That Seven-Year-Old Criminal Mastermind.

Tonight the apparently torture-wanting parents are hosting a party at the open air reunion area for all the dressed-up apartment Cowboys and Sleeping Beauties. They taped a flyer to the inside of the elevator, complete with flowery script and happy pumpkins. Why they are doing this is a fact that escapes me. Three hours of spilled punch, screaming princesses, technicolor vomiting and insane sugar-highs is not the way I would spend Halloween. But hey, maybe they're into that whole mental self-flagellation thing.

At first Weiner pooh-poohed the idea. Party? Bah. With the other kids? Bah. He dislikes having to associate with the other children living in the building. My mother heartily approved his decision, mainly because she dislikes having to associate with the other mothers living in the building.

Then I reminded him candy would be present. Now he's eagerly pacing about the room, eyes lit. I can practically hear the evil machinations of his seven-year-old mind.  

"Emma?"

"Yes?"

"Can I just go, take all the candy, and leave?"

"Uh. No."

He grumbles unhappily. How dare they make this harder for him!

"Can I not wear a costume?"

"Uh. No. That kinda defies the point of the Halloween party."

"Humph."

He scowls. Then he rolls his eyes.

"Silly Spaniards." He says, shaking his head. "They have no idea how to celebrate Halloween."