltsin Hair enjoyed his food. Yeltsin Hair deflected the manager's probing with just enough information to send the manager a clear message that he was dismissed. If that wasn't the perfect KGB answer I don't know what would be.

We were sitting next to a spy.

Eating a meal alone at a Red Robin just cemented the whole spy scenario in my head. What perfect cover. No self-respecting international agent would be seen eating a Bonsai Burger with a group of waiters walking around singing, "I don't know but I've been told. . . Someone here is getting' old!" Sure, Agent Yeltsin Hair may have been retired from the spy game. I'm guessing he still, more than likely, had something hidden in his new American jeans that would force me to give up classified information whether I had any or not.

Uh. Strike that last line.

When Agent Yeltsin Hair's waitress came by with the check he asked if he needed to give the money to her or pay up front. AHA! It was his contact line. None of this, The weather in Moldavia is particularly beautiful this time of year type bullshit. He was asking the waitress if she would be willing to accept the self-destruct codes or should he pass them on to another agent handing out balloons at the entrance (Allie got a pink one, by the way). The young waitress, just out of the spy academy, accepted the codes.

There was no way for me to tell if Agent Yeltsin Hair was working for the good guys. Needless to say, I didn't sleep well that evening.

Let's Get Ready to Rumble: Kringle-Style

The Santa I wrote about a few days ago was on the front page of our newspaper this morning.

Of course my knee-jerk reaction was, "Oh shit. Santa's a pederast." Thankfully it was a charming, feel-good story about how kind this guy is and how much time and effort he devotes to the holiday season. The article told us that before Santa was Santa he put together steel doors and even owned a liquor store.

Santa owned a liquor store.

That's a good thing. I like a Santa with some real world experience. I don't want some elf who's been cloistered in some artic hideaway his entire life. I want a Santa who's foiled a few robbery attempts with the pump shotgun he kept hidden beneath the counter.

Although I'd never want to see it, I'm comforted by the notion my Santa can beat the crap out of your Santa. Or, at the least, drink him under the table.

Yes Virginia, there is a Spider-Man

"Do you think there really is a Spider-Man?" Allie asked.

I didn't want to quash my daughter's super hero fantasies so I said I'd like to think there were people with superhuman powers. I went a step further and told Allie she may even have super powers herself.

She wanted to know where they were.

"Maybe you won't discover them until you get older," I told her.

"Like when I go to school?"

"Who knows? Maybe when you turn five."

Her eyes got really big and she asked, "What kind of super powers will I have?"

At that point I did a mental inventory of the 3,000+ comic books I have stashed on dusty shelves in our basement. I rattled off the archetypical super hero attributes like super strength, super speed, super senses, heat vision. Allie really like the idea of heat vision. She got a look in her eye that spooked me a little. Something that told me she was imagining frying my ass the next time I make her turn off Fairly Odd Parents.

As we got ready for bed she asked me to describe more super powers. The list was getting pretty long when she announced she had thought of a super power of her own. She pointed to one of her front teeth and said, "See this tooth, Daddy? When someone writes a note I don't like or just puts scribbles on paper or something this tooth will fly out of my mouth. The tooth will spin around and shred up the note. Then the tooth will fly back in my mouth."

"What do you call that kind of super power?" I asked.

"Tooth Vision."

"Will you be fighting for tooth, justice and the American way?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. . ."

Six 3 x 5" Photos - Only $30!

Allie and Julia went to see Santa.

Julia sat on Santa's right knee. She didn't cry. She asked us with her eyes, "Why are you giving me away to this man? What have I done? For the love of God please give me a chance to make it right!" Allie was on Santa's left knee. Without the usual prodding Allie immediately rattled off four of the six items she had written on her Christmas list. Allie was shy, but nothing like last year when she barely managed to ask the big guy for an umbrella.

Deb and I got wise this year and brought our own camera to capture this year's confab with Santa. I took two pictures. One with flash. One without. I could tell Santa fought the urge to tell me my camera didn't flash. After all, he's Santa and Santa is nice. However he wanted me to move on and make room on his lap for kids with parents willing to pay $10 for a 5 x 8" digital portrait. Elves. Reindeer. Making the North Pole livable so Mrs. Claus doesn't complain so much. These things cost money. So I moved along.

As soon as we left Santa I took a look at the camera. It told me it's battery was about to die and decided to rewind the roll (two of 24 exposures). After developing I'm sure the shots will cost me about $15. They won't look as good as the one Santa's elves would have taken if we had let them. That still doesn't mean I'm going to let the elves take care of photos next year. This year was a learning experience. Next year I'll get the perfect shot. I'll take the film directly to one-hour-photo. I'll get back in line to see Santa. Wait. Then I'll show him my beautiful photo and say, "Kiss my ass, Kringle."

I won't be getting shit that year but it'll be worth it.

The Unseen World

On Wednesday Brian, at work, gave me a little, lighted magnifier. I brought it home to show Allie the wonders of the unseen world.

We've been looking at everything from cat hair to the backs of our hands. We've been having fun comparing the craggy landscape of my 38-year-old hand to the smooth, unblemished blanket of skin that covers Allie's relatively new paw. I never noticed I've got age spots. Five years ago I would have called them freckles. Now they're age spots. I don't plan any intensive Porcelana intervention. I've earned the spots. I'm keeping them.

While we were looking for stuff to put under the magnifier I noticed Allie had a big booger in her nose. Like most parents, I have no problem reaching into my kid's nostrils so I grabbed the booger. I put it under the magnifier and invited Allie to look at it.

She refused.

It was only when I told her one of her nose hairs was embedded in the booger that she decided to take a look. She bent over the magnifier and as soon as she caught a glimpse of her booger she started to retch. As melodramatic as Allie can be I still could tell she was genuinely ready to relinquish her dinner. She looked at me as if I'd tricked her into doing something awful.

She took another look.

The gagging and coughing started again. Allie held her hand over her mouth and said, "Daddy, I'm gonna puke if I look at that again."

We stared at each other for about five seconds and then she plunged for the magnifier again. I just shook my head.

I'm pretty sure she would have gone for a fourth glimpse but I decided that was enough and got rid of the booger.

Later, as I was tucking her into bed she went on-and-on about how disgusting her booger was. She asked if she could take the magnifier with her to daycare. I'm pretty sure the other parents wouldn't appreciate it if my daughter took their kids on a booger safari. I told Allie she couldn't take the magnifier. She didn't protest. I'm pretty sure she realized revealing she has spent time looking at her own boogers might stigmatize her socially.

Too bad her father doesn't have the same filter.

The Tree Stays in the Garage

We got our Christmas tree this weekend. We went to a tree farm where you wander around a thicket until you find a tree you'd like to kill. You cut the thing down with a borrowed saw and drag it to a muddy path. There you wait for an ATV with a wagon attached to the back. You toss your tree in the wagon and ride back to tree farm headquarters.

It's a fairly easy process. Not as easy as most years when we barely stop the car to throw a dried-out, $10 tree into the trunk. But I thought the extra effort would make for a fond yuletide memory. I don't think Allie would agree. She fell down and got some mud and grass on her pink pants. That ruined the entire experience for her. While Deb and I stared at tree-after-tree eyeballing them for perfect symmetry, branch density and height Allie cried about her pants.

Turns out tree farms make many children unhappy. I noticed two other kids in tears while we tried to find a tree. Crying children always add a sense of urgency to a situation. Plus, it got to a point where all the trees began to look alike and it wouldn't have mattered if I'd cut down a mailbox and strung some lights on the thing. We just wanted to get back to the car before Julia lost her fingers to frostbite and Allie would be satisfied we were finally headed some place with a stain stick.

Fortunately we found a decent little spruce and the saw I had made quick work of the trunk. We dragged it to the path and rode back to the parking lot. We paid $25 plus I slipped a kid a buck when he came over and helped me tie the tree to the roof rack of our car. "You know how to tie a slip knot?" he asked.

"Well, I. I think I've. You know I'm not. I'm pretty sure. A slip knot, huh. . ."

It was clear I couldn't tie a slip knot. My manhood had been compromised by my lack of knot knowledge. Where was this kid just a few moments ago when I sliced through a tree trunk like it was made out of marzipan?

The kid looked at me, smiled and said, "That's okay, I just learned how to make one today." He then showed me, twice, how to tie a slip knot. I still couldn't tie one to save my life, but I felt better about my lack of skill with twine and that was worth an extra buck. I handed him the bill and he looked at me like I'd just handed him the keys to a new Porsche. He was very enthusiastic as he walked around our car checking the tree to make sure it wasn't going to budge off the roof rack. Maybe he thought there were a bunch of other bills folded beneath the single buck I gave him. Regardless, we shared a beautiful moment.

The tree is still in our garage. I'm not too concerned about getting it into our living room. It's the freshest tree we've ever had so I'm extremely confident it'll hold on to every needle until January when it's time to place it by the curb.

Allie's fine, by the way. I'm sure her pants will also be okay. However, her perspective on holiday giving might need a little work. Allie gave some money out of her piggy bank to The Empty Stocking Club benefiting needy youths in our area. Later, when I asked her why it was important to give to strangers she said, "You give to strangers so they're nice to you and won't hurt you." It's easy to see where this came from. Deb and I have trained Allie that when dealing with strangers always err on the side of caution. So, for Allie, The Empty Stocking Club is nothing more than a protection racket.

I tried to set things straight. I know that concepts like sharing, charity and empathy aren't too difficult to get across to Allie. She's a sweet little girl. But I didn't do as good a job as I would have liked. I just know the next time she sees me drop some change into a little red bucket she's going to think I'm doing it to keep the Salvation Army volunteer from bashing me in the head with his/her bell.

Deb Wore Latex Gloves During Clean-Up

The tide of vomit has come in.

The Friday after Thanksgiving Allie puked at her Grandma and Grandpa's house.

Monday night was Julia's turn. Her body decided not to hold on to the Spongebob shaped mac & cheese she had for dinner. Debbie's T-shirt did not read, "Stinky Bile Soaked Bits of Cartoon Shaped Pasta Repository" but that's what it wound up becoming.

I stayed home Tuesday with Julia. She was in a pretty good mood all day which meant I got a lot done. Julia got a post puke scrub down. We did a little Christmas shopping. I drained the fuel out of the mower and prepared the snowblower for duty. Five loads of laundry were processed through our mudroom laundromat.

Laundry is a thankless job. Not that it's all that hard (the machines do most of the work). However it's the kind of job where the results of your labor are tucked away in a drawer. It's nothing like painting a room or even mowing the lawn. You don't walk into the house after work and immediately notice that your underwear once again smells like Tide with bleach alternative. It's only when you're underwear drawer is empty that you consider the time and labor that goes into washing clothes.

Debbie does the laundry at our house. I know I've thanked her. It probably averages around once a year that I notice I no longer need to choose a shirt by sniffing it. That's when I say something like, "Thanks for taking care of the laundry, Deb." That's the best I can do. I suppose by the time our tenth anniversary rolls around I could get her a plaque or something. I'm not being sarcastic. I'm genuinely grateful I don't have to sort everyone's socks. I'm just not sure about the appropriate gesture. I suppose taking over the laundry chores more often would be best. Of course, if Deb doesn't reciprocate by doing more in the kitchen then I'll have to get all passive aggressive on her ass.

Actually, I won't be picking on my wife (at least not in the near future). She's extremely stressed at work. It's getting to the point where there may need to be some kind of intervention. I don't care what your job is, you don't deserve an ulcer because of it.

If I'm going to pick on anyone it'll be Dwayne.

Dwayne has had two blog posts in the same month. I'm suspicious.

He's dying.

I just know it. Especially after he wrote about all the stuff he's grateful for. If that's not a dying man's blog post I don't know what is.

I should have called him more often. Now I won't have the chance.

I wonder if his Mom will make beer bread for after the funeral? It was always his favorite. He would have liked that. I'll have to ask her for the recipe. I wonder if we should take Julia? I'm pretty sure Lourdes will be invited. If she's there I don't see why we can't take Julia. Pallbearer? Maybe. I'd be honored. I just wish he'd let me know he was going to do this, though. Those caskets can be freakin' heavy depending on the who else you've got sharing the load. He's always had a solid build not to mention the fact the weight of his body hair alone is probably enough to put me in a truss. I wonder if Raquel would like to meet this guy I know from work?

You can send your condolences directly to Dwayne by leaving a comment on his blog.

But if you're going to the trouble, you may want to send a few words of encouragement to Deb via her blog. Dwayne's gone. Deb's alive and the one who could really use a boost right about now.

This Guy Couldn't Catch a Code

Greg & Deb on the Web has been around since 1996. As long as our ISPs have been generous enough to offer a little free space Deb and I have been more than willing to add our share of self-aggrandizing, bandwidth wasting crap to their servers (nod to Nancy).

You'd think my html skills would have improved over the past eight years.

They haven't.

If you're on a PC and using Internet Explorer the fact there are no spaces between my paragraphs is your evidence I'm not improving. If you're browsing with Firefox this page will probably look as if some of my stylesheets aren't being applied (because. . . they're not). Lord knows what this thing looks like if you're using Netscape, Opera or AOL.

I'm not sure what happened. Usually I wait until the first of the year to give our page a facelift. But I recently discovered I can post photos directly from my camera phone to our Web site. I actually got it to work. Unfortunately the only way you were going to see the pictures was if you were using the perfect recipe of browser, plug-in and hardware.

Instead of freezing most of your browsers I decided to pull a Walden on this puppy and simplify. And if by simplify I mean no instant camera phone posts, no spaces between paragraphs and weird gaps between tables then I've simplified the hell out of this page.

Can someone please send me an email and tell me how to adjust my stylesheets, source code, feng shui or whatever the hell it takes to get the most popular browser in use today to display the spaces between my FREAKIN' PARAGRAPHS?!

-Pause-

We can't spell in front of the kid anymore. Allie is beginning to decipher the words her mother and I don't want her to hear.

Sss. Ah. Nnn. Tuh. Ah.

I doesn't matter that Allie was making Santa's name sound like a Native American blessing. What matters is Deb and I no longer have the convenience of discussing delicate matters while the newly crowned Princess of Phonics is around.

Sss. Huh. Eh. Tuh.

I'd thought we'd have a few more years. Deb says we'll be able to stretch out things for a while by spelling really quickly in front of Allie. That means Allie and I both won't know what the hell Deb is talking about.

Tiny Dancer Scares Me

Lately I seem to be running into a lot of unexpected pictures or sounds on the Web. I've got a twitch now. It's a direct result of being scared shitless by slow loading, horrible MIDI reproductions of songs someone thought would be the perfect soundtrack to his/her Web site. They're always louder than hell when they finally load and start blaring Wind Beneath My Wings or Theme from Star Wars through my speakers.

Then there are the assholes who try to scare you on purpose. You've all seen the type of Shockwave files they place on their sites. The ones that ask you to turn up your speakers and study a photo to find some hidden image. Then suddenly a photo of Bea Arthur (or something equally scary) pops up and starts screaming at you.

I fell for it once. It happened at work and my shreik sounded like Half-Pint from Little House on the Praire had just seen Pa get run over by his own buggy. It took some time to live that one down. It seems the only way to truly put this sort of thing behind you is to find someone else as dumb as you are and scare them with the file.

I got my Mom.

Not long after my office scare I sat her down in front my computer and watched as she studied the monitor for an image of a ghost. When the scary face and loud scream exploded in front of her I saw both her arms shoot up and shake in the air as her face strained and contorted with pure adrenaline enhanced fear.

For a moment, I was pretty sure I had killed her.

As soon as I was sure she wasn't going to slump over in my desk chair I started laughing. I was laughing because: 1) It was funny. 2) I had evidence I wasn't the only sucker left in the world. 3) I was nervous because I knew my mother was going to kill me right there in my own den.

We both survived. Unfortunately, now I'm suspicious of anything on the Web that might try to scare me. I like to go to the ghost hunter sites and look at video footage of actual ghosts and other such unbelievable crud. A few of these sites think it's fun to scare their visitors. After all, if they're interested in ghosts they must like being scare shitless.

Wrong.

I already have a hard enough time making it out of the basement and upstairs into bed with all the lights out. The last thing I need is some jerk's pop-up image of a bloody, dead babydoll flashing around in my head before I try to go to sleep.

My Mom sent me an email the other day with a link to one of these files. The email told me to study the photos closely. The link ended in .swf and my Mom wrote a warning that I shouldn't open the file around kids (duh). So I turned down the speakers and I clicked on the link. I walked ten feet away from my computer's monitor. I looked at the monitor through my fingers trying to shield myself from whatever horror I knew was going to pop-up at me. Sure enough, after waiting about 30 seconds the photos turned to some horrifying face and I could barely hear a scream coming from my speakers.

At her age, I don't think it's wise for my Mom to try to scare her more vengeful minded children.

Bilingual

Hi. Mama. Dada. Dooay.

These are the words Julia has learned so far. We're pretty sure we know how she picked up those first three. The last one, "Dooay" was a mystery to me until this morning.

You see, "Dooay" is the Furby word for fun (if you don't know what a Furby is I'll leave the Googling up to you). This morning Julia walked into our bedroom holding a Furby by it's quivering, audioanimatronic ear. The Furby must have enjoyed being slung around like this because it said, "Dooay".

Julia looked at me and repeated, "Dooay".

Twenty five percent of our daughter's entire vocabulary is Furbish.

Weekend at Harry's

Deb and I were at the Outagamie Museum this weekend. Judy and Glenn took care of the girls while we checked out the somewhat controversial Harry Houdini exhibit at the museum.

The exhibit reveals how Harry pulled off some of his illusions. That's the controversy. Many people objected to the museum revealing these secrets. I doubt if the protesters were working magicians in fear of these revelations hitting them in their breadbaskets. After all, letting people in on the fact that Houdini had a trick panel here or some fake rivets there couldn't be too much of a bombshell for today's savvy, jaded magic audience. I'm sure it had more to do with violating the sacred magician's code or just another attempt to chip away at what little wonder we have left in our savvy, jaded lives.

I'm all for magician's codes and a little wonder creeping into my life here and there. That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy getting a glimpse of how Harry fooled his public. In fact, I plan to use these secrets in my daily life for personal gain. With this in mind, I regret not buying the $300 straightjacket on sale in the museum's gift shop. I would have worn it to work. No one argues with a crazy person unless they're in a courtroom.

Did I mention Judy and Glenn had the kids? The trip was actually a weekend getaway to celebrate our anniversary. We had a good time. I lost to Deb at tic-tac-toe. How this happened I'm not sure. I was distracted. I must have been distracted. Same thing with the two games of ping-pong we played. I can't see how Deb's hand-eye coordination could be superior to mine. The woman can barely throw a ball so how the hell she managed to kick my ass at ping-pong makes absolutely no sense at all. I must have been distracted.

Battleship.

We played Battleship at the museum and I won.

Does all of this sound romantic?

It was.

Sure. There was also the requisite giggling, moony eyes and handholding across the table during dinner. But you don't want hear about that.

It's best not to reveal everything. Harry would want it that way.

The drive home did a great job of bringing us back to reality. Julia was cranky and whined for most of the trip. The whining became rhythmic for about 15 minutes. That's a long, long time to listen to our daughter's weird chant. I was convinced she was summoning some kind pagan god of toddler retribution who would smite us for trying to push milk over juice one too many times.

This was after Deb became upset with me for telling Allie about the time my grade school pal, Scott, took a dump and wiped his ass with pink, fiberglass insulation. It's a good story, especially if you know just how itchy you get working with insulation. Unfortunately Allie hasn't had much experience with the stuff so I was the only one in the car amused.

This is often the case.

It took some time to hook up with Blogger this evening. I'm guessing everyone is writing about the vote. Part of the process demands a non-unique experience for each participant. That means by this time tomorrow there will be lots of blogs that all sound exactly the same.

Here's my version:

I got in line to vote at 6:58 this morning. This is what it looked like:

What you don't see is how long the line was behind me. I'd guess it was about 100 yards long.

It took me 30 minutes to get to the machine that eats your ballot. When I got there a friend of ours, Tom, was standing watch over the machine. He was telling everyone that it didn't matter which direction you fed the machine your ballot. Forward, backward, upside down, right side up, the machine would be able to tell who you wanted to act on your behalf in public office. I spoke with Tom for a few minutes. We wondered how long it would take before we knew who the next president would be. "Who knows?" we both said almost simultaneously.

Tom told me something interesting. He said absentee ballots are counted after the polls close at 8:00 p.m. They're unwrapped and each ballot is marched around to the people that check and double check the big books containing the rolls of registered voters. After that it's fed into the counting machine just as if that person had been there to vote for him or herself. Tom told me the town next to ours had reported 30% of eligible voters had used absentee ballots. "They might be there 'til midnight," he said.

Even after hearing this, I'm still leery of being an absentee voter. It just sounds bad. Put absentee in front of any other word and it's not good. -Absentee Dad. Absentee Employee. Absentee Barbecuer. Absentee Fork.- Thankfully I'm usually able to make it to the polls. Unfortunately the men and women fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan aren't so lucky. There is concern that the military vote will not be counted. This was a problem in 2000. Supposedly congress took measures to ensure that the people who deserve to have their vote counted the most wouldn't have any worries their voices were heard. Sounds as if these measures weren't enough and the military vote is in jeopardy.

As a Democrat I shouldn't have too much of a problem about this situation considering the military largely votes Republican. But I do. It's so unjust. I realize today's the wrong day to have this occur to me. I should have had this thought months ago. What I could have done beyond a letter or two to my congress person I'm not sure. But a letter or two is more than just spouting off about it after the fact. I'll watch the news and keep my fingers crossed that something like Florida screwing up again by throwing out a soldier's vote just because it arrived without a postmark doesn't happen this year.

Now we wait for the results. My voting number was 96. I was married in '96. That's a good sign. I put all three of our jack-o'-lanterns out by the trash this morning without having scrape them out of the street with a shovel. That's a good sign. I checked CNN at 10:00 a.m. today and they hadn't called the race yet. Yet another good sign. Speaking of which, have you seen the CNN Web page for exit poll data? It's like the dashboard for a nuclear reactor. http://www.cnn.com Just enter your zip code and you are dialed in like Tokyo.

What that last line means I'm not sure. I'm pretty sure it's something positive. I was on the phone once with a guy from Poway, California who sounded like the consummate surfer dude. He said it to me. Since then I find myself searching for excuses to use it whenever I can.

John Kerry. He's dialed in like Tokyo.

Halloween Pt. 3

285.

That was the number of men, women, children and pets we had come to our doorstep in search of candy last night. An off year as far as numbers go but we made up for that with special effects.

The mummy was on the front porch, as usual, but this year we added spooky sound effects, dimmed the lighting and blasted all the ghastly ghoulies with a fog machine. Some of the smaller kids hesitated and even refused to come up the driveway (heh, heh). However, judging from the comments I heard, most of the kids appreciated the extra effort.

Julia didn't hit the streets. The girl was far too cranky for any kind of sustained Halloween nonsense. A little disappointing, maybe even a little sad, but not the end of the world. We'll take the $40 we paid for her black cat costume out of whatever birthday money she gets next year. The evening wasn't a total loss for Julia. She had her grandma with her and they celebrated the holiday by spending some time sitting in the dining room with the lights out. From there they watched the parade of costumes that marched up and down our front walk.

Allie begged for candy with her mom and grandpa. Allie's elaborate witch's costume was augmented with long underwear, pants and a purple hoodie. With the little broom in her hand she looked like a junior janitor with a penchant for goth inspired undergarments. We know each year her costume will wind up being a casualty of the weather. Why we don't just dress her up in something a little more practical and warm escapes me. . . Next year she's a polar bear. Year after that, a yeti. When she's seven we'll spray some black dots on it and she'll be a fuzzy Dalmatian. Make the spots bigger, add some horns and you've got a furry Holstein. That'll get her to nine-years-old and she won't need us for costume ideas any more.

It took Allie and her entourage about an hour to canvas the neighborhood. When she returned Allie sat on my lap and helped me hand out candy. She'd blast the halloweenies with fog and then drop a fun-sized Butterfinger in their bags. "There you go, little one. Happy Halloween" she'd say to the short kids. Allie stopped just short of patting the short kids on their heads as they said their thank yous and moved on to the next house. I'm sure the short kids didn't appreciate being patronized by a four-year-old. I suppose candy is candy and fortunately I didn't notice any signs of visible umbrage.

There was one little girl (couldn't have been more than three) who held her bucket out for a treat. We must have been her first house because the candy made a loud thump as it hit the bottom of her empty, plastic pumpkin. "I wan moh," she said. I dropped another piece in her pumpkin and smiled. Her eyes narrowed and she thrust her pumpkin toward me. "Feewit up!" she demanded. I was being mugged on my own front porch. Fortunately the girl's mother(?) stepped in and saved me before I had to call for help.

As we started to run out of candy I yelled at Debbie for grabbing a chocolate bar out of the treat bowl for herself. She said I was a grouch. If she knew about the Almond Joy I had in my pocket at the time, she would have called me a hypocrite, too.

Boo.