Tale of Two Parades

Bloomfield, Thursday: Bordering on obscene, bordering on depressive. High school marching bands; boys on percussion dressed as ugly women, and colorguard shivering in their flesh-colored tights. Grown-up-looking-girls in panties and pasties (nearly); some sort of local “dance team.” Politicians pelting penny candy. Police brigade, with sirens. Civil War reenactors with muskets in the air and wenches in their wake. A truck dragging a flatbed topped with a band playing Sheryl Crow, “Soak Up the Sun,” which is as far removed from the assigned Halloween theme as I can possibly imagine. Started and stopped with Silky’s. Howlers in the middle. Followed up with early a.m. Ritters grease and a gracious ride down the hill.

Aspinwall, Sunday: Children in age brackets parading in circles around firefighter judges. “The Monster Mash” and “Thriller.” Parents and puppies in the wings. Preceded by trick-or-treating. We — my sister, brother-in-law and I — passed out 100 Grands, Reese’s Cups, Butterfingers, Snickers — fun-sized, so you can eat five and pretend it’s one.

Sandwiched between the parades: House-party masquerades (Friday night: tiger tamer and mischief; Saturday: Liz Lemon and dribbling pizza sauce down the front of my ruffled plaid top and beautiful blazer from Rico’s husky boy collection). Also: bought a car. Fare the well, 15-year-old Volvo wagon. We had a good run.

Also, I knoooow this is sooooo last year, but it’s perfect for this time of year: