I thought I knew what I was going to write about today.  I had it all planned out. 
     This space was going to be filled with an account of my adventures last night roaming the countryside as Little Red - that is, as Tiny Crimson Travelsmock. 
     It was going to include how I discovered that trick-or-treat in my area was actually last Thursday night (which is crazy and true and a source of great discontent). 
     Then I was going to relate how I persevered regardless and set off into the woods in search of Grandmother's house - only to recall too late that both my grandmothers have been dead for years.  After a brief run-in with three lost, overly excitable young adults, I was going to tell how I finally made it to Socrates' house by mistake, just because I'd quite negligently never taken a single course in orienteering.
     The balance of my entry was going to be an examination of the flawed logic behind belief in ghosts, the human need to variously wear and remove masks, and the hubris involved in our semi-annual changing of the clocks - all using the Socratic method, since Socrates was there and willing to play along, while at the same time spoofing the famous fairy tale of "Little Red Ridinghood."
     "You need rescuing from this wild philosopher?" a passing woodsman with an ax was going to ask me near the end.
     "No, but if you could keep the presidential candidates off my TV until next September, I'd be forever in your debt," I was going to reply.
     But.

     My imaginary friend, Hans, wouldn't let me.
     "You're SO inauthentic sometimes," he told me.
     Well.  When your imaginary friends start calling you inauthentic, you know you better listen and shape up.
     So instead of another weakly entertaining, mildly insightful flight of fancy, today's entry will be a slight change of pace.
     It will star the truth in every paragraph instead of just letting it make a brief cameo appearance at the end of a random sentence.

     Our Halloween was actually very quiet.  Scarcely distinguishable from all the other days now which fly by in a blur of washing, eating, erranding, and picking up cat hair. 
     We didn't even get around to carving a pumpkin this year, though we did buy five - two big traditional orange ones, a skull-shaped small one, a perfectly shaped small one, and (for the first time ever) an albino.
     The high point of our evening came when I lit three of the five fingers of the ghoulishly purple hand-shaped candle I bought last November on a Halloween close-out cart at a local drugstore.  As the outer purple wax melted, the inner red wax ran and pooled like blood.  When that red wax was exhausted, only smoking inner "bones" remained.  It was... interesting.  
     But not really scary until it set off our kitchen smoke alarm. 

     Far scarier was the discovery in my e-box of the first real negative reaction to this journal.  That it came from Betsy - the person who inspired me to start it in the first place - made it all the more horrific.
     "An Evil Cashier Who Obviously Never Gets Any???" she asked, quoting my Saturday entry about my visit to the Haunted Grocery.  "A brainless cog trapped forever in a soul-destroying capitalist system????" this sweet, talented fellow cat owner and, ummm,  long-time supermarket employee continued.
     She then threatened to reveal the truth about me in an entry of her own. 
     What can I say?  I wasn't picking on you personally, Sweetie.  I first started riffing on my visits to a Haunted Grocery back on Halloween night of 1981 when I found myself around a camp fire for the first and only time in my life, no one could think of a decent ghost story, and my frightening attempt to sing "With A Little Help From Friends" petered out when none of us could remember the words.  It was actually a Haunted Krogers back then, but would people in California and Florida (not to mention Madagascar and the higher elevations of the Adirondacks) know what the hell a Krogers is? 
     I never think of you as a cashier, anyway, since you worked mostly as the office person - remember? 
     And I never, ever think of you as evil.
     And least of all as sexually deprived. 
     And as far as brainless cogs go, I was referring to those baggers whom you yourself said unflattering things about in your own journal and which the U.S. Supreme Court has yet to declare a conscious life form.
     So: Sorry!
     And if you really do have in your possession the truth about me, please share it - at least in an email.  I've been trying to find it all my life....
     *Humble bows and heart-felt peace offerings of Grade A catnip and bluest sodalite*

     The only other notable things that happened to me yesterday happened when my wife and I were driving around in the car, trying to take our minds off just what a death-defying stunt it is to travel on Ohio roadways.
     As we approached our bank's drive-thru ATM, my wife struggled to find the right bank card in her purse.  "Now, Amy, you're not going to get much money using your library card," she chided herself.
     "I think you should try your library card," I told her.  "Maybe they'll let you check out up to seven different savings account passbooks.  Just remember: They'll probably limit you to no more than three belonging to people from any one zip code.  And be sure to look and see if you get to keep 'em for a month or if they're new and limited to just a week."
     "Hmmmmmmm...."
     She ended up not taking my advice.

     On the way home from the, ummmm, grocery, it suddenly occurred to me that you don't see too many belated Halloween cards for sale.  And I said so.
     "Nope, you don't," my wife agreed.
     "Or belated Christmas cards.  I could use some of those.  'So sorry I forgot Christmas was December 25th this year....'"
     "Actually, I think they have those," my wife opined.
     "Well, how about belated anniversary cards?  'So sorry I forgot I love you....'"
     "Hmmmmmmm...."
     We somehow made it safely back into our garage before any drunk drivers or the excitement of mind-expanding ideas like these could kill us.