All Hallows Eve

I've been gone. Well, not so much gone as busy as hell with buying and selling real estate. One stinking house is enough to reduce me to tears and occupy my life completely. I don't know how Trump does it; okay I do- he hires people on TV to do work for him. If I could convince people to engage in a cutthroat competition for my benefit, I would, but alas not even UPN has called.

Coming up at an alarming rate is the single most important holiday that any nation in the world celebrates. I speak, of course, of Halloween; where most of the country lets it's hair down and dresses up and gets drunk or goes and begs for candy, depending on your age and the availability of fake identification. There are those people who believe that Halloween will lead our children into witchcraft and Devil worship. Those people are idiots, because sane people realize that witchcraft is reserved for people who got kicked out of the Society for Creative Anachronism for being too dorky, and Devil worshippers are only doing it to bag others with low self-esteem. Also, there's no such thing as magic.

I have consternation, however, because I have not yet chosen a costume. I have been, in reverse chronological order: a punk rock chick, a pirate, a ww2 soldier, a knight and a sea captain. Prior to that, I was in college, and can't remember what costumes I had. I do remember a couple from childhood, though. I was the Greatest American Hero, for some reason as a young child. Another year I lovingly spent hours cutting and wrapping foam padding with grey duct tape and creating a knight costume, complete with helmet- it also nearly suffocated me, so that was fun. What to do this year? Ron Burgundy, from Anchorman? A pirate (again)? The Black Knight? The options are endless.

And therein lies the fun of the holiday- getting to be something you're not, for just a night. While in theory I could dress like the Little Mermaid on a Tuesday, say, and go to work, at some point someone would say something. At best they would exchange furtive glances with each other. I would be a fan of a change to that societal restriction. If President Bush came out in a Batman costume, I would have a more positive opinion of him (not to mention making debates more interesting). The evening news could be presented by Zorro with weather by Strawberry Shortcake. It could even help people who have trouble with their wardrobe: every day is a good day to be a Ghostbuster.

If that happened, though, I would be sad: The thing that makes Halloween so special would be gone. If you had seen twelve Supermans and seventeen Smurfs every day for a year, it would have less impact. And eventually you would run out of ideas, as well as closet space.

No, I approve of keeping Halloween as it is, but perhaps we can schedule a few more scattered throughout the year. I know that right around February I'm feeling the itch to wear some tights and a cape. But perhaps that's too much information.

Very delayed blog - the home sale edition

Some advice: Never sell your home, if you can. It's too much of a hassle. The simple act of keeping it clean is an exercise from the Devil's handbook: every morning before work it must be spotless, and the next day you start over. The longer it goes on, the more you wonder if you can skimp on little things; dusting the cabinets, making the bed, picking up the landfill-quantity of trash strewn across the living room. This is in preparation for people who may or may not come.

When I was a child, my mother insisted I make my bed every day, and I wondered why- were burglars going to come in and be offended by my sloppiness? And even if they were, would that prevent them from stealing things? Now I know the real reason, which is that my parents had to be ready at a moments notice to sell their house. I could have come home from school to a moving van on any given day.

Another interesting thing that I noticed is that realtors are evil people. Those we could lure in with a commission came in snarling and resentful; standoffish. They didn't want to exchange money for my house; rather, they were paid in human misery. We ourselves went looking for houses, and were told rather snidely that nobody sells their house without a realtor. The same people emailed me once they discovered I had sold my house and with a wolf's smile asked if I needed them to show me anything else and to please contact them.

Being a realtor is not a bad job- you drive to houses for sale and unlock them for people. And you fill out a little paperwork. The average commision for this noble and useful task is 3%- the average home price around these parts is over $500,000. I'll let you do the math, and then you can go find out how much it costs to become a realtor. I think some of the people weren't even realtors- they just wore big red jackets.

Once you do sell (and do a happy dance for it), you then have to buy, which now makes you exalted among all mankind, even Solomon, which is pretty good. Every realtor is your friend and will forward many listings to your email (the more pricey, the better!). The first question out of selling realtor's mouths is, "Are you working with a realtor?" and it's fun to crush their spirit when you say you are (otherwise they get a whopping 6% commission).

A fun part of buying is submitting an offer, because you can stipulate anything you want; "Seller must provide 12 packs of multi-flavored pudding snacks upon delivery of house";"Seller must perform Pirates of Penzance with no less than 3 backdrops"; "Limo rides must be provided to buyer for a period of no less than 2 months, or as the buyer wishes". All of these demands will ensure that you never get the house, but it's fun to think about.

So at some point your offer is accepted, and it's only $45,000 more than you can afford, and the roof is made of straw and here comes the Big Bad Wolf. The next step is to call all of your utilities and ask them to turn off service. And call the utilities in the new house and have them turned on. Both will require DNA samples.

So that's the simple way of selling a house in Modern America. God forbid we go back to the day where a guy hands you a sack filled with money and you give him the deed. That would be far too simple and painless. And then where would the realtors go?
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Note: I do not hate all realtors, just all the ones I'm associated with. Perhaps in times where real estate is less of a cash cow, there is civility and honor; since this is not the case, I can only speak to what I know.

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A note to Milk readers: I have a tendency to be silly in this blog. Originally, my intention was to use this as a way to improve my writing, but it's turned into a thing where I've tried to be funny and/or irreverent, as well as tell the fantastic/interesting/stupid stories of my youth. It has a voice, and that makes me happy, and I will keep doing it as long as it's fun.

That said, I lost the original focus of this blog, which was to improve my writing. So I've created a new blog meant for actual serious attempts at literature. It will probably devolve into something where I post naked celebrities, but I'm going in optimistically. If you're interested, you can check it out at Lake of Pines. I neither expect nor require an audience there, so if you hate that kind of crap, skip it.

Advice for Kids: Vol. 1; How to kill yourself, or die trying

If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that I'm invincible. As a child, I had a propensity for dying, or nearly doing so. As an infant, just a few weeks after being born my parents had to fly to New York for a wedding and shortly thereafter I guess I decided to have some fun with my grandparents by turning blue and having to be rushed to the hospital.

Another story that my parents love to tell is when I wouldn't eat solid food despite being the proper age. Actually, I would eat it and then vomit it back up, because otherwise it wouldn't be disgusting enough. Another trip to the hospital, where they were rapidly learning my name, and I was diagnosed with pyloric stenosis, in which the muscle that lets food into the stomach doesn't open. A little surgery (and a fun episode where, at less than a year old, I pulled the oxygen tubes out of my nose), and I was ok. Though I have a neat scar running along the ride side of my abdomen, which I like to say is from a knife fight where I rescued a virgin and three kittens.

Killing me isn't just a fun activity for a hateful God- I certainly tried to do it myself enough times. Jumping into a pool despite not knowing how to swim, falling on my head from the playground, flipping my bike backwards until it landed on top of me- all fun activities that may well have resulted in a tragic death. I lived at the bottom of a cul-de-sac on a hill and I enjoyed riding my bike down the sidewalk and then jumping off into the grass at about 15 mph. I played with lawn darts, right up until I threw one and it broke a 3/4" piece of wood. I had turned a boogie board the wrong way around in heavy surf and was dragged to the bottom and barely surfaced in time- I remember laying face-down on the beach with water lapping at my heels, panting afterwards. At 5, I thought it would funny to throw my parents car into neutral- we merely rolled backwards out of the driveway and into the curb across the street. At my sister's girl scout meeting, I jumped off the stage and landed perfectly, except I bit my tongue and needed stitches. However, I recall chocolate ice cream, so it was OK.

Others, too, enjoy killing me. For some reason, my sister's friend tossed a rock from 20 feet away that I caught right in the center of my forehead. I'm glad that my dad was around to make the joke that it had "knocked some sense into me". This from the same man who has tried to kill me on every watercraft imaginable, from jet skis to sailboats. I think next time he'll try to do something with a catamaran, if possible.

Also, I fell out of a window.

Ok, I guess that bears explaining. We were sitting in the living room (decorated in fashion-forward early 80's tones of dark brown with orange accents, I think). The couch was directly underneath a window, and as usual, I was sitting comfortably on the windowsill, the cool breeze comforting us as we watched whatever was on TV. I leaned back to support my small 5-year-old frame against the screen, but there was no screen and I fell backwards out of the window.

Fortunately, the window was on the first floor, so I only fell 4 feet, perhaps. Unfortunately, there was a bush there, so I fell onto it and through it. My mother later recalled looking up and discovering I wasn't there. I survived, albeit with some cuts and bruises.

So we go back to my original statement, in which I say I'm invincible- obviously, if I have gone through all of this and managed to live, what else could get me?

Labor day: Not a day to labor. Or go in labor.

Today is Labor Day in the US. It's also probably the one U.S. holiday where we aren't consumed with buying gifts. But that's only because the card companies haven't figured out how to sell it to us. We're real suckers when it comes to that stuff, I guess.

No, the history of Labor Day is a communist one. It started back right after all those people working in factories and coal mines and other deadly jobs decided that they needed rights, because the whole dying-at-30-from-mysterious-disease thing wasn't that much fun. However, rather than ask for things like safe working conditions or a living wage of $.02 a day (of course, at that time, a penny could be used to pay rent on a 4-bedroom house, buy 2 cars or 3 horse-drawn carriages, purchase a fancy steak dinner for a family of four, 2 gallons of ice cream, a sailboat and still have enough change for a newspaper), they asked for a day off. Baby steps, I guess.

So that long and storied history basically boils down to one thing: Everyone gets a day off work. Traditionally, this time is used for barbeques, beach-going and enjoying the last days of sun. Less traditionally is it used to run around naked with a sign around your neck that says "Ornate and authentic renaissance costume" while singing old folk songs with an English accent. But sometimes.

There are other traditions associated with Labor Day. Okay, one- wearing white after labor day is a no-no. This is presumably because if you do it then a team of heavily-armed men in a black van will grab you and sit silently around you in a menacing manner, their black sunglasses betraying no hint of their personality or humanity. If you're lucky, they take you on a fabulous $5000 wardrobe makeover. If not, they'll pitch your lifeless body into a ditch on the side of the road. So you could take a chance to win fabulous prizes, but it's probably better to go with more of a beige.

Labor day also signals the end of summer. In fact, at midnight of the day after labor day, punishing cold rains and winds fall down across the nation to remind us of that fact. Children are left weeping and knashing their teeth (in the Biblical sense) as school looms close. For working people, it means an end to "Funny Hawaiian shirt" Friday and the beginning of "Conservative raincoat" weekdays. The world grows cold and grey and weary, and the bleak burning sun is often obscured by forbidding cloudbanks and provides no warmth or joy anyways. Flowers wilt and trees lose their leaves. People are left in woe and misery, where the greatest horror of all is the realization that the next six months will be naught but a dreary monotony of identical colorless days. But at least it's not hot.

Happy Labor day, USA. Happy day of working everyone else.