Oh gosh, time flies when you keep living. It’s been a huge week and huger weekend, and there is much to share – hope I can get the high points in before supper is done, gone, digested, and flushed. That’s my ambitious goal.

There’s a bunch I left out of my last post on the fishing trip, but the weekend deserves its own post. So I’ll presume to send those nuggets about my dad’s visit, a potato volcano, and sinking a boat into the future, where they’ll be told in embarrassing detail.

We just finished up the Great Halloween Party Weekend (AKA Tiffoween), and it was a blast. I used to go trick-or-treating as a kid, just like almost all of my peers, and it was fun kid stuff. There were about 5-6 years where I felt I’d outgrown it, and then was persuaded that it’s the devil’s holiday and opted out for about 18 years. A couple years ago, some good friends changed my mind by throwing a rockin’ good party, costumes and beer and food and all, and there wasn’t the least hint of devil worship. I decided holidays are what you make of them – which has always been the case.

We decided to host our OWN party, both because we like people and parties, and so we wouldn’t have the problem of finding something to do, and upon finding it, figuring how to get home safely if it turned out to be a drinkin’ event. We bought and built decorations, costumes, food (and forgot some of it), and got lots to drink. There was an inflatable ghost coming out of the chimney, a giant hairy spider in a giant custom web on the porch, a nearly complete Nightmare Before Christmas village, flaming things, and a Scream-faced ghost hiding behind the bathroom door. There was a cauldron of cider with steamy, bubbly dry ice (we forgot to put in the ice hands we made). Grilled chicken, mummy dogs, boo-cookies, fresh asparagus, Wordnerd’s Onion Souffle, and all kinds of finger food. Nobody went hungry.

As for the guests, we had several non-bloggers as well as the famous and fabulous Kenju, Farrago, Mojo, and of course Tiff. In all, we had about half the guests who said they’d come, and it was a good party. Tiff’s brother won the Scariest costume prize as some sort of sponge-faced pale monster, Farrago won the Came the Farthest (Furthest?) and Funniest prize as a 70’s porn star (Pat, as a very convincing buck-toothed redneck hick, was pretty damn funny too). Kenju makes an adorable witch, and Mr. Kenju is a believable retired Sherlock Holmes. Tiff and I went as 1600’s-era Scottish Highlanders.



(all photos have been altered to protect identities/ aliases)


My neighbor dropped off a large load of firewood last week, and after splitting and stacking it, I figured there was enough for a month. Turns out, when you have guys who like their fires hot enough to melt glass, it lasts one weekend. We enjoyed our various drinks on a beautiful night with a roaring blaze. From the gate, I heard a timid, ‘Excuse me?’ It was a neighbor from up the street, saying her guests all went home and could she come in?

Of course.

Turns out, she had lots to drink before arriving, and had even more to say. She related the story of a couch she got, and how her teenage son commented on how it looked like a porn couch. She appeared to be aghast that he, the innocent snowflake, would know what a porn couch looks like. The same snowflake who’s allowed to spend the night with his girlfriend (as long as there was a third person in the room – a friggin’ GUARANTEE of innocence, amiright?). The more she talked, the more everyone engaged the logic, and the more defensive and earnest she became. It was like heaping logs on the fire (which we did) and every word became increasingly hilarious. Pat was dancing around doing the hand motions to the ‘Erase! Erase! Erase! song, which he wrote and sang on the spot, and at one point someone blurted, “Just stop talking.” When she didn’t, a nanosecond later, she heard, “Jeebus! You can’t shut up, can you?!” The Porn Couch was the subject for nearly an hour, enough to become Tiffoween Legend.

Along this point in the festivities, enough spirits were released and consumed to make walking… a challenge. My chair even betrayed me. I went to sit down after tossing another cuppa two tree logs on the fire, and a metal leg dug into the sod, bent, and tipped me over backwards. My heels and kilt went flying overhead, and while I struggled to get myself upright, I heard Farrago’s somber words: “I just saw your junk.”

I was grateful for being a bit inebriated, because folks – that could have been embarrassing.

The party wound down in the wee hours (two? three?) and all were safely home by the time I hit my comfy pillow.

There’s much to relate about Saturday too, what with breakfast and hangovers and spud guns and chili. I’ll save that for the next post. Your stories go in the comments, don’t be stingy!

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