Read Online The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank by Erma Bombeck - Free Book Online
Authors: Erma Bombeck
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for it.”
“Rapf your warranty, lady,” he shrugged.
“Where is my warranty?”
“Printed on the bottom side of the washer.”
After the washer repairman left, I discovered I had become an instant celebrity. Women all over the neighborhood piled in to ask questions about what a washer repairman looked like.
“I don't see why you didn't just lock the door and keep him here,” said Helen.
“Some things are meant to be free,” I said.
Trick or Treat. . . Sweetheart
Halloween was my sixteenth favorite holiday.
It rated somewhere between the April 15th Income Tax deadline, and a New Year's eve without a baby sitter.
My husband and I readied for Beggar's Night a full week before. We stored the lawn furniture, brought the garden hose indoors, hid the clothesline and clothes posts, and dragged the Junglegym set into the garage for safe-keeping.
When we lived in the city, Halloween had been a night for little people to dress up as witches and little clowns, knock timidly at your door, and wait to be identified before you dropped a gingersnap into their little bags.
In the suburbs, Halloween wasn't a holiday. It was a full-scale invasion. Car pools transported herds of children from one plat to another (planes and buses deposited children from as far as three counties away). Greed stations were set up where loot could be emptied and they could start out “fresh.” And the beggars themselves were so intimidating that if your “treat” wasn't acceptable you could conceivably lose your health through pain.
The small children usually came between 5 and 5:30 p.m. while it was still daylight. After that the beggars got bigger, the costumes less colorful, and the demands more aggressive.
Opening the door, I confronted a lad over six feet tall, wearing a mustache, and carrying a shopping bag.
“My goodness,” I cooed, “and what's your name?”
“^Que?” he shrugged.
“Do I know you?” I asked reaching up to tweak his mustache. The mustache was connected to his face by his own hair.
His partner nudged him. “^Cual es su nombre?”
“Manuel,” he answered hesitantly. (Good grief, these had come all the way across the border for a bag of caramel corn.)
Next at the door was a twenty-seven-year-old or so wearing a dirty T-shirt, a leather band across his forehead, carrying a pillow case filled with ten-cent candy bars.
“Let's see,” I mused, “you are too old for my insurance man and too big for King Kong. I give up.”
He blew a giant bubble in my face and juggled his bag impatiently, “I'm Tonto.”
“All right, Tonto,” I said, “Here's a bright, shiny penny for you.”
“Cripes lady,” he said, “can you spare this?” (Later, I was to discover Tonto very strong. Tonto bent TV antenna after I gave him his shiny new penny.)
Mentally, I began to draw up a list of rules and regulations that would give Halloween back to the little children. How do you know when you are too old to go “begging”?
1. You're too old to go begging when your mask tickles your mustache.
2. You're too old when you've figured out the only thing a penny will buy is your weight and you're watching it.
3. You're too old when you drive yourself to the subdivisions.
4. You're too old when you say “thank-you” and your voice is changing.
5. You're too old when you are rapping on the doors and Johnny Carson is signing off.
6. You're too old when you reach over to close your bag and your cigarettes fall out of your pocket.
7. You're too old when you have a sign on your bag that reads, “Personal Checks Accepted.”
8. You're too old when the lady of the house turns you on more than the candy apple she just gave you.
Around eleven o'clock I refused to answer the door.
“Why?” asked my husband.
“Because we have run out of treats and when I told the last guy all I had left to give was a bruised orange, he moistened his lips and said, 'That's what you think, baby.' ”
Seconds later, my husband returned
“Rapf your warranty, lady,” he shrugged.
“Where is my warranty?”
“Printed on the bottom side of the washer.”
After the washer repairman left, I discovered I had become an instant celebrity. Women all over the neighborhood piled in to ask questions about what a washer repairman looked like.
“I don't see why you didn't just lock the door and keep him here,” said Helen.
“Some things are meant to be free,” I said.
Trick or Treat. . . Sweetheart
Halloween was my sixteenth favorite holiday.
It rated somewhere between the April 15th Income Tax deadline, and a New Year's eve without a baby sitter.
My husband and I readied for Beggar's Night a full week before. We stored the lawn furniture, brought the garden hose indoors, hid the clothesline and clothes posts, and dragged the Junglegym set into the garage for safe-keeping.
When we lived in the city, Halloween had been a night for little people to dress up as witches and little clowns, knock timidly at your door, and wait to be identified before you dropped a gingersnap into their little bags.
In the suburbs, Halloween wasn't a holiday. It was a full-scale invasion. Car pools transported herds of children from one plat to another (planes and buses deposited children from as far as three counties away). Greed stations were set up where loot could be emptied and they could start out “fresh.” And the beggars themselves were so intimidating that if your “treat” wasn't acceptable you could conceivably lose your health through pain.
The small children usually came between 5 and 5:30 p.m. while it was still daylight. After that the beggars got bigger, the costumes less colorful, and the demands more aggressive.
Opening the door, I confronted a lad over six feet tall, wearing a mustache, and carrying a shopping bag.
“My goodness,” I cooed, “and what's your name?”
“^Que?” he shrugged.
“Do I know you?” I asked reaching up to tweak his mustache. The mustache was connected to his face by his own hair.
His partner nudged him. “^Cual es su nombre?”
“Manuel,” he answered hesitantly. (Good grief, these had come all the way across the border for a bag of caramel corn.)
Next at the door was a twenty-seven-year-old or so wearing a dirty T-shirt, a leather band across his forehead, carrying a pillow case filled with ten-cent candy bars.
“Let's see,” I mused, “you are too old for my insurance man and too big for King Kong. I give up.”
He blew a giant bubble in my face and juggled his bag impatiently, “I'm Tonto.”
“All right, Tonto,” I said, “Here's a bright, shiny penny for you.”
“Cripes lady,” he said, “can you spare this?” (Later, I was to discover Tonto very strong. Tonto bent TV antenna after I gave him his shiny new penny.)
Mentally, I began to draw up a list of rules and regulations that would give Halloween back to the little children. How do you know when you are too old to go “begging”?
1. You're too old to go begging when your mask tickles your mustache.
2. You're too old when you've figured out the only thing a penny will buy is your weight and you're watching it.
3. You're too old when you drive yourself to the subdivisions.
4. You're too old when you say “thank-you” and your voice is changing.
5. You're too old when you are rapping on the doors and Johnny Carson is signing off.
6. You're too old when you reach over to close your bag and your cigarettes fall out of your pocket.
7. You're too old when you have a sign on your bag that reads, “Personal Checks Accepted.”
8. You're too old when the lady of the house turns you on more than the candy apple she just gave you.
Around eleven o'clock I refused to answer the door.
“Why?” asked my husband.
“Because we have run out of treats and when I told the last guy all I had left to give was a bruised orange, he moistened his lips and said, 'That's what you think, baby.' ”
Seconds later, my husband returned
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