My Father always told us that if you can’t say something nice about a person then don’t say anything at all.
The exact phrase is: If you can’t be a Booster then don’t be a Knocker.
Or, if you’re Colombian-born Gloria from Modern Family: You should be a ‘winnin his back not a ‘spittin his face.
The logic is solid.
It’s not about being a push over when someone’s being an ass, or not speaking up when an idea doesn’t wash.
No, this life lesson leans towards not being tethered to the nastiness that is making fun of, laughing at, gossiping about … people in bodies, shelters and situations that are less fortunate then yourself.
It sweeps over what is elementary in the funny, or base in comedy (as Plato argued) … and forces you to look beyond the uncontrollable aspects of how a person speaks and looks, or where a person lives, or when a person is unexpectedly affected by gravity.
It also celebrates the enjoyment of acceptance and understanding, that whilst we are all different we are one. And we all can fall down, even as we walk.
So, be wittier. Mind your own business. Offer a hand. Stuff like that.
Pretty cool, right?
I’d say about 99.76% of the time I am able to heed my Darling Papa’s advice.
However, unfortunately, there is one lingering topic where his powerful combination of words fails to impress upon me Grace, and a vision to see past what is right before my eyes.
I’ve tried to ignore it.
I’ve turned away from it.
I’ve gone deep deep into the recesses of my lair (lights off and all) … and still, this topic literally comes knocking on my door.
Every. Single. Year.
I am like a tea kettle during a rolling boil with this topic.
I curse on paper about this topic.
So to both my Dad and Gloria, I am truly sorry.
That being said …
I …
Absolutely.
Categorically.
Can NOT. Will NOT. Do NOT tolerate.
Like have zero patience for … with a few inserted seven letter words …
F*CKING ADULTS WHO DRESS UP ON F*CKING HALLOF*CKINGWEEN.
Oh, boy, here we go.
Sorry Mum.
I f*cking loath anyone over the age of 18 participating in Halloween, and this includes people I adore every other 364-ish days of the year.
I hate the way they look. I hate the way they act. I want it to rain so hard as they walk outside that it makes them cry.
- Never more than this day do I wish I lived in Walden Pond.
- Never more than today do I understand Jeremiah Johnson seeking solace in a snowbound mountainous cabin.
- Never more than right now, whilst it is still daylight, do I want to blast into space.
I try my best to not be around it. I really do. I avoid public places. I pretend to look away. I stay in the back of the house.
But after I’ve done the universally acknowledged “I’m not home” sign, these people still appear on my steps, banging on the glass door, yelling for me to come out and look at them.
And I won’t begin to address grown ups encroaching on a child’s holiday.
So much distain do I have for this day and what is about to happen, that right now I am looking at the clock and counting the hours until it will all randomly appear.
With fear and dread.
It’s too late to run.
Sigh.
My entire intellectual life I’ve been this way about Adults and Halloween. And my bah hum bug curmudgeon-self has only gotten worse.
Earlier on I could be explained away as just another pissed off teenager forced to wear a shitty homemade gypsy costume to their parents drunken house party.
Whereas now I’m the scary ornery cat lady in the darkened house who eats little kids toys for breakfast, and refuses to acknowledge the most neighbourly of knocks.
I think Freddy Kruger in a dress and no makeup.
And it’s affecting my self-esteem.
Not completely succumbed (remember 99.76%), my Dearest Dad’s advice always visits one last time on Halloween to try and get me to lift the ball up not squash the ant below.
For instance, I know that in about an hour or so, I will inexplicably become optimistic and feel the need to run to the store to buy the last bits of candy so when I enthusiastically open my door this evening wearing my top hat and tails … I’ll have some little treats to the delight even the wackiest of my uninvited front porch guests.
That thought keeps popping up.
Eesh, what an admittedly silly roller coaster ride of anxiety to apply to something as harmless as over grown children dressing up as the cast from the Wizard of Oz.
But there it’s been.
Every. Single. Year.
Who knows, maybe this year is the year I slide into the Halloween dance routine.
The odds are slim.
But the odds could show.
See, that’s Dad and Gloria circling around right there.
For the record:
I don’t have cats, dogs or even a bird.
I only remove rubbish thrown on my lawn, not toys left behind by children.
I do, however, own a top hat.
Happy Sunday.