Instead, I had to work late. What's worse, there was some sort of construction taking place directly one floor under my office which meant incessant drilling, banging and did I mention the drill? Around 830 I realized proofing the brief I was working on a couple more times was not going to happen with all the ruckus. So I gathered up my things and walked home.
On my walk I passed various herds of Halloween revelers which included Nacho Libre, Eve (as in Adam & - nude body suit with strategically placed fig leaves), numbered brief case carrying girls I assumed were from that game show I've never watched so I can't remember the name, and a gaggle of other not-so-readily identifiable costumes. And I felt a vague sense of regret that I was letting another year slip by without a costume and wished that instead of carting work home, I too was heading out to a party dressed as a trampy . . . err . . . trashy . . .err. . . slutty . . . err . . . sexy. . . Wait, no! I hate that part of Halloween. The part where nearly every. single. girl. decides this is the one time of year where it is somehow okay to show way too much cleavage, leg and tummy all at the same time, even if your body is not in the best of form, if you know what I mean! That was not what I wanted.
Instead, I simply made my way home, had a bowl of cereal for dinner and finished editing my brief, emailed it off to my colleagues and settled in to my couch to watch Monday's episode of Hero's I missed on Netflix (another reason to love Netflix!). Realizing I needed to celebrate Halloween in some small way, I poured myself a glass of milk and pulled out a couple of leftover sugar cookies, frosted them with chocolate ganache and settled in to finally relax at 10 pm-ish.
Within 20 minutes or so I heard a horrendous crash at my door. I initially thought someone had thrown pumpkins at my door! If only I had been so lucky. I jumped up, ran to the door but by the time I looked through the peep hole there was nothing to see but the carnage. I pulled the door open and egg dripped down the door, onto my rug. It was everywhere - the walls, the doorframe, all over the carpet. Without thinking I put on the nearest pair of shoes, unlocked my door and ran down the hall. I could still hear boys laughing but they were already gone. Wanting to beat them to the doorman I ran down the 6 flights of stairs like a crazy woman beating my fist in the air screaming "Those Damn Kids!!" Okay, so that last part about beating my fist in the air and all that, didn't actually happen. But I am sure I looked like a crazy woman to my doorman when I burst out of the stairwell and blurted out that I'd been egged and had he seen any kids running out? There were two doormen on duty (for all the good that did) and they got on their walkie talkies and put the building on lock-down. Or at least sent the maintenance guys to block the service entrance and look for the kids.
This is the lovely ensemble I was wearing when I ran down the stairs. Cute, no? I felt very conspicuous getting on the elevator to ride back up to my floor (especially without a bra on) to inspect the damage and felt compelled to explain it all to the random woman who had the misfortune to be riding up in the same car. I just hope I didn't say anything about "kids these days" although I'm sure I complained about not expecting to get egged living in an apartment building in NYC.
When I returned to my hall, my neighbor and her teen-aged son were already out there scrubbing the walls and doors and floor. I snapped a couple of photos but they really don't do justice to the disgustingly eggy mess. I should have taken close-ups of the ceiling and walls and floor. Seriously, ick:
As I bonded with my neighbors over our shared victim-hood I had to refrain from lecturing the son about revenge. Apparently, he got in a fight with some boy and this was that kid's way of getting back. As we were scrubbing everything down some so-called friend called and asked "anyone for omelettes?" Jerks.
There were some expletives involved on both the mom's and the son's part but the cleaned up version of the kid's reaction went something like "just because he got @)(*ing busted up don't mean he gotta come into my house" and "that's it, I'm goin' gansta on their a@#" and "how many eggs you think they threw?" (we guessed at least 2 dozen) "that's worth at least a year's revenge" and "mom, don't get the cops involved, I'll take care of this. Don't you worry, I'll take care of it in my own way. I can make a phone call right now and it will be done." He can make a phone call? What kind of phone call? I just like how the mom always calls me girl, as in "girl, why are you out here with no shoes?" and "girl, I'm so sorry you got involved in this."
It bears mentioning that my portion of the clean-up was sponsored by Mrs. Meyer's. It smells so clean and fresh, it even takes egg off the walls and ceiling with just a squirt and swipe of the sponge!