Dear saga,

ZOMG what a night!

 is how I imagine you always begin, pretty much, if not in so many words. But you might also begin

ZOMG let's go see all the grandkids in their Halloween costumery!

or

ZOMG why don't I wait until way late in the day to ascertain if the manuscripts I need to send out, just at the deadline, can be submitted online?

or

ZOMG the postal robot is temporarily not in service!

--all of which beginnings are how, dear saga, we ended up driving the streets, the mean streets--the empty, mean, deserted late-night streets--of the south valley in the half hour before midnight, looking for a post office with a working postal robot.

Exiting the nearest post office, the one with the "temporarily not in service" screen:
 
Me:  Those cussing cusshead cusses that won't let you submit online!

The historian: [supportive. mild.] It's ridiculous.

Me: I know! Why won't they?

The historian: [semper supportive.] ... Seems like they should.

Me:  I wish they would just make up their minds. I wish they would just all agree to ... like, I wish there would just be an agreement...

Historian: [laughs]

Me:  --that sounds like poets, right? They would just agree to a--

Historian: --a national standard?

As we drove the streets--the cursed, damned streets--of the south valley in search of a post office with a working postal robot, I imagined a scenario--any of several possible scenarios, dear saga--in which we would not be driving the &c &c &c streets &c. Perhaps, for instance, I could have checked the list of submissions at an earlier point in the day. Or last week. Or, oh, a month ago when I first made the list. I could have made the copies, and put them in their darling envelopes, and we could have mailed them on the way home from the Halloweenery. That would have been sensible.

But without the unsensible, the foolish, the unplanned, the last-minute and the slap-dash, we would not have had you, dear saga, nor the deep relief of finding a working postal robot in a post office on State Street, nor the satisfaction of mailing the errant manuscripts to their fate, their destination, their just reward, and all with eleven minutes to spare before midnight!

Dear saga, you are my fate, my destination and my just reward: a poet with an historian haunting the post offices of the city, her manuscripts finally winging their way, and just under the wire.

You are epic,

htms 

Submit.

This year, for some unknown reason, I have set aside my usual and time-honored antipathy to Halloween. I wore my raven tee shirt for two days running, because it is awesome and because I got compliments the first day I wore it. I bought pumpkins although I did not carve them. The weather yesterday was so sublime, and as the light faded, that spooky All Hallows feeling--go figure--felt kind of delicious. And what's the point of resisting, really. All the reasons I never so much loved Halloween--pressure to make an awesome costume, the balance between being at home and going out, going out in bad weather, general grouchiness--seemed so beside the point. Who cares? Might as well give in.

We split the difference between home observance and family visits, as we always do with any holiday, because there are children and grandchildren scattered hither and yon all over the valley. In this instance, we poured a bunch of cheap candy into a big bowl and made a little sign that said "BOO" in orange oil pastel, taped to a pair of Chinese takeout chopsticks. We put the bowl and sign on the front steps, and headed out to see the scary creatures at four different households.

First, we stopped at the house of Spiderman Will and Batman Van. We also had a little bit of penne and tomato sauce--delicious. Spiderman had a small brontosaurus in hand, which roared, only adding to the scary.

Next, we stopped at the house of a princess, a vampire princess, a ladybug and a cupcake. We were able to witness a little trick or treat action at the neighboring houses. The trees in this neighborhood were ablaze, the light waning, the jack o' lanterns aglow. The cat, Sheen, who lives at this house wanted to be a part of things. He scampered in and out of the shrubberies, venturing up the step on a porch, the little family familiar.

After that, we went to the house of Bumblebee the Transformer, so high spirited in a brief hiatus in his trick or treating that he called the historian Optimus Prime and me Megatron. We had a bowl of minestrone there to sustain us.

Last of all the game, we visited Obi Wan Kenobi (or Kenobio, as a little brother called it), a ninja, Mario, and a tiny frog. Here, too, we assisted briefly in the trick or treating. It was dark. The moon drifted in a cloudy sky. The neighborhood decor flared as we turned a corner or stepped up a walk.

Earlier in the afternoon, I gathered my wits and mailing supplies about me to put my manuscript again into play. Here's how that went: I submitted to two competitions online, and four IRL, which necessitated the following analysis of supplies:

• four manuscript-sized kraft brown envelopes. Check.
• four long regular envelopes, for notification of results. I had three.
• four stamps for long regular envelopes. I had three.
• four binder clips, except that as of late, three competitions specify that they would like the manuscript to be submitted in a folder with no other binding implement. Did I have folders? I did not.

This meant going to the Office Max to

• copy the manuscript;
• buy envelopes;
• buy folders.

Then, I wrote checks for each of the entry fees; figured out how to fit a folder-enclosed manuscript into a slim-fit manuscript-sized envelope (here's a clue: you have to fold the folder); binder-clipped the one manuscript for the competition that allowed binder clippery; made sure all the parts of the submission were matching; then used all available saliva (just my own--sorry, gross) to seal the envelopes.

AND THEN at 9 p.m., we went to the P.O. to engage with the P.O. robot, so that the manuscripts can be sent. But first we had to buy stamps, so the one envelope for return of results could have a stamp on it.

That's how it goes, though. What's the point of resisting these steps? You just make the trips, buy the stuff, copy the manuscript, and send it off, all the while trying not to allow the pointlesspointlesspointless mantra to take hold. And why think about pointlessness, anyway? All the reasons--the overwhelming negative odds, the expense, the hassle, general grouchiness--seem, today, so beside the point. Who cares? Might as well submit.