Monday, October 29, 2007

Scary Stories to Tell with a Swiffer

My house is haunted.

I live across from one of the largest graveyards in Brooklyn, so most of my neighbors are the haunty type. But that’s not the kind of haunting I’m talking about.

Brad and I had a giant Halloween/Birthday party on Saturday night and my house is haunted with party ghosts. There are black footprints across every walkable surface (and some unwalkable ones) and orange wax down the wall, one less dollar store candle holder than I woke up owning on Saturday morning, and an Everest of recycling, and candy stuck in the most bizarre places (in the holes of my fence, in the decorative espresso cups), and there are trampled weeds in the backyard and a chipped Christmas light, and there are plates and pots and a coffeemaker all in the wrong place and a bathroom full of tootsie roll wrappers, and the detergent is in the tub, the ironing board is in the boiler room, the toilet paper is nearly out, and there are fun size Snickers trampled into the grout between the tiles on the floor that need to be removed with serious paper towel work, or else a quick and disgusting fingernail intervention.

Also, I found a single elbow-length black latex glove in the backyard next to a pirate hook wearing a candy necklace. I can’t be sure, but all signs point to my house being the scene for a dominatrix proctological exam on skittish, raver Captain Hook.

The party ghosts are crafty. They disappear in the dark, which is different than your garden (basement? attic?) variety ghost, but appear with a vengeance again under overhead light. The bathroom, in the dark, seems completely unhaunted but then flip, scream, terror, there are wrapped tootsie rolls hidden in the rug fringe.

The party ghosts are also kind of Dickensian. Like, the Ghost of High School Past, except the kind of past I did not lead. I never went to a real John Huges style house party in high school, though I'm not entirely sure they existed in my town.

Although it could just be a mark of my supreme adolescent uncoolness that to this day no one has filled me in on where the party was happening, like, eight years ago.

But watching peple cram into my basement and wait for a beer served from behind my kitchen table and complain about the line for the bathroom where I brush my teeth and shampoo my hair is an eerie experience. The party was haunted with the ghosts of my boring regular life, the house is haunted with the ghosts of the party, and my life is haunted with the vengeful little demons of teenhood.

Let's eat some candy corn.

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