Another magical holiday comes to a close.
We arrived in town, pulled the kids from the car, jammed the baby's hat back on his head, and Mike dropped his pants and put on elf trousers in the parking lot behind the hotel laundry. Mr. Ferrell he was not; he had accidentally sewed the wrong parts of the legs together, had a mishap with the hat band, and didn't manage to get any buttons on the jacket, but it was dark and his bits were all covered, so we counted it a success. (Though he did almost get thrown out a window for seaming the pants with my special metallic gold quilting thread.)
Our friends arrived, and the children took off ahead of us as we walked into the subdivision. The entire town turned out; the school kids giving me the hairy eyeball for appearing without my librarian disguise and skirting warily around the man-elf. Leif was unconvinced about the trick-or-treat bit, but dug around in his bucket and temporarily forgot to rip the hat off and beat me around the face with it. The streets were crowded with princesses, super heroes, and adults with beer holsters. We followed the kids up the two streets and back down them again, finished too soon, and went home to roll in the candy. That's how it goes in a small town.
I went over the pictures to see if my lazy supposed-to-be-ironic Twilight vampire sparkles had shown up, and saw that Mike had taken a bunch of pictures of some tart in a wig. Realized it was me.
I suppose Sandra Lee is about as scary as sparkly vampires. Oh well.
Not as fun as a night at my mom's house, but better than the year in the California apartment going door-to-door to sex predators and drunk college kids. The first kid is the practice one anyway; we should get it right by the time the second one makes permanent memories.
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