Goth Chick News: Magical Expectations from a Tough Audience
“Do you think a ghost will follow you home?”
This is coming from my six-year-old niece, who has finally began to grasp that her Auntie is up to some intriguing shenanigans. Her two older siblings went through the same phase; when they were around this age I spent a year in the UK, and had convinced them I was a guest professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Having never quite grown up myself I had no end of fun perpetuating this fantasy in my two young nephews who, at the time, were obsessed with Harry Potter. I emailed back pictures of Kings Cross Station, where the Hogwarts Express leaves from platform “nine and three-quarters.”
Contrary to popular belief, the Brits do have a sense of humor and proved the point by putting up a sign between platforms nine and ten and displaying a luggage cart pushed half way into the brick wall below.
My nephews apparently held this picture up to my sister as proof positive that I was at Hogwarts, but she was having none of it.
The six-foot grim reaper is out in the front yard pointing eerily at the tombstones poking out of the grass. The fog machines are strategically placed; one in the bushes and one in the coffin leaning against the house. There’s a sound-activated specter that will slide from tree to gutter, moaning and waving its arms at the slightest hint of a visitor. And most important, there’s an eight-foot python curled around the mailbox.
It’s the first of October and that means the countdown has started.
“For the love of God, not another one!”
A few weeks back at the 
On the whole, I’m not opposed to traveling with boys. Generally speaking they are amusing companions particularly when refusing to ask directions, thereby winding you through mildly interesting places while attempting to locate the desired destination sans MapQuest. Along the route, in an effort to distract their hapless passengers from all the pointless meandering, they can generally be counted on for lively and revealing conversation about former girlfriends, prior arrests and entirely icky things done in frat houses; all of which become prime blackmail fodder for later use.
Have you ever woken up in an extremely good mood, found you were left enough hot water for a skin-peeling shower, stepped on the scale and found it down two pounds in spite of the bacchanalia of the night before? Have you ever leapt out of bed feeling euphoric and thought, “I really love my life?”
Has anyone ever asked what you would grab out of your house if it was on fire and you could only make one trip? Or maybe the question was, if you knew you were going to be stranded on a deserted island, what would you take with you?
Anyone who has been reading these entries with any regularity knows that the word “minimalist” will never be used in the same sentence with my name. I seem to be visually starved, needing to be perpetually surrounded by interesting if not strange things to look at. This can easily be proven by the fact I cohabitate with a voodoo doll collection and three German Shepherds.