Given the choice, I would avoid them ALL.
I don't know what spirit-sucking demon possesses me but the closer I come to an occasion, the deeper my desire to bury myself in blankets and ride the revelry out in silence and solitude.
Brad Mosiman adores holidays. Despite the knowledge that I am going to ruin each and every one of them, he approaches celebrations with such sincerity and sweet sentimentality that it makes me the clear villain in every televised Mosiman holiday special.
It was the day before Halloween and our pumpkin had not yet been butchered. Oops...wrong holiday. I mean, carved. Wait. Don't you carve a turkey, too? Doesn't matter. You know what I mean. The gourd had not yet been gouged.
Brad Mosiman had left for work at 3 am. He returned home around 5:30 pm. He looked longingly to the darkening October skies and sighed. "I'm going to walk down to the pond quick to see if there are any ducks there," he told me. And that's when I rallied. I would not ruin another holiday for my poor, hard-working husband.Grasping a large metal spoon and a knife in my fist, I plucked my pumpkin from its perch on my front porch and lugged it around to the back yard. As I staggered under the weight of my load, I was startled to meet Brad coming out of the garage. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, frowning. "I was going to surprise you," I told him, "When you came back from the pond, you would have been greeted by the flickering smile of your carved pumpkin."
Brad Mosiman looked longingly to the darkening October skies and sighed. He lifted the pumpkin from my arms and carried it down to the field. He rolled his eyes at my carving option and broke out a high-powered gizmo, making short work of gutting our pumpkin. I stood by helpfully, should he need assistance.
I followed him back up to the garage where he then handed me a Sharpie to draw a design. I considered my canvas. "It's got gook on it," I observed. Sighing again, Brad wiped the guts off of the pumpkin.My husband carefully cut out my design. "Could you please hold the pumpkin steady instead of taking pictures?" he asked, patiently. Pumpkin pieces fell to the floor and I bravely picked them up.
We (he) carried our masterpiece to its place of honor on our front sidewalk.
It was now pitch black. Brad sighed.
"All we need is a candle," he told me.
I stared at him. Oh. Forgot about that part. I searched my stock. Not a votive in the stack. I grabbed a pillared candle better suited for a candelabra from "The Phantom of the Opera," and used my carving knife to hack it down to size.
Somehow, we managed to get our pumpkin lit."Wasn't this fun?" I asked him as he suppressed a tired yawn. He nodded, "Tons." I smiled happily. I did it. I hadn't ruined Halloween for my husband this year. I had made it magical. "Aren't you glad we found time to carve our pumpkin?" I continued. "Oh yeah," he agreed, "I couldn't imagine a better time to do it."