'And what are YOOU supposed to be?'

Being a homeowner means lots of good things. Taxes. Leaky sinks. Musty-smelly basements.

And trick-or-treaters who magically appear at your door.

Only that last one was a 97 percent positive experience. Could've been warmer, too, but I won't factor that in. This is Wisconsin. The good came in the form of the candy that I ate (my body weight in M&Ms, the peanut variety), the (please read in your best baby voice) cutest little babies ever dressed like animals (stop using baby voice now) and the nice people who introduced themselves to Dave or I: "Hi, welcome to the neighborhood, I live over there," etc.

That part was nice.

The not so nice part was the one or two kids -- and they aren't young (because then it's forgiveable) -- who grab without saying anything. It's like, hello, my candy bowl has been violated on my own porch by a lone teenager who didn't even dress up carrying a duffel bag that would be confiscated at the airport by the TSA, I can say with some air of authority.

(For the record, I'm OK with teens trick-or-treating if it's aw, good natured and with friends or family and they dress up. Put some effort into it, kids. Humor me.)

As he walked up, my friend and I muttered under our breath "Dubble Bubble." No way was that kid getting Kit Kats. Nuh-uh. You need a costume for that.

I threw a piece of gum in his bag and as he walked away Friend and I gave each other a look.

"If I had (uh, guts), I'd've asked that kid what he was," she said.

"Yeah."

Then we went back to commenting from my front porch on the speed of cars as they drove by.

Kids these days ...

Just kidding.