I’m not getting the turkey I wanted for Thanksgiving this year. But that’s ok, I’ll still have it this year, maybe on a Tuesday, not the official turkey day, just because. Just like I remember what I’m thankful for the other 364 days of the year. Because thanks shouldn’t be about one day a year. That’s stupid. It’s like Valentine’s. You should only appreciate your partner one day? I call bullshit. You can have turkey whenever you want, send/give flowers whenever you want, and damn it, you’d better be thankful for what you have every day.

Oops, didn’t mean to get ugly there. Didn’t mean to yell or lecture. There’s just a little bad blood in my veins this week, as I’m in the wrong state for the holidays. But on the up side, I get to see my family, and I LOVE my family. They’re crazy and insane, supportive and stern, and I wouldn’t have them any other way. I read because of my father, I blow bubbles because of my mother. My siblings have made me both harder and softer on the inside over the years and can take responsibility for some of my Sybil behavior. I love them. I’m thankful for them.

And here it comes. Because you’re expecting a “I’m thankful for” blog today, aren’t you? Most people will do that. It’s almost expected. But I’m not most people.

Oh I’m thankful. I tell a certain Hippie on a regular basis that I’m thankful. I tell my parents, my friends, my boss. But that’s people, and that’s been done to death, and well, according to that second paragraph up there, you should do it all the time. So let’s switch gears here. Let’s look at that dirty blood running through my veins. Let’s open our minds and thank the negative things that have happened in our lives, or maybe just events themselves, rather than the people…

A fairy princess once yelled at me, because that’s what best friends do… and I’m thankful I ignored her. I had a crappy marriage but I am thankful for it because I now recognize the good. I’m thankful for the horrible jobs and bosses I’ve had over the years, they taught me to appreciate what I have now. I’m thankful that my mother moved us a lot as children, so that I’d have the balls necessary to move my life across the country. I’m thankful for what I have, rather than what I wish I had. And I’m thankful for any and all of the negative, bad, horrible incidents that may have happened to get me here. Because I’m where I belong. And I’m the person I’m supposed to be.

The old saying about not being able to change the past is dead on, but the author should have continued the thought… Accept the past. Embrace it. Learn from it what you can and move forward. And above all, remember to be thankful that it happened the way it did, because it made you who you are and gave you what you’ve got and there was a reason for whatever pain and suffering may have happened.

And if you’re suffering now, remember how it tastes—because one day you will be sitting in front of a turkey and someone will ask you what you’re thankful for, bitch*.

*look ma/lu, no preposition at the end!

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

For those that don’t understand the subject line, it’s from my radio interview on the Funky Werepig last weekend*. If you didn’t listen and never get around to it, you won’t get the joke. It’s an in-jokes of sorts, much like many of the one-liners I bring home from conventions, and similar to many of the tweets and other postings the Breakfast Club tosses online. Some in-jokes spread with explanation, from circle to circle, making their way around the net. Others stay within the group that created it (aaand drip!). Some are for public consumption. Some are not up for discussion. They are not ever a bad thing…

And every group has them.

Soooo… because it’s that time of the week, albeit late, let’s have some coffee and share an inside giggle. Yep, it’s coffee talk! What’s your best in-joke one-liner? It doesn’t matter if we get it, it only matters that you have them. That they make you smile. That they are memories of a time when everyone laughed or cried or pointed and gasped. They are what Free Magic Show and Jello and a plethora of other things were turned into… and they are better than a picture, because you can revisit in a single tweet and share the love without twitpic on your damn phone! I.E. Shut your whore mouth, the men are talking!

Over the years I have gathered many, and there are too many to choose a favorite… hell, we’ve even been known to warp one into another (aaaand yip!). Some were the moment, some were the response, and some were taken completely out of context. For the purpose of this, we’ll go with that last one for my answer and pull from the podcast: “Your winky made me cry.” I really should make a tshirt for Greg with that on it and put the fine print on the back, but it’s much more fun to just say it and make people wonder what the hell we’re giggling at!! So? What’s one of your in-joke one-liners?

*Note: There is still one prize left from the 3 given out during my interview. If you listen to the podcast and guess the questions properly, you could win a signed New Dawn—which was not only an exclusive chapbook for the Brian Keene message board only (last Christmas) and includes stories from me, Bob Ford, Nate Southard, Maurice Broaddus and both an intro and flash fiction piece from Brian Keene, but it could come with up to three signatures (because the other two are too far away).

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

“You can’t pick your family” is a bullshit line. Sure, maybe you can’t choose your biological family—you can’t do anything about that aunt that no one wants to invite or that uncle that no one admits being related to—but there is “some” family you can choose… and when you’re upset, depressed, crushed, disappointed, crying, screaming or just plain needy, that family comes to the rescue.

That family will gather on a whim’s notice. That family will hop planes—or throw you on one. They will dry your tears. They will validate your worries or anger. They will hold you and heal you. And then they will then make you laugh until you snort. Sometimes you go to them. Sometimes they come to you. And sometimes you just find an awesome porch (or in the summer, a pool, hot tub & kegerator). Family is what “those” friends become. And family is what makes a porch awesome.

What’s your favorite thing about awesome porch?

“Relaxed atmosphere, being myself and Anubis, god of death”

“I can laugh freely. Loudly. Where I can hear it reverberating off houses… but not past 11 pm on weeknights!”

“Comradarie… PJs and stripey socks”

“I like being on the edge of the world next to the alien lesbian cows.”

“The people on it.”

“We flirt with them shamelessly and they wait on us hand and foot.”

“Snuggles.”

“Shared laughter”

“Rolling stops!”

“Freezing my feet off getting stripey toenails…it’s worth it.”

“First rule of awesome porch: don’t ask if they want a chair!”

The porch, the pool, the curb at a con… location, location, location actually means nothing in this instance. It’s the people. The memories. The new in-jokes and old favorites. Whether you’re pushing someone down a hill or holding that hug until your arms go numb, in the end it’s one thing: the healing properties. Funny thing about this family—we’re all broken in some way. (No, take that back, we’re cracked. Cracks are fixable, breaks are more permanent.) And we all band-aid each other without trying, whether we realize we need it or not.

This weekend was full of the fun. Awesome porch had plenty of company, needy cat was abused, and Babs was blocked. There was a signing and dinner and drinks and giggles. And a cracke family member or two that needed patching. The party is byob. The dinner checks are usually separate. The emergency plane ticket was $5. But the band-aids? Those are free. And the healing process… priceless.

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

Yep, I twittered it a few weekends ago, and I’ve mentioned it before that. It’s time to let everyone in on the game (oh, speaking of, for those in the know… I just lost the game), the insanity that is my parents, and explain some of my own craziness at the same time by pointing at them and proclaiming, “See? They’re not normal… why the hell should I be?!”

The Feeb Count came about after my dad proclaimed someone a feeb. And as is the nature of our family, he then defined it, gave them categories, and provided more details than any normal human would. I heart my dad. “It was a game that has become tradition.”

A “feeb” is a noun defined by a question: “Why would someone, when given a choice, choose to present themselves this way in public.” The “count” portion is my parents’ weekly (Sunday) trip to the grocery store. If I’m at their house, I get told what they saw/found. If I’m not, I get an email. It’s a fun game… with rules and guidelines and silliness.

There is “feeb sign” outside the store, warning you that they’re present: overturned carts with hats on them, upside down bottles of beer balancing on things. Inside “feeb sign” includes frozen foods put in the cereal isle, open cologne (my parents call him Axe Man, as he’d gone down the row and tried on every version of Axe on the shelf… and then you could smell him 2 isles away for the rest of the trip. The girl at the counter laughed at them, “you wouldn’t believe how often that happens!”), etc.

Now, we’re not cruel. We’re not talking about old age or disabilities here. We’re talking about that woman with the bright red lipstick and her pajamas on, because she won’t leave the house without her makeup, but will go braless. We’re talking about the guy that should have found his way home drunk last night, but is instead sitting outside the grocery store, shirtless and looking confused.

My dad loves to share his feeb finds. Poor Bob was held captive for at least an hour as dad told him some of the great feebs of this century. Classic feebs that my father shares with people include such treasures as The Feeb Brothers. “I’m not sure whether they are artists or just drunk, cross-dressers or just confused. They all come on the bus together, sit outside for a while, go in and buy a few things, sit outside for a while longer. One wears a skirt over his jeans and a shawl in his hair. The second wears a beret and dresses to accentuate it. The third is the most normal in clothing and his headgear varies. They’re very aggressive with the check out girls. Their speech is slurred. They are in their 40s.” To which my mother injects, “You probably went to school with them… and I’m sure it’s a drug induced thing.” Dad’s response, “Artsy morons… like an oxymoron but not.” Of course, he has nothing against artists, but seems to think that these guys want to personify the art culture but don’t have a clue beyond the beret.

Mom giggles, “I like the guy that was huge. I was waiting for your dad, and here’s this huge overweight guy, walking from his car to the store, maybe 20 yards, and he can barely do it because he’s overweight. And none of this has anything to do with it, it’s that he was wearing a t-shirt that says carpe diem.”

Dad interjects, “Or the overweight woman that wore the skirt… Her lower legs were great, but the skirt was just short enough to reveal hanging cellulite. It was a choice. That’s the feeb, they choose to wear these things, to present themselves this way.”

In short, the feeb count is nothing more than a version of “flaptacular” (quick, Joe… pose!) outside of a convention setting (well, and many of the other things in the HFW Dictionary that year). And my parents, who have never been to a con, play the eye-bleach game like pros!

I told them they should have a website where people can post their feeb count for the week. Like a “texts from last night” kind of thing. Instead, we’ll just turn it into a coffee talk. OH! You sooo didn’t see that coming, did you? So what’s the best “feeb” you’ve ever seen? And no, the group that understood the term “flaptacular” is not allowed to cite that example, give us something fresh, someone new. What’s the worst case of “oh damn, why you leave the house looking like that?!” that you’ve witnessed? Regale us and we’ll all giggle together…

*fine print: Yes, I’m picking on humans. No, I’m not apologizing for it. If you go in public looking like that, we will point and laugh… hell, I come from a family that points, laughs and takes pictures before calling 911 when one of our own does something stupid—as proven by the SEAR PORTRAITS of me with two black eyes when I was three!!!

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

No deep thought blog or pissy spew this week, too busy polishing a story that’s already a week late (yes, I learned my deadline techniques from Brian). Instead I leave you with two things…

First, I will be on the Funky Werepig next Sunday night, without pants (as it seems the standard for the show) and you should all log in and listen. I will be randomly giving away prizes and can guarantee there will be snark and silliness. Join me at 9pm Eastern time!!

Secondly, Shroud Magazine posted a review for Burning Effigy’s Fresh Blood a while back, and I totally forgot to post the draft blog!  They had this to say about my contribution to the inaugural release of a [hopefully] annual showcasing of three horror up-and-comers:

“Left Dead”, by Kelli Dunlap, (whose first novel is forthcoming from Morning Star Press), is a hard-bitten tale of a mother seeking revenge for her daughter’s abuse. In an uncompromising, terse narrative, Dunlap characterizes well the maternal rage of a mother striking back at the man who destroyed her daughter’s innocence. In many ways, the hook at the end is expected – but that doesn’t diminish the story, by any means. In fact, it’s a twist that readers will suspect but dread all the same, giving the story that much more punch.

Now doesn’t that just make you want to buy one? They’ve already burned through the first print run [in a record 8 days], and I say we make their printer do it again! If you don’t have one, hop over and get one. If you do, grab an extra… after all, Christmas is coming and you can always use it as a gift for that hard-to-find-something-for person on your list.

And remember… Sunday, Funky Werepig, no pants.

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

…but it’s for a good cause. If you enjoy this story, or any of the other stories for Brian Keene Must Die Day! please consider making a small donation to The Shirley Jackson Awards.

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Brian Keene Must Die

Do this. Do that. Do this. Do that. I was so sick of hearing what I should and shouldn’t do. What I had done wrong and how I could only hope to fix it. I had wanted a mentor. A big brother. Someone to look out for my mistakes before I made them. Someone I could watch and learn from. I didn’t want a menopausal mother-hen.

“It’s okay, but the dialogue could be better,” was at least better than, “Nope, it sucks. Start over.” But the real sting of his rude, two sentence email replies, had always been the fact that he’d been too busy to get around to reading anything for six months. That is, if he read them at all, rather than just claiming Big Joe must have “lost the email.”

He took me under wing, he said. He was going to point me in the right direction, he said. He lied to me! All he did was bitch and complain and use me when it suited him. The day that he told me I couldn’t talk to Nicky anymore hurt. Nicky was famous. Nicky was making something of himself. And here Brian was, telling me I wasn’t allowed to be friends with him anymore. After Nicky, he tried to ban Eric and Paul from my life, citing one as crazy and the other as doing it all wrong. How would he know? He wasn’t part of our late night chats and Sunday afternoon writer’s meetings. When I tried to fight for my right to self-publish whatever I wanted, he yelled into the phone, “Sweet jumping fuck, I need snack cakes. Call me back when you’re ready to listen.”

The final straw came when he cut me out. He told me I needed to work on my own work rather than proofing his. I needed to “hone my craft”. Who says that? Really?! And he brushed me off. Left me at the curb. Alone. And went on about his merry career without another thought. He stopped answering my emails. He stopped calling. He stopped… He stopped being there when I needed.

Oh no, he had a new pet. A new writer to push along. Even worse, he called the new one a protégé. He’d never called me that! I was before this one, damn it. I was first. I was a fan and a marketer, a proofer and a bouncing board. I was important, and he just cut me out. He left me for dead.

Well, who’s dead now? That’s right. He thought it was a little get-together. He thought we were friends just hanging out. But I had gathered all the other up-and-comers he had painted stars into the imaginations of, and we took care of our little problem. We took care of Brian “Fucking” Keene.

And now our zombies will rule the message boards and small press. Now our work will be printed in various mags and multiple countries. Now it’s our turn.

Because if you want to succeed, sometimes you have to get your hands dirty. Mine are filthy. I did it. I admit it. But he promised the world and then yanked it away with a smile that smelled of stale cigars and Knob Creek.

“That motherfucker!” The cop shook his head as I finished telling him what had happened. To my surprise, and relief, he kicked the body on the ground in front of me to punctuate his irritation, rather than handcuffing me. The body that lay open, white ropey things falling from its middle and dozens of red pens penetrating the face and neck.

I still don’t know how they found out so quickly. Maybe it was the twittering and drunk dialing we were doing beforehand. Maybe it was the neighbor pissed off at our laughter again. But the flashing lights invaded my living room windows before I had even finished wiping the blood from my hands. I had no time to come up with a decent excuse. No chance to formulate an amazing tale of accidental actions or defensive reactions. I had no choice but to tell the truth. And the truth set me free.

Now then, who else has pissed me off in this genre?

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

Halloween. The glorious holiday that should be celebrated for at least two months, since we’re not allowed to do it more than once a year. I love the decorations. I love the horror movies. I love the longer shadows, the deeper sunsets, and the colors that usher the change of seasons. I love the candy and the, and the, and the… but most of all—more than anything—I love the costumes. Not necessarily mine or my kids, ours or those we know, but the trick-or-treaters’ costumes in general.

The Hippie was watching me with this silly little grin, as I sat on the porch practically glowing, chatting to kids as they came up the steps. They’re purists, you see. The holiday isn’t about the marketing to them, or their favorite film, or haunted houses and corn mazes. It’s all about the candy and costumes. Now, it should be noted at some point that Bob’s zombie get-up was a bit much for some of the younger kids, and (after he scared several) I told him to stick his tongue out and be silly with the little ones. But the giggle he got knowing he was terrifying them was priceless!

Now then, the purists…

There are stages to Trick-or-Treaters. There are the toddlers. They’re confused at best, terrified at worst. They don’t know what they’re doing, or why, but they know that you have candy. They will try to say “Trick or Treat” but it won’t come out that way for the most part. They are usually dressed up in whatever mom (Because why is it that most dad’s aren’t out trick-or-treating? Why is it mostly moms?) decided to make them. Our best was the Garden Gnome. Couldn’t speak yet, but damn those doe eyes and homemade costume almost got me to give him the entire bucket! A close second would be the monkey girl. She walks by with her grandma to go to the park and once grandma reminded us of that, we recognized her. Adorable! After some silly zombie-Bob moves, she was giggling and waving and babbling to Bob & I as she left the porch with a fistful of candy.

Then you have the preschoolers. This is a great age. They’re all about the candy. Free Sugar!! Their costumes are a 50/50 mix of what mom put on them and what they asked for. Many are still homemade at this point and they would actually be proud of their costumes if they weren’t so distracted by the fact that you’re holding a giant bowl of candy and sharing it. They can say “Trick or Treat” quite clearly, but mom is forever reminding them to say “Thank you.”

And then you have elementary school sect. I love this age. I love that they almost always pick out their own costumes. That they get to mix their love for candy with their love for dress-up. They enjoy the decorations and have a permanent mix of trepidation/excitement on their faces at the steps of each new house. They don’t say “Trick or Treat,” they scream it. This group, from about 6-10 years old, THEY are who the trick-or-treating portion of this holiday is designed for. Well, them and us psycho old ladies that wait for them and reward them with candy.

After that you have the two groups of older kids. The aging purist, whose mom is still going with but who may or may not have a costume on. And the punks that think if they show up with a pillow case and say the magic words they’ll be rewarded with candy. Not on my steps you won’t. Got a parent with you? Ok, we’ll play. Teenager out for candy but not following the rules of MY holiday, try next door…

But I digress, because we need to back up to the elementary group. The heart of Halloween. See, there are traditions that go with my version of Halloween. There are certain movies watched and a pattern to the day itself, and eventually, it’s time to sit on the steps and wait for the mini ghouls and goblins to come begging for my treats. They say “trick or treat!” and I respond with “ohhhh and what is your costume?”

And this year I was told, repeatedly, “I don’t know.”

I don’t know?!! Are you kidding me?

Yes, it’s true. The forget-the-classics-just-add-wings bastards in charge of marketing costumes have gone and turned the holiday into the Fallen Angel Wood Fairy Butterfly Princess Spider Queen Gothic Tramp… for six year olds! Bastards!

I actually heard, “A forest fairy?” and then “I don’t know, A Dark Princess Angel” and eventually it just became “I don’t know.”

They walked away, smiling and happy with their candy, and I turned and stared at Bob. My mouth agape, my mind going a million miles an hour, my soul cracked and my heart broken. I finally found my voice again and asked him, “When you were that age, did you know what you were? Did you request your costume? Did you help put it together? Or did you just go pick out something fun, with fucking wings, and call it good?!”

He smiled. He shook his head—I still don’t know if it was in agreement with my anger or amusement at me and my anger. “Oh no, I knew what I was, what I wanted to be.”

What the hell? I was flabbergasted. And then it happened AGAIN. Well, this was not going to just sit with me, so I started making suggestions or telling them what I thought would be a good title. They smiled and took the candy and went off into the night with a memory of what exactly they took from the bowl and no idea why the crazy lady thought they should be able to answer that question, or why she thought they should tell other people that they were a Ghoul.

Yes, the ghoul. Let’s use him as an example, since he didn’t have wings. He had this great demonic mask and hooded robe and was nasty looking and beautiful. But didn’t know what he was. I was going to say demon but didn’t know if his parents would flip, so I suggested he just tell people he was a ghoul. And he promptly asked me what that was. Now if this had been a six-year-old, I would have forgiven it, but this boy was easily eleven… and didn’t know what a ghoul was?!! Are you kidding?!

“Just trust me, say ghoul if anyone else asked you.” I smiled, hoping he’d play along, hoping he’d understand, and sent him on his way with a hollow sounding version of my normal “Happy Halloween” parting call.

“Now if he had said he was Agni, third son of Brahman, demon of chaos and fire, THAT would have been cool!” Bob suggested when I turned wide-eyed at him.

“But he didn’t… he didn’t know what he was… and then he didn’t even know what a ghoul was and THAT’s what he was!!!”

Oy… I was disheartened to say the least. The teen with the pillowcase and a father got candy—and was told to not smile and tell everyone he was an Emo Kid, but had no idea what Emo even was. The little girl that proudly declared she was a Green Wood Elf Fairy, in the purple costume with… wait for it… wings, was given two extra pieces for having an answer—even though it was both wrong and contrived.

I still loved trick-or-treating. I still loved seeing the various costumes. I just really, really want to beat the manufacturers of this year’s costume even more than I did when I became an egg.

I ask, no plead, beg even, of all the parents out there in Halloweenland… Next year, either let your kid tell you what they want to be without the influence of a rack of shiny costumes, or at least tell them what they hell they are!

Ugh… someone pass me the candy bowl.

[note: a very special blog will be forthcoming later today... stay tuned!]

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

Yeah, it’s Thursday. I can’t believe it’s Thursday… that was quick! And because it’s Thursday, it’s also coffee talk—it’s just going to be about “this” Thursday rather than a general question…

So, tonight, in front of friends and loved ones, I was supposed to do my first live reading. It got canceled… but then we said screw it and we’re doing it for a small circle of friends anyway. Because I practiced my butt off and need to get this out of the way. So I’m still reading tonight… with live footage to Canada even! No big deal right? I talk all the time—hell, I’ve been accused of never shutting up. But this is different. I’ve done convention panels and I’ve done school plays, no problem. But this is different. This is my words, being judged live.

That’s the part that’s killing me. Just like when I had to read a paper in front of the class.

Hey if you don’t like my writing, that’s fine. You don’t give me an A on a paper? Fine. I don’t have a problem with that. I’m not one of those whiners or babies that think you should or you’re not my friend. Everyone likes what they like and hates what they hate. But usually when someone reads something of mine, I’m not the one doing the reading. I’m not standing right there to see their expressions.

Speaking of expressions… part of what makes me nervous is that it won’t be strangers. There would have been “some” at the library, but now it’s none. I love who’s coming, but they also make me more nervous. I think strangers would have been easier [and yet, I point blank asked 2 specific people to be at the library, yes, I'm mental]. Instead, it’s going to be my kids, my friends, my mentor and big brother (the library was going to include my boyfriend’s parents and boss, so at least I dodged THAT bullet!) It’s not going to be someone at a con telling me they enjoy my blog, or that they read my story in _____ and didn’t really care for it. I can tell them I hope they like the next one. This… this is live. I know if I’m bombing before I’m done. I’ll know… oy.

Of course, I was Buttercup and I’ve been practicing and trying to find my inner Kelli “fucking” Dunlap to take over the show for me and do this. But I’m still nervous. I get a little more nervous and a little less nervous every day. It’s a very Sybil kind of surreal week.

But wait, we need a question for coffee talk, don’t we. Well, I went and answered before I asked again. This week is “share your pain.” Tell me about the thing that made you most nervous. That thing you had to do that made your stomach jump and your knees buckle. Did you vomit? Did you faint? Did you have to do it again at a later point and it became easier, or is your nervous fear a permanent thing?

I’ve personally never puked or passed out, and am hoping to keep that track record going. But hey! A Galliger-style reading would be new—just don’t be in that front row when I finally do this for a crowd, cuz I’m not bringing watermelons!!

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

From Bob Ford (library liaison)

After speaking with Peter Riley of the Arendtsville Library today, the order has come down from the Executive Director to cancel tomorrow’s reading and discussion with Kelli Dunlap and Bob Ford. The decision was directly influenced by a lack of local attendance and PA state budget cuts.

Peter extends his deepest apologies for having to cancel the event, and continues to struggle with the financial problems a small town library has. In the event the library’s budget improves, and is able to remain open, he has hopes to schedule the event for a future time, though nothing has been schedule as of yet.

Questions, rants can be directed to bob@whutta.com

My (our) apologies to any and all that were attending or had to make special arrangements/plans to attend. We will let you know the second the next one is announced. Of course, if you show up on the porch tomorrow around 6pm I may just say “fuck it” and read any way… all that rehearsing and finding the wenchie, er, I mean Kelli “fucking” Dunlap to do this should not go to waste.

I’m Bartel, Bob is James… and we thank you for your support.

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.

Neighborhoods are funny things. And neighbors can be fickle things. You may find the greatest house in existence, move in, get settled, be happy, and then find out that your neighbors suck. Because while you can choose a lot of things in life, you cannot choose your neighbors. But I digress… Because this isn’t about the bad neighbors, or those that, oh say, come out and say things like “I don’t mean to be a bitch, but…”. This is about being in a new neighborhood on a whole.

In the old days, neighbors would greet a newcomer with homemade treats—baked items, casseroles, whatever. Not today. Today people stay in their yards, if not their houses. Today people can’t (generally) tell you the names of their neighbors, except the kids or pets they hear being called for across yards. There are no welcoming committees, but there are suspicious glances. There are no chats across hedges, but there are clear property lines and taller fences. The feeling of “hometown” America and apple pie and neighborhood get-togethers have gone the way of the Dodo.

Until you decorate for Halloween.

For those that have been to my house, you know of the stop sign we have that everyone ignores. Not anymore. The police should thank us. People actually stop—and wait a little longer than they need to—as they check out the yard. People walking by will stop and check everything out and comment. And 99% of the time, not see me on the porch, quietly typing away.

Up until now, the only people we’ve met are the ones “I” speak to. Because, as I said, they just don’t talk anymore. But I’m me. I’m the crazy girl that will stop the mom and kids, asking to see her ink because I can tell she’s got full sleeves but can’t quite make them out from my porch. I’m the insane mom that sees the guys in the firehall and walks right in and asks if the kids can check out the trucks. I’m the forward, outgoing, one that will talk to anyone, about anything.

Suddenly, we’re getting talked to. People that we’ve seen walking their dog past our house, every day, since June, are now stopping to say hello. Most of them started with, “I love your yard/decorations” but hey, it’s a start. IDMTBAB decorated her yard as well, but they don’t sit outside, so they don’t get to enjoy the camaraderie of neighborhood. They have a fence and privacy issue. We enjoy our porch, we like the sun, the feel of fresh air… and we get to meet the Smiths.

And while this is all fun and interesting, it’s kind of sad that it took a graveyard and dead nun to get anyone to stop and say hello. Considering, in less than a week we’re going to bring our children to these houses and take candy from strangers. Ironic, I know.

Happy Halloween, neighbors…

Originally published at kellidunlap.com. You can comment here or there.