We either have the nicest postman in the world, or he’s a serial killer. It’s SO HARD to tell.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the front stoop with my girls having snacks and making chalk art. The latest in a long series of interchangeable postal deliver persons swept up. This one was older than the rest, with shaggy gray hair. He had ear phones in and a musical skip in his step as he handed off the mail to me and then, with a jaunty bow, gave each of my girls a bite sized chocolate treat. “For you, and you!” he announced with a vaguely English accent and a smile.
Well those are definitely not poisoned, I told myself, and smiled grimly back. What a sweet old man who is definitely not coming back to kill us later.
Just to prove to myself that I was so NOT turning into my mother, I made a conscious decision to not be crazy paranoid, and to simply accept the sweet act of some old dude who bought his Halloween candy too early and obviously didn’t put razor blades in them because that would be insane. The post office does not hire crazy people.
The little one was tickled by the whole thing of course, so I suggested she draw a thank you note and leave it for the postman. Who doesn’t love the scribblings of a four-year old? The next day, she ran out to give it to him, blushing and giggling and, of course, got another sweet for her efforts.
The day after that, he left two more chocolates sitting on top of the mailbox. And the next day. And the next. I started hiding them. I started eating them before the kids saw. Even so, they were bound to notice. This went on for weeks. The postman is like a more reliable Easter Bunny. Also I’m starting to gain weight. Dammit.
“That guy is the nicest guy ever!” the little one announced the other day, staring out the window and waiting for her daily sugar intake.
“He does seem very nice,” I said carefully. I sighed. I started to walk away. “Of course,” I added, “It’s also possible he’s just fattening you up to eat you.” Her eyes went wide. “I’m not saying he is, I’m not saying he isn’t, I’m just saying we don’t go for any rides in the cool postal truck…ever.”
Super looking forward to going around knocking on strangers’ doors asking for candy tonight.
Happy Halloween guys. Remember to taste all your kids candy to make sure it isn’t poisoned or stuffed full of free hallucinogens.
Also, tip your mail-carrier.
Have you any idea how Halloween candy you have to eat before getting a free high? I mean, hey, out there on the left coast maybe it’s no big deal but here in the rural Midwest, you’ll be wearing pounds of candy until well after Christmas….
And then the frosted sugar cookies start flowing like rain. It’s an ugly time of year.
For the second goddamn year in a row our Halloween treats were barely touched. Why is everyone avoiding our house? JUST because we have the longest, darkest driveway (I even lined it with little lights and a light up ghost so no one would stumble off track and fall into the gully) plus a bush turkey who lives on our block and makes spooky noises scratching amongst the dead leaves that the kids think is a monster coming to get them.
Anyone brave enough to reach our front door is well rewarded, but this year we only had ten kids with the right stuff. And now I have about a kilo of chocolate that’s going to be sitting there calling my name. Maybe I should bury it in the garden?
You could leave treats for the postman! We’d have some sort of weird cycle going then…