Trick-or-Treaters: You’re on notice!

Halloween and I have always been on shaky ground. It’s a love-hate thing. I love to decorate for Halloween, but I hate to dress up, or hand out candy. When my kidlings were little, I loved to dress them in elaborate costumes that I sewed myself (seriously, Disney, eat your heart out), but I hated to take them Trick-or-Treating. As a child, I rarely went, so I suppose I just couldn’t get into the spirit of it when my kids were kids. Not that I stopped them.

Now, that the kids are older, everything’s changed. First, I can’t dress them in cute or clever matching costumes. The Boy dresses up as a zombie almost every year. Not hard, he has everything. The Girl plans all year, changing her mind weekly so I couldn’t plan if I wanted to, and finally ends up with something in the “steampunk” category. Again, by this time we have almost everything. They go to different parties. Hubby answers the door and I hold The Cat’s leash and keep her from freaking out in her little costume by every two-year-old pumpkin that shows up at the door and shrieks at the sight of a black cat on a leash. Last year she was a quivering little dragon. This year, she may go as a “nervous wreck.” I’m trying to figure out how to convey that concept.

Anyway, there are so many interesting costumes out there now, for kids and adults, but it’s the young women that concern me. I’d love to say dressing up is for the kids, but it’s not. Adults love to see the kids dress up, and women enjoy the excuse to get away with wearing in public what they wouldn’t otherwise wear outside the bedroom, let alone the house. As out society’s rules continue to relax, as well as our standard and seemingly good taste, I wonder who’s going to draw a line.

I will. Right now. Everyone is on notice. If someone shows up at my house in this, I will throw a black ball of fur and claws at you, pull it back with a leash, then do it again. I will repeat that as long as it takes until Hubby can get the hose. The hose is for you, not me. Are we clear? This will not happen on my front porch:

Who needs to feel secure anyway?

I went to a trade show today with Hubby, he works in security. Not a security guard, although he did that for a brief time in college. He likes to play with locks and security systems. When I say ‘play with,’ I mean break. Actually, not break, he bypasses them, but you’d never know it. It’s a game to him. It’s all about defeating your security but not letting you know. Then letting you know and saying here’s how to stop someone better.

Strangely, people get paid to do this.

I used to tell him I wished he’d just be a bad guy and get it out of his system. He just looked at me and asked how I knew he wasn’t a hardened criminal. Because we wouldn’t have all this debt. He’s too good at all this crap. The local police used to use him regularly in their training exercises. It was frightening. Maybe more on that another time. Back to the trade show.

Usually he takes The Girl. She loves it. But she’s in school. He used to just pull her out for the day but she’s got a heavy week at school so it’s just not happening. Plus Homecoming tomorrow. And The Boy is strangely uninterested in getting a new set of lockpicks or whatever. He’s thirteen! Shouldn’t this be right up his alley? He’s pouting because I haven’t caved and bought him Grand Theft Auto Five. I’m making him practice his cello and earn it. Mean mommy! Anyway, so I got to go with Hubby. Yay?

Apparently I’ve learned more about this stuff over the past decade than I realized. In evidence was the nicest little keypad entry system I’ve ever seen. It was discreet and sleek. Small. Really small.

“So have you tested it against magnet attacks?” (You can easily bypass some of these with a simple magnet. See? I learned something.)

The rep paused only briefly before he answered. “Well this is more of a convenience product than a security device.”

Okay . . . then why have it lock at all? If I buy a keypad entry I’d expect it to (let me think) lock!

Nevermind. Move on to harass the next vendor.