Seriously.

Ever.

 

Fuck Valentine's Day. From now on Halloween is the holiday of love.

This story starts out a little differently than all of the other Sweetest Day stories you're likely to hear. I'm not going to tell you who she is. I don't care how close you and I are, I don't care how long you've known me, I don't care what kind of guilt trip you lay on me, I don't even care if you're one of the other Sci-Fi Guys; I'm not talking about her. If you contact me about it offline, I'm still not going to tell you who she is. If you get me drunk out of my fucking mind until my eyeballs are swimming in tequila, I'm still not going to tell you who she is, but I probably will tell you how great you are, and that I love you, man, and god damn I've got the drunk munchies, let's go get some cheese coneys. So if you ask me about her, be prepared to hear "I have no idea what you're talking about." Fair warning.

She and I have been talking, flirting, maybe a little more, nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more. But we are not together together. We are just… us. So the other day we start playing a flirtatious little game of who-knows-who-better, during which I kicked her ass by pulling out the trump card – her birthday. I knew hers and she didn't know mine. You coupled or previously coupled people out there know the score on that one: INSTANT WIN. I was victorious. Even in matters of love I have a bit of a competitive streak when it comes to games, so, of course, I immediately started bragging and boasting about the win. I was doing an over the top verbal version of the Ickey Shuffle, and I was going to keep it up until she told me to shut the hell up. Instead, she threw me off by asking me what sign my birthday fell under. This was unusual for her, but she does have a mysterious, intriguing spiritual side to her, so I cut the endzone celebration and told her. I'm a Cancer. After a few minutes of silence, this was her response:

"I just looked up your horoscope.  It said you should expect something unexpected from a stranger in the mail this month.  It said that it will not detonate upon opening, and is not laced with anthrax.  Just thought you should know it is safe to open the package."

I thought she was just being goofy. I thought she was just messing around. The questions about my birthday and zodiac sign made me think she had looked at some sort of online horoscope generator and was just repeating whatever random thing it had spat out about me. As the week progressed the unusual horoscope she sent me became buried by our numerous other conversations and the ever increasing stress of my new job, and was forgotten. Adding to the number of things on my mind was my newest video project, the Doritos® CRASH THE SUPER BOWL contest.

"Hey, Chris," you might understandably say, "what the fuck does this have to do with sci-fi?" I'm gettin' to it. Above to the right is my partner in crime, Ed. He and I have worked on a few projects in the past, and when he called me in on his idea for the Doritos commercial I was pumped. Ed and I work very well together because we both have the same work ethic. There is no ego bullshit between us. We both always, always, always do whatever is best for the film. If I script something I think is genius and Ed comes up with something better, I scrap my script without hesitation. If Ed has a shot planned and I find a better angle, he supports my call 100%. We both understand that this leads to a better finished product, and we bounce ideas off one another all the time. Not to sound too New Agey and pretentious, but there really is a good energy between us on set, and I think that each of us makes the other think better and work a little bit harder. It's a sign that we both really enjoy what we're doing, and it's a damn good partnership.

So when Ed calls and tells me he wants to enter the Doritos contest, I was all in. I headed to Ed's house and we had a brainstorming session which, if I may say so myself, was pretty fucking impressive. We've got some really funny things in the works for this contest, and if we can execute them as well as I think we can, you may see Ed and I at the Super Bowl. And do you think that I would be telling you all this if there were not some sort of sci-fi involved? No, sir, I would not. And not only is it sci-fi, it's Halloween sci-fi. Damn straight, baby, we got Doritos Zombies! And tonight was our first shoot. I got dressed and headed for my car, but was stopped cold at the front door. I was shocked. All I could do was stare at it with my mouth open for about three whole minutes. I couldn't believe it.

I thought she was just messing around. I never even imagined, not for an instant, she was being sincere. Not until I saw the package sitting there, nestled between my doors like a little white box full of hugs. I knew instantly it was from her. I knew with no doubt whatsoever. I didn't even look at the return address to check. For the first time in my life, a woman I cared about cared enough about me to get me a Sweetest Day present. For the nearly six years we were together, my wife had never even done that for me. I had, in the bitter, petty places in my mind, composed a humorous if somewhat sincere Facebook "fuck you" to all the happy couples who were unintentionally rubbing the noses of all their single friends in the wonderfulness of their relationships. I had been reading that shit all day, and it was a constant reminder of what I no longer have. It was getting on my last damn nerve.

But then I saw the package, and that cloud of bitter annoyance at my happy friends instantly burned away like fog in sunlight. I wanted nothing more than to sit down, open that package, and enjoy whatever it was she had done for me. I didn't care what it was. It didn't matter, really. It was the fact that she had bothered to do anything at all that was paramount. It has been a long time since a woman has shown me that kind of care and affection, and I was taken aback at how much it touched me. But I was running late. I told Ed I'd be there, and I didn't have time to find out what was in that beautiful white box. So, with a huge smile on my face, I grabbed it and took it with me. I know it's ridiculous, but I didn't feel like letting it out of my sight. I kept looking at it there in the passenger seat the whole way to the shoot. Occasionally I'd put my hand on it. I can't say why, exactly, I was just compelled to. I still couldn't believe it.

After arriving at the shoot with $40 worth of every different kind of Doritos I could find, we got down to business. This commercial is not a Sci-Fi Guys production, so I can't go into too much detail about it, but suffice it to say that there are a lot of zombies who want to eat a lot of Doritos. I didn't know our lead, and I still don't remember his name. I think it was either Hambone or Tim. I'm going with Tim. I don't know if that's right, but it sounds more right than Hambone. Maybe it was Timbone. Until I find out different, his name is Timbone.

Ed and Timbone and the hoard of zombie extras had shot some stuff earlier that I wasn't there for, and the commercial was mostly in the can by the time I got on set. I say "on set" because it makes it sound so much more professional than the truth, which is that we shot some of this stuff illegally on private property without permission. To be fair, though, it was a parking lot, and a parking lot implies permission to be there. An unspoken invitation, if you think about it. And no one told us we couldn't film. True, we didn't ask, but to be fair, as I was buying all those Doritos the cashier said "That's a lot of chips," to which I replied "We're shooting a commercial." I knew she'd never believe me. I didn't care. I'd told someone. My obligation was, in the most technical and sneaky bastard kind of way, fulfilled. Not my fault if she didn't inform someone in authority.

Her response was priceless. She said, "Oh… a Doritos commercial?" Oh. My. Fucking. God. The struggle to surpress my smart ass mouth was nearly impossible. What other fucking product ad would I be using all these Doritos for? A million things flooded through my head. My first instinct was to look at her as if she was stupid and say "No, Tampax," and then never explain myself. Just silently stare her down, with a look on my face that said she was a moron for not understanding that it was obvious that I was going to use all these Doritos to sell Tampax. But I needed to get out of there without being too memorable or noticed, so I said nothing. Hardest thing I've ever done. It was KILLING me.

Like I said, I can't say too much about the commercial, but Timbone and the zombies were great, and despite the shitty light in the parking lot, I believe we got what we needed. I forgot to take a coat with me, so I froze my ass off out there. Yes, specifically my ass. I had to sit on an aluminum guard rail to brace the camera for a steady shot, and by the end of the night the part of my ass touching the metal was numb. Even after I got home and got in bed, that part of my ass was cold to the touch. It was weird to feel part of my ass be frigid, while other parts of my ass, mere inches away from the effected area, were normal ass temperature. What a strange sensation.

But I didn't care. After we wrapped for the night, it was just me and the package. I thought maybe it was a book. It didn't feel like a book. When I shook it I got a distinctly unbooklike sense of the shape and mass of the thing. But she and I are both readers and we had been talking about a specific book for a few weeks, so I made up my mind that that's what it was. I figured the guy she bought it from online had, out of laziness or lack of attention, shoved it in a far too oversized box and shipped it.

I couldn't even wait until I got home. I sat there in the parking lot after everyone left and opened it in the harsh, blue glow of the sodium lamps. Buried in wads of The Chicago Sun-Times was a plastic shopping bag, and in that bag was quite probably the kindest, sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. It wasn't a book, it wasn't another addition for the Transformers collection, it wasn't a DVD of some obscure sci-fi that only I and a handful of other people in the world would dig. No, it was something much more personal than that. Something so specifically me that I, for the second time that night, was dumbstruck and reduced to staring in silent wonder.

I know what you're thinking. It's a box of fucking Kool-Aid. What's the big deal? Yeah, it's a box of Kool-Aid. Or rather, Ghoul-Aid. You see, they don't make this Kool-Aid anymore. They haven't in a long time; you can search this box and every packet of Kool-Aid in it and you'll never find a web address or any reference to the internet. But Kool-Aid doesn't really go bad; it's just powdered flavor chemicals and food coloring. So it's safe to drink. And drink it I did.

This isn't just any Kool-Aid, this is Ghoul-Aid, Kool-Aid's answer to the question, "How the fuck can we make Halloween rock harder than it already does?" And the answer, my friends, KICKS ASS! In other countries, or so I've read, there were different flavors of Ghoul-Aid. I don't know if that's true or not, but here in the US of A we got one flavor only: Scary Blackberry. And I'm totally cool with that. Scary Blackberry is easily the best flavored Kool-Aid I've ever had the pleasure to drink. As I understand it, it's unique among Kool-Aid flavors as well; they've never reused or relabeled the flavor, so if you want to drink blackberry Kool-Aid, you have to find it in its original Halloween form.

Does she know any of this? Probably not. Information of this nature is usually reserved for the nerdiest of Halloween nerds, and I definitely fall into that category. Here's what she does know: Halloween is my favorite holiday. She knows I love blackberries. She also knows that I already have some Scary Blackberry Ghoul-Aid, because I've already told her how happy I was to find it, and I've already promised her some. She knows how much she means to me, because NO ONE gets my Scary Blackberry. No one but her. She knows how much I love it. And I know that she is crazy about sweets and has never had Ghoul-Aid. So, when she found some online, sealed in its original store display box, she bought it. She bought some of this magical Halloween confection that she wanted to try so badly and has never had, but she didn't get it for herself. She had it sent to me. Because that's how fantastic she is. She may not have known all that weird Kool-Aid info, but she knew me enough to know that this would mean a lot to me. As much of a dork as that makes me, she knew. Maybe she wasn't aware of exactly how much it would mean, but she's smart. She knew it would mean a lot. So, even though she knew I already had some, she gave it to me instead of herself.

What can you say about a woman who would do that? Never enough, that's what. You can never say enough. And, because we've agreed to keep things between us between us, I can't even tell you her name. But you don't need to know, because, if you're a friend of mine, you'll be able to see how she effects me by the lightness in my step and the way that I smile more lately. You may have already noticed that some of the gloom that has surrounded me for the last couple of years has been lightened somewhat. Don't bother asking me why; it's her. Don't make me lie to you by asking me about her. Just look at me and be glad that I'm remembering what it's like to feel that sort of warm, inner contentment that comes exclusively from knowing that you are loved. I'd honestly forgotten what it was like, and how much it meant to me.

Here's something else you, and she, may not know. Some flavors of Kool-Aid are better hot. Seriously, you heat them up and drink them like hot tea. There was a candied apple Kool-Aid back in the day that I hear was better than hot mulled cider (that's a bold statement, but I've never had it, so I can't verify). I'm happy to report to you that, as unimaginably good as Scary Blackberry Ghoul-Aid is cold, it is one hundred and eleventy bajillion times better hot. It is SO fucking good. I've tried a few different kinds of hot Kool-Aid over the years and can offer some advice in this area. Hot grape is better than you'd think, but unless you like the sensation of wanting to scrape the taste buds off your own tongue, don't EVER try it with any of the orange flavors. So how does hot Scary Blackberry Ghoul-Aid hold up? Once again, it's the best of the best. Hands down the best hot Kool-Aid ever. I've even used it as a flavoring for plain gelatin and made a blackberry cream gelatin mold that blew my family away last Thanksgiving. This stuff is amazing. For all my weird experimentation with it, it has never once let me down. Scary Blackberry Ghoul-Aid can do no wrong.

I haven't bothered to turn the heat on in my house yet. My bedroom is plenty warm with my space heater, and it seems ridiculous to heat the whole house for just one person. But after seeing what she had sent to me, I didn't much feel the cold. I put in a CD of Halloween music – she knows which one – and sat in my living room and enjoyed a piping hot goblet of Scary Blackberry Ghoul-Aid, courtesy of the only woman to ever give me a Sweetest Day gift, the only woman to take time out of her very busy day to wish me a happy Sweetest Day, and the only woman who knows me well enough to know that she can touch my stupid, ridiculous, childlike heart with something as weird as a box full of old Kool-Aid packets. I don't even know if she specifically meant it as a Sweetest Day gift; she did say I'd receive it sometime "this month." Maybe it was just a coincidence. But she constantly tells me she doesn't believe in coincidences, so I'm not going to examine it too closely. I got it on Sweetest Day, and it's from her. That's what counts.

I know it may seem like I'm making a lot of fuss over not much, but this is easily one of the most personal gifts I've ever received. So you'll forgive me, faithful readers, any sentimentality and soppy emotionalism, because tonight I got a Halloween decorated, blackberry scented box full of love delivered literally to my doorstep. You could steal my car, burn down my house, bash my head in with a lead pipe, and step on my blue suede shoes, and it wouldn't get to me. Not tonight. She sent me Ghoul-Aid. Tonight, I'm flying.

And that, folks, is the story of the best Sweetest Day ever.