candy candy candy I can’t let you go (yes I can)

We had 20 trick or treaters last night. I know because I counted. And I gave ALL the candy away. Since there was only the slowest trickle of kiddos, each received a full handful of candy. Every single kid (and many of the parents) was in a costume. There were no teenagers and there were no non-candy-eating infants. It was a great crop of costumes, too. Lots of scary get-ups, which was nice because so much of the time it’s boring stuff like princess and ballerina. There was a bride, but she was “dead.” Cool. Nice statement about marriage. Or something.

I had lunch with my friend Marisa today at a soul food place in the 3rd Ward. Good grub/no parking. When I got there, a car was parked sideways and blocking three of the FOUR spaces for the restaurant, so I ended up having to park on Alabama. When we walked out of the restaurant, I noticed Marisa’s car in one of the spaces, so I told her about the car that had blocked me out earlier. She said she barely squeezed into her spot, then we needlessly groused about the situation for much too long, not realizing the very nice owner of the restaurant a) was the person who parked that way, b) was standing right behind us and c) overheard our conversation and said, “Yeah, sorry about that. I was unloading groceries.” Great, now there’s another restaurant to which I can never return for fear a little something extra will be added to my food.

Last week’s Houston Press has a feature about haunted houses in Houston. The various carnies, I mean haunted house owners, were sharing stories. One guy talked about a 20-year-old who shit his pants while going through the house with a date. I was thinking about how, if it’s your first or second date with someone, that’s pretty much a deal breaker. Shitting your pants. After a few years of dating, it would be totally gross but probably not a deal breaker (unless the deal was already breaking/broken). On a first date, you’d consider walking home to let the guy travel alone with his shame. On a hundredth date, you’d drive the guy home to get a change of pants and then get on with your night. Or maybe not. I guess what I’m saying is you become more accommodating about some things. Maybe dropping a load in one’s pants isn’t the best example… Anyway, I just keep thinking about that poor guy (if the story is true) and wondering if he reads the Press. Or if the date reads the Press. And if so, how was that little nugget (no pun) received. If I were the chick, it would be one of my stock stories. Unless I was still with the guy. I’d probably have to not date the guy anymore just so I’d then have the freedom to tell the story (omitting his name, of course – I’m not evil – I just love a good story).

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