I Ain't Afraid of No (Other) Ghost (Either)

My mother was on the phone. And she was frantic.

"Did you move the chair?!" she asked. "Did you move the chair?!"

I had no idea what she was talking about.

"The chair?" I asked. "What chair?"

"Grandma's chair. Did you move the chair?!"

I don't remember exactly how my maternal grandmother ended up with the coveted 'captain's' chair at our dining room table. It was just her seat. On special occasions, my mom would sit at one end of our dining room table, nearest to the kitchen. And my grandmother would sit directly across from her daughter. In her chair.

At the head.

Even though it wasn't her house.

And my parents were very much married.

Gram's joke was her chair was the only one with arms. Consequently, she had to sit there, so she wouldn't fall out. Everyone knew better than to issue a challenge.

My grandmother passed in September, 2000, at a spry 91 years old. And before the holiday season began, she apparently took it upon herself to do a bit of redecorating. Physically and metaphorically.

One day, Gram's armed chair made its way to where my mother sits. And no. I didn't move it.

But I've got a pretty good guess on who did.

I Ain't Afraid Of No Ghost

In the spirit of the season, a personal tale from beyond:  One part Alfred Hitchcock and one part Iyanla Vanzant.

After our wedding ceremony, in June 1999, my husband, Andre, and I were living the high life, for a minute at least, being chauffeured in a limo, off Ocean Road in Narragansett. We were trying to get to the remote spot that we had scoped out for pictures. Only the driver had taken a wrong turn.

Thanks to Andre's misdirections.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

"Stop the car," Andre said, mumbling something about having to get a hat.

I waited patiently, wondering if I had scared him away already.

(Not really. Seven years would give a brother an idea of what he was getting into.)

When he returned, he was casually clutching a Minnesota Vikings cap. Let me be clear. We live in New England. Patriots country. Some thirteen hundred miles from Saint Paul. This was not an item you'd see casually discarded on the grass.

We did know a hardcore, lifelong Vikings fan, however. Andre's father. Who had passed suddenly two months earlier from a stroke.

And what did Andre's dad, Nate, say to us when we told him we were getting married?

"Wherever I am, I'll be there."

And indeed he was.

I Hate Halloween

I hate Halloween. There. I said it.

It has nothing to do with the evil of Satan or any other religious issues. Nope. Plain and simple: I'm far too rooted in reality to make-believe that I'm someone else.

Especially a sexy cat.

My childhood? There's no answers there. I grew up in the 70's, where the pretend industry hadn't quite taken off. Our prep involved going to Woolworth, checking out the assortment of plastic masks, packaged inside cellophaned boxes, and hope the slits doubling for eye and mouth holes, didn't cut our lips. Too much.

As an adult, things didn't fare much better. My costume ideas? Way too cerebral for my un-Martha Stewart like abilities. Like the time my cousin and I went as the pope and Sinead O'Connor, after the music star's 1990's Saturday Night Live appearance.

Before the party, I spent a whole lot of time searching for the perfect flesh-colored, latex, bald-headed, skull cap. I found it. But I failed to take into account the hair-matting gallons of sweat that would be streaming from my overheating body for the rest of the evening. Or the make-up that I should have invested in to blend everything together.

Not quite a smokin' nurse.

Another time, I needed a costume fast. (Or more realistically, someone needed a designated driver.) The only thing at my disposal? My dad's mechanic uniform, featuring size 38 pants and an XL shirt. I wear a 10. My, soon-to-be-drunk, friend helped accessorize me with a red Budweiser cap, worn backwards of course, and a bandana rag.

A temptress vampire I was not.

Actually, maybe it's not Halloween itself that truly irritates me, but this whole cultural movement by way too many females, who use the holiday as an excuse to try to bring sexy back. Especially when I'm the one dressed in greasy work boots.

I guess the bottom line is that we all use Halloween to be something that we're not.

So you do your sexy thing for one night only.

And I'll sport a mustache to hand out candy.