By JANE LOTTER

So now it is October and we celebrate that spooky yet oddly amusing little holiday known as Halloween. Very few people can tell you the actual origin of Halloween - which is just as well because it would be boring if they did. They'd be talking away and you'd find yourself yawning and looking at your watch and wondering if it would be impolite to help yourself to another miniature Mars Bar.

Yes, of course, I know the origin of Halloween, and, no, it's not my birthday. OK, OK, I will tell you: Halloween was invented by Display and Costume. Prior to the opening of Display and Costume ("Selling Costumes, Party Supplies, and Seasonal Decorations Since 1952!"), Halloween was just something where little girls dressed up as witches and little boys dressed up as Superman. Now it's where grown women dress up as Madonna and grown men dress up as something really frightening, like IRS agents.

There is an air of schizophrenia about Halloween that I find strangely attractive. What is it in our collective Oct. 31 psyche - other than alcohol - that results in gatherings where Mary Poppins can breeze in with Psycho Rodeo Clown and they're both appropriately dressed? Not only that, they may win a prize.

At Display and Costume you can buy yourself a bunny costume - or you can get outfitted as a werewolf. So you want to be careful you don't walk in there in the middle of a mood swing. I mean, you might be feeling all right when you pull into the parking lot, figuring maybe you'll go as a pony or Mother Teresa. But then you get inside, it's crowded, somebody steps on your foot, and the next thing you know you've had it and you're purchasing the Freddy Krueger costume complete with the razor-sharp fingers. And you're thinking: Hey! I just might wear this little number every day of the year!

Display and Costume is mesmerizing in its selection of horror merchandise; my children beg me to take them there just so they can look. There are several aisles brimming with such oddities as leering skulls, giant rats, fright masks, and glow-in-the-dark toilet seats (now that really is scary). There's even a large selection of fake blood and wounds. On one package of stage blood I read this warning: "Not intended as a food product." Darn! And I was hoping to hand it out with the candy!

Along with the fake blood, I also found something labeled "Fresh Scabs." Oh, please. I have children. We don't need more scabs in our family; we need something to cover them up. Speaking of children, the sidewalks of Maple Leaf, where I live, bustle every Halloween with wide-eyed tots. At the risk of making you queasy, I will tell you that Halloween around here is like stepping into a Disney movie. People string orange pumpkin lights and place candles in jack-o'-lanterns and stand out on their front porches distributing candy and grinning like idiots; I know I do. Everybody loves everybody and even the grumpy people are magically transformed into lovable country folk with hearts of gold. (The good ones, that is; the ones who give out the full-size Hershey bars. The bad ones - the ones who hand out retirement planners - find themselves temporarily turned into Ichiro bobbleheads.)

This particular Halloween my son, the traditionalist, is going as Superman. My daughter and her friend, on the other hand, are dressing up as lost cats. Lost cats? "Yeah, you know, Mom, like those fliers on telephone poles: Lost Cat."

So, anyway, if a couple of lost cats turn up on your doorstep this Halloween night, please give them a saucer of milk and the full-size Hershey bars. And then ask Superman to fly them safely home because, really, I love them all very much. (