Halloween, season of romance

Like A LOT OF local coaches, I’m under a lot of pressure. My team of 4- and 5-year-old soccer players is coming off an enormous upset by Notre Dame last week. Sure, a national title is still within our grasp. But we have to work harder and eliminate any distractions.

In a recent game, we had this chat just before kickoff:

First player: Ewwwww, girls.

Second player: I hate girls.

Third player: I’m marrying my brother.

First player: I’m marrying my brother and my dad.

Me: Um, guys, can we discuss your marriage plans another time?

First player: Ewwwww, girls.

Me: You said it.

I know exactly what they mean about girls. Yuck. I married one once and I haven’t been the same since. It’s like she took marriage to be some sort of lifelong commitment or something.

Just for kicks, the other day I installed this Halloween fog machine. In our bedroom. Most people put their Halloween fog machines under the front porch, to spook trick-or-treaters. I put it behind the headboard of our big, cold bed. I thought it would be romantic. Trick or treat, baby! Come to Dracula.

Now, like you, I’m always stunned at how selfless gestures like this can be misinterpreted by wives. They have one or two bad experiences with men that they never let go of. With us, one happened during the honeymoon. I mean, if you’re not going to try certain stuff on your wedding night, when are you going to try it? At your 50th wedding anniversary? Snap-crackle-pop, there goes my rib cage.

So when I installed the Halloween fog machine in our bedroom, I probably should’ve anticipated some sort of major spousal backlash.

“What’s that?” my wife says.

“A skin-care machine?” I say.

“It’s a Halloween fog maker,” the little girl explains. “Dad got it at the hardware store.”

“No more dry, scaly skin for me,” I say.

This part is all legit. I did buy it at the hardware store, that place I go every Saturday in an effort to build a better life for us. Gutter guards and caulk and GFI outlets.

If only they sold wine and roses.

“A fog machine?” my wife asks. “In the bedroom?”

“Ewwwww,” says the little girl, who’s been reading those lusty little Zoey Dean novels, so she’s beginning to understand how men think. Ewwwww.

“Go do your homework,” my wife tells her.

“Now?”

“No, when you’re 35,” her mother says. “YES, NOW!”

My wife is standing at the door of the bedroom, looking at the fog machine. Round and round her eyes go, much like a slot machine. I know what’s happening. She’s going to that place in her head where she puts perverts on trial for the things they merely think about but never actually do. I mean, in her head, I’m Fatty Arbuckle.

“So,” she asks, “how many other creepy, twisted things will you think of?”

“How many did you have in mind?” I ask hopefully.

Other than that, we had a fine weekend, thanks for asking. After the Fireballs’ stunning loss to Notre Dame, I Halloweened the bedroom and then the front porch. We are now, incidentally, the Tupperware capital of America -- our garage, I mean, where all the seasonal decorations are stored in gigantic plastic bins.

These 200-gallon containers ostensibly make things more convenient, yet I can’t seem to get my arms around them. It’s like dancing with a plumped-up former TV star, say, Marie Osmond. Your fingers never touch in the back, and you get all sweaty. But it’s satisfying in a way that’s difficult to describe.

After we put the boxes away, we roughhouse a little -- not the wife and I (get real) -- just me and the little guy, who’s the only kid left in the house who likes to roughhouse with me. Most of the others would rather roughhouse with boys and girls they meet in strange places. Like school, for example. Or church.

I warn them and warn them, but they insist on dating these other kids, who all seem to have Little Mermaid hair, which they wear like some sort of cape. The girls too.

Trust me, children, dating is a gateway drug. If you’re not careful, it can lead to love, which can lead to marriage, which can lead to kids, which can lead to bankruptcy.

Then what’ve you got?

You’ve got giant Tupperware, is what you got. Ewwwww.

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chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.