It was a typical day for Gladys Kravitz. She was hanging out by the front window in the living room, spying on and meticulously observing any neighbor that happened to come out of their house. So far, she hadn't seen anything interesting happen, but still, she was disappointed she didn't have her husband to screech to about everything she saw that moved. Abner was out for an early morning golfing session.

Morning Glory Circle was quiet this morning, and Gladys was getting bored. So, you can imagine her delight when she saw her two new neighbors walk out their front door at the house across the street. Darrin and Samantha Stephens. Gladys's new favorite spying subjects. Mr. and Mrs. Stephens were newlyweds. They had moved in a mere week ago. Gladys was thrilled to have new neighbors to gawk at and to figure everything out about.

Presently, Mr. Stephens was walking out to his car, briefcase in hand, waving goodbye to his wife, who stood on the doorstep. Mrs. Stephens waved back, smiling. Gladys wished she and Abner could smile at each other like that. Darrin got into his car and drove away. Samantha remained on the doorstep for a second, watching her husband's car until it had disappeared, shielding her eyes from the sun. Then she hopped down the front steps, grabbed a watering can, and began watering the baby flowers that had just recently been planted in front of the house. Gladys continued to watch with interest.

After a couple minutes, Samantha looked up. Her eyes darted around as if she were looking at- or for- something. Then, to Gladys's shock, disgust, and- let's face it- glee, she jammed a finger right up her nose. Gladys let out a squeak of surprise. Now she understood- Mrs. Stephens had been looking around to make sure nobody saw her do the unsavory, uncouth thing she'd just done. Now sorely disappointed that Abner was not there to share this shocking observation with, Gladys decided she'd just have to share it with someone else instead. She ran to the phone and, speedy-quick, punched in a number.

"Hello? Shirley? The Stephens lady, the one that just moved in… Guess what?! She picks her nose!"

"Remember, Sam," Darrin had said to Samantha just before he left for work, "Today you're going to get out there and make some friends. Don't worry if you don't get all the housework done. Today the most important thing is that you go out there and introduce yourself and get to know some of the neighborhood women."

Samantha had assured him she'd do just that. She was excited about getting to know her new neighbors too.

"What's that account you're working on today again?" she'd asked as she walked him out to the porch. "I remember it was something funny."

"The Boogie Bands account," Darrin had replied, "They're terrycloth bands you put around your kid's wrist that they can wipe their noses on. It's supposed to keep them from wiping it on less favorable places."

Samantha laughed. "Oh, that's right. Where do they come up with these things? Oh, by the way, what would you like for dinner tonight?

"Anything's fine with me. You know I'm not picky."

Once Darrin had driven away, she'd got to work watering the new flowers that had just been planted in their front yard a few days ago. She'd been quite content, enjoying the peaceful morning, soaking up the sun and the nice crisp air.

And then The Fly had come.

First it began to buzz annoyingly around her head. She'd tried to swat it away, but it wouldn't leave her alone.

Then it went right up her nose.

Without thinking, she instinctively shoved a finger up her nostril to try to remove the buzzing, tickling nuisance. It tickled so much, she sneezed, and the fly came out with the sneeze. Then it went right back to buzzing in her ears.

Aw, to hell with watering for now, Sam thought, annoyed. She would finish it later. She put down the watering can and went inside.

Once back inside, Samantha had a great idea. A couple days ago, her neighbors Gladys Kravitz, June Foster, and Shirley Clyde had come over to welcome her and Darrin to the neighborhood. What better way to connect with them then to bake cookies for them? Filled with new purpose, she got right to work.

Two hours later found Samantha standing in front of three trays of flower-shaped shortbread cookies, quite proud of herself. She couldn't help but think, though, that the shortbread flowers looked rather plain. They had no color. There were no icing or sprinkles on hand to decorate them with. Hmm…

True, she had promised Darrin she'd cut the witchcraft now that she was married to him, but then again, she had told herself she'd taper off gradually…

She snapped her fingers over one of the cookies, and instantly, it was beautifully frosted with lilac icing, darker purple icing around the edges, and a yellow center. She snapped her fingers over the next cookie and iced it pink. One by one, she magically decorated each cookie, getting more creative with each one. She even dared to make a couple tie-dye flowers.

When she was done, she looked up at the clock. It was just about 11 AM, and she still had a lot of housework to get done. She packed the cookies into seperate tin containers and then began to clean up. She would deliver the cookies tomorrow.

The following day, Samantha packed her four tins (the fourth was an extra, just in case) of iced shortbread flowers into a canvas bag and headed out the door. The first house she stopped at was the Kravitzes' house just across the street. She produced one of the cookie tins from the bag and rang the doorbell. Upon hearing bickering voices inside the house, she figured the Kravitzes were within earshot and called "Mrs. Kravitz? Mr. Kravitz? It's Samantha Stephens, your new neighbor. I brought you some cookies."

The bickering inside ceased, a little too quickly. Samantha heard a startled squeal, then nothing. She stood at the doorstep another forty-five seconds, waiting for them to open. Why weren't they answering? She rang the doorbell again. When they still didn't answer, she put the container of cookies down in front of the door and finally left. As she walked back out to the sidewalk, she could just barely hear Gladys's hushed, tense voice and made out the words "pick", "finger", and "nose". I wonder what they're talking about.

Next, she made her way over to Shirley Clyde's house. Mrs. Clyde answered the door right away, but when she saw Samantha, her face fell. Or did Sam just imagine it?

"Hello, Mrs. Clyde. I made you some cookies," Sam said and held out the container. But Shirley Clyde just eyed her skeptically.

"Why, thank you. But your fingers… Are they clean?"

What an odd question, Sam thought. "Yes, of course."

"And… were they clean when you made the cookies?"

"Double-washed."

Satisfied with this answer, Shirley finally took the cookie tin.

"Well, thank you very much," she said, "Have a good day now."

Sam held out her hand to shake, but Shirley ignored the gesture and closed the door. And that was that. What a weird broad, Samantha thought as she turned to leave.

Last but not least, Samantha made her way to June Foster's house. This time, little Robert Foster answered the door, wearing a cowboy hat with a wooden rifle in hand.

"Hello, there," Samantha greeted him, "Is your mother at home?"

Little Robert turned around. "MOOOM!" he yelled. "It's Snout-Picker Stephens!"

What the… Snout-Picker Stephens?! What had the kid said that for?!

Before Sam had a chance to try and figure it out, June came to the door, looking harried and red in the face.

"Oh, Mrs. Stephens," she laughed nervously. Her laughter was obviously forced. "What a surprise." Then she looked down at her son and hissed through gritted teeth, "Go. To. Your. Room." Robert disappeared.

"I brought you some cookies," Sam said, feeling awkward. To her surprise, Mrs. Foster whipped some gloves out of her pocket and put them on before accepting the tin of cookies.

"Thank you, dear. How nice of you. We really must meet up sometime. Goodbye."

And just like Shirley, she quickly shut the door in Sam's face.

"Mommy, why didn't you invite her in?" Sam heard Robert, who obviously had not gone to his room, ask his mother as soon as she had closed the door. Their window was open, and she could still hear them loud and clear.

"Because," she heard June say, "We do not associate with people who pick their nose!"

Pick their nose! Why would Mrs. Foster think she picked her nose?! I mean, sure she did when no one else was around. Didn't everyone? But never when people could actually see her! Shaken up, Sam thought about how every neighbor she'd delivered cookies to had had some strange reaction- or hadn't opened the door at all. She'd expected to strike up a conversation with each of them, maybe even be invited in. But nothing had gone as planned. And now little Robert Foster had called her Snout-Picker Stephens?!

She began trying to remember if she actually had picked her nose in front of the neighbors without realizing it. Suddenly, it all fell into place. The fly that had gone up her nostril yesterday morning! Someone must have seen her and thought she was mining the emeralds, so to speak. Agh, she thought, wanting to kick herself, why did I have to stick my finger in there?! She really hadn't meant to. It was a reflexive reaction. Feeling totally embarrassed , not to mention shunned, she clutched her canvas bag and turned homeward.

As she walked down the sidewalk, a throng of little boys whizzed past her, quick as lightning.

"Snout-Picker Stephens! Snout-Picker Stephens!" they chanted at her.

In a brief moment of immaturity, Sam raised a hand into the air and prepared to hex the children, but then stopped herself. She was not going to let these little mortal brats- mere embryos compared to her- get to her. She was a respectable, mature, grown-up, pushing-300-year-old witch. For a split second, the thought entered her mind that Darrin was also an embryo compared to her, but the thought was so disturbing that she quickly pushed it out of her mind and vowed never to think about it again. Anyway, the kids were out of sight before she could have a chance to even scold them.

She walked on, determined to brush it off. But she was interrupted when she felt a tug on the sleeve of her sweater. She turned around.

A freckled little dark-haired boy in a baseball cap, maybe nine or ten years old, stood in front of her, looking remorseful.

"Lady," he said, "I'm sorry about them. I just wanted you to know that they're not my friends, and that I don't think you're a snout-picker."

Samantha was taken aback, but at the same time, her heart melted a little.

"Why…" she said at last, struggling for words, "Thank you very much. That's very nice of you."

The kid shrugged. "It's true."

Sam remembered the extra tin of cookies in her bag. She pulled it out and opened it. "Would you like a cookie?" This kid deserved it, just for being sweet.

The boy simply looked up at her. "Does it have walnuts?"

"No. They're just plain iced shortbread."

"They don't have pecans?"

"No."

"What about strawberries?"

"No strawberries either."

"Oh, good. I'm allergic to all those things. Sure, I'll take one. Thanks!" He eagerly selected a blue-iced cookie, sat down on the curb, and began to chomp with gusto.

"You know," he jabbered on to Sam, "My mom doesn't let me eat sugary things, but I sneak them anyway. I'm glad I do. These cookies are so good." Crumbs fell all over his clothing.

"Well, if you're mother doesn't want you eating that, maybe you should- "

"Oh, no, it's fine. Anyway," the boy changed the subject, his face full of cookie, "What's your name?"

"I'm Samantha Stephens. I live over there," Sam replied, pointing.

"I'm Marshall Burns," the boy said, "I live on the other side of the block. You know," (chomp, chomp), "We're kind of the same, me and you. They call me Marshmallow Burns. They call you Snout-Picker Stephens."

Sam flushed a little at the mention of her new moniker.

"Well, that's not very nice of them. Why do they call you that?"

"The other kids like to pick on me because I'm slow and I'm lousy at sports and outdoor games and all that. Also, my mom treats me like a baby. I'm not allowed to do anything 'cause it's dangerous. That's another reason why they pick on me. No one wants to be my friend."

Poor kid, thought Samantha. "I think you need to stand up to those kids. Show 'em who's boss. If they see that you're not going to take it, they might cut it out," she advised kindly.

"Yeah, I guess," said Marshall absentmindedly, "Can I have another cookie?"

Samantha felt a bit guilty giving him something his mom didn't want him to have, but because for some reason she just couldn't say no to this kid, she gave in.

That evening, Darrin returned from work in a good mood, bearing with him six terrycloth Boogie Bands in various colors.

"For our future children!" he sang. "The Boogie Band guy gave them to me for free. He said it was a wedding present. Hey, why the long face, honey?"

Sam recounted to her husband all about the fly that had gone up her nose yesterday, and how all the neighbors were avoiding her because they all thought she picked her nose. She told him how she had gotten stuck with the nickname "Snout-Picker Stephens". And while she was at it, she told him about Marshall Burns too.

"Those little brats," Darrin said when she had told him everything, "I'm gonna find out where they live and talk to their mothers for picking on you. I'll talk to those neighbors' mothers too!"

"Don't," Samantha said. The kids' mothers were probably calling her Snout-Picker Stephens too. "Besides," she went on, "I'm perfectly capable of turning them all into bullfrogs if I wanted to." Then she saw the look on Darrin's face and assured him that she was joking.

"You know what?" Darrin said. "I think you need to take the advice you gave that little boy. Stand up to those neighbors! Show 'em you're not gonna take it! Keep trying and don't give up."

Samantha considered. "I think you're right."

During the next few days, she kept on trying and trying to befriend June Foster, Shirley Clyde, and Gladys Kravitz. One afternoon while walking home from the post office, she noticed Shirley and June walking together across the street. She waved enthusiastically and crossed over to join them.

"Hi, Shirley! Hi, June! Where are you two headed?"

The two friends began to walk faster. Shirley started to babble.

"Oh, we're just headed home. Shirley thinks she might be getting the flu , so you'd better not stick around. She might be contagious. I think I might be starting to feel a little funny too." Fake cough, fake cough. "Anyways, see you later!"

But the next day, Sam saw them both inside a local cafe with Gladys Kravitz. So, Shirley had been lying! But was Sam going to back down? No way! Putting her best foot forward, she began walking towards the cafe.

As soon as her three neighbors saw her, she heard a shriek. To her surprise, all three of them dove under the table.

"Snout-Picker Stephens," she thought she heard someone say.

Samantha ended up in the corner of Jack In The Box instead, sipping paper cup coffee next to some guy who wouldn't stop picking his nose. It was the only available seat. I'm not going to let it bother me, she told herself, I'm not going to give up.

But the mother of all these petty offences occured just a few days later. Shirley Clyde hosted a block party, and Samantha found out that everyone on the block had been invited except for her and Darrin. Now, that really stung.

In an effort to get her anger out in a constructive manner, Sam lugged Darrin's lawnmower out, dragged it to the front yard, and began to mow the lawn. Perhaps some good physical activity would help her get it all out.

While she was mowing, the side of her nose began to itch. She turned off the lawnmower and scratched it.

"ACK!" she heard someone squeal. "She's picking her nose again!"

Great. Just great.

"Mrs. Stephens," said Marshall Burns one warm, lazy afternoon, "Did you know that 'booger' is a bad word in England?"

"Not 'booger'," Samantha corrected him gently, "'Bugger'. And it's not really a bad word, just a not very nice word." She should know. She had been to England several times to go to the Warlock Club in London.

"Oh," said Marshall.

The witch and the boy were sitting on the steps of the Stephens' porch, just people watching, watching the day laze by. Marshall was packing away more shortbread flowers. He sure couldn't get enough of those things. Such had become their routine. Every afternoon for a week, Marshall had stopped by for more cookies. Then he and Sam would sit side by side on the porch, sometimes talking, sometimes not. It seemed Marshall had finally found a friend, and so had Sam, although she never expected her first friend in her new neighborhood would be a ten-year-old kid. The homeschooled Marshall had even started to show up in the mornings for breakfast after Darrin had left.

Presently, Sam and Marshall were watching a scruffy schnauzer dog in a red bandana scamper by with its owner. The radio that Sam had brought out to the porch was playing a Hughes Market commercial. We are the buyers at Hughes. We pick, pick, pick, and then we choose. Usually, Sam very much enjoyed her visits from young Marshall. But today, she was still feeling sore over how Mrs. Clyde had invited everyone to the party except her. She reached for a cookie and slowly began working away at it.

"You're upset, aren't you?" Marshall asked out of the blue.

"Upset? No, of course not."

"Yes, you are," Marshall persisted, "I can always tell when adults are unhappy, even if they try to hide it. You're sad because none of the neighbors want to be your friend because they think you pick your nose."

"Well, maybe you're right. You got me," Samantha admitted.

"I can help you out, you know. I have an idea on how to make the neighbors like you."

Sure. Like a fifth-grader was gonna fix her problems. Still, she feigned interest, just to be nice.

"What have you got in mind?"

"Well," Marshall began, "My aunt who lives in Milford, every month she hosts a ladies' cocktail hour at her house. The ladies in her neighborhood love it. Lots of people always come. She serves fancy snacks and everything. She moved into her house three years ago, and like you, she didn't have any friends at first. But once she started hosting her cocktail hours, she became the most popular person on the block. Still is."

Now, wait a minute. This kid might actually be onto something! Sure, the idea had come from a ten-year-old, but so far, it sounded great.

"Marshall," said Samantha, "What else does your aunt do for her cocktail hours? Tell me all about it."

Exactly one week later, Samantha was all set to host her very own ladies' cocktail hour. She had invited every single female aged twenty-one and over on the block. Today was the big day. The house was spick-and-span. There were appetizers on the table. Seeing as Darrin had to work late that night and wouldn't be around till later, it had all worked out perfectly. Sam knew he probably did not wish to spend his evening surrounded by chattering womenfolk.

The guests would start arriving any minute. All there was left to do now was wait. Samantha flitted around, nervous and excited, straightening couch cushions, smoothing the tablecloth, even though everything was already perfect. She wanted to make an exceptional impression on her new neighbors. A nose-picker's home wouldn't look this nice, would it? A nose-picker would not serve fine cheese and fig jam.

Several minutes passed. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-five. Cocktail hour was set to begin almost a half-hour ago! Where was everyone? Samantha peered out the window. She saw no neighbors arriving, nobody walking up the front path to the door.

Half an hour became an hour. Still no sign of any guests. Except for the music playing in the background, the house was silent. Samantha was at last forced to accept the cold, hard truth that nobody wanted to come to the function of Snout-Picker Stephens.

Feeling as bad as if someome had just come out and kicked her up the arse, Samantha decided to call for her mother. If no one else was coming, at least she and Endora could enjoy the drinks and appetizers together.

"Mother? Could you come here please?" she said aloud.

Immediately, Endora appeared before her. She was wearing a metallic purple party hat and already holding a martini.

"What is it, darling?" she asked. "Only do make it quick. I'm at your Uncle Arthur's birthday party right now, so I can't stay long."

Sam felt betrayed. "Uncle Arthur's having a birthday party? And he didn't invite me?!"

"Well, no, of course not, darling. We all knew you'd be much to busy now that you're married. Now, what was it you wanted to see me about?"

"Uh- Nevermind. You'd better get back."

Endora shrugged and popped out.

Sam sighed. I need some air. Glumly, she made her way through the-spick-and-span living room, past the cocktail bar stocked with bottles and glasses, past the cheese and the crackers and the fig jam and the fruit platter, out to the porch. Outside, the sun was just beginning to descend. A nice, cool breeze ruffled her hair.

It was then that she caught sight of Marshall Burns walking by. Even if she didn't have any friends in the neighborhood, at least she had Marshall.

"Hello, Marshall!" she called. "Would you like to come in? I bought a box of chocolate chip cookies from the store today." And who knew? Maybe Marshall liked brie and fig jam too.

But the little boy just stopped and looked her sadly in the eye.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"My mother doesn't want me to hang around you anymore. She doesn't want me to pick up on your 'unsavory habits'."

So, Samantha went back inside. At first, she felt sorry for herself. Then her sorryness turned to anger. Fine! If no one wanted to come to her cocktail hour, she would still have cocktail hour! She would have it all by herself! She hadn't eaten since lunch, she wasn't hungry, anyway. Swapping dinner for a drink just one time never killed anyone. She deserved to live a little, didn't she? She reached for a bottle and poured herself a shot.

Darrin returned home that night a little after eight, tired but happy. He'd had a productive day at work. Everything was going swell with the Boogie Bands account, and he couldn't wait to find out how Sam's cocktail hour had gone. Assuming that his wife was busy entertaining lingering guests, he took his key and twisted the lock open instead of ringing the doorbell.

The sight that met his eyes was nothing like what he had expected to see. The house was almost totally dark. The only light came from the one lamp that was on in the living room. Full platters of untouched appetizers sat on the coffee table. No women's chatter filled the room. None of the giggles and shrieky feminine laughter that annoyed him to much.

And there was Sam. She was lying on her belly on the living room floor, surrounded by two shot glasses, a wine glass, and a tipped-over empty wine bottle, disheveled and ugly-crying, clutching a pillow.

"Oh, my God!" Darrin gasped. "Sam! What happened?!"

Samantha looked up at him. Her makeup was running. Snot clear as a mountain spring ran from her stuffed-up nose, and there were damp makeup blotches on the pillow. She smelled of alcohol.

"Darrin," she wailed, slurring, and hiccuping, "Why am I so repulsive?!" She wept harder.

"What?!"

"Nobody (hic) came, Darrin! Why does everybody (hic, hic) hate meeeee?!"

She was drunk. Hopelessly, shit-faced drunk. Darrin was shocked. He had never seen her drunk before. Who would've thunk his cheerful little Sam would be a sad drunk?

Stunned and confused as he was, Darrin still tried to behave calmly.

"Honey, you're drunk. You're very drunk. Why don't you get yourself off the floor and sit on the couch. Come on."

"NO!" Sam shrilled. Her face in the pillow, she continued her unrestrained blubbing and hiccuping, breathing through her mouth because her nose was too stuffed-up. "Nobody loves me, Darrin!" she bawled. Hic, hic. "NOBODY! Mother doesn't love me! (Hic.) YOU don't love me!"

"Of course I love you," Darrin tried to reason with her, "Why do you think I married you?"

"No, you DON'T! You only married me (hic, hic, hic) 'cause you felt sorry for me for getting my head stuck in the TOILET! Snout-Picker Stephens is all I am! SNOUT-PICKER STEPHENS!" Cue more drunken wailing. Darrin had no idea what to do.

After another anguished minute, Samantha suddenly disappeared. She reappeared in the kitchen, clumsily attempting to open the oven door.

"Darrin," she garbled, hiccuping heartily, "How exactly do people dispose of themselves themselves by sticking their head in the oven? Can you help me?"

She finally succeeded in opening the oven door, but before she could actually do anything, she tipped sideways and fell over with a sturdy thump.

"My head (hic, hic)… I think it turned into a fishbowl on a roller coaster…"

Darrin quickly went over to help her up, but she screamed.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Sob, sob. Hiccup, hiccup.

Fortunately, after a few more minutes, she seemed to calm down. Her powerful blubbering soon became nothing but gentle sniveling. Then she was quiet. For a minute, Darrin wondered if she was asleep.

"I think I want to get up now," she stated at last, as if nothing had happened.

"Alright," said Darrin, pulling her up by the arm. She teetered and swayed drunkenly. She was so plastered, she could barely stand. "Let's get you to bed. Everything will look different after a good night's rest. I promise. Take my arm, I'll help you upstairs."

"Oh, that's okay," Sam slurred, "No need." In an instant, she vanished. She had popped upstairs. And since she was so drunk, Darrin didn't even think of getting mad at her for it.

The next day, Gladys Kravitz found herself boredly watching television next to her husband Abner, who was mindlessly chomping from a big bowl of kettle corn. Until just a while ago, she had been partaking in her favorite pastime of neighbor-gawking by the window. After witnessing a neighbor kid having a fight with his girlfriend, squealing to Abner about it, and then realizing Abner had no intrest whatsoever, she finally gave up and succumbed to an hour of watching My Three Sons with her zoned-out husband. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?

The program finally ended, and the next thing that came on was the news. Gladys blinked at the image of the President out on the balcony of the White House, giving a speech. The camera zoomed in, and she could see the President scratching his nose.

"Earlier this week," said the news anchor, "The President caused a scandal when footage of him addressing a crowd outside the White House allegedly showed him picking his nose in front of everyone. However, unseen footage has now been released showing the ordeal from a different angle. It has now been clarified that Mr. President was not, as it seemed, removing the bears from the cave. He was simply scratching the side of his nose. Now, how does that grab you, folks?"

Immediately, Gladys had a revelation. Samantha Stephens picking her nose was a sight she had witnessed from all the way across the street. That couldn't be an accurate view at all! What if, like all the folks who thought the President was picking his nose, she had been wrong? What if Samantha had merely been scratching, or some other innocent gesture that looked like nose-picking from afar?

"Oh, Gladys, I gotta warn you," Abner said, speaking to her for the first time in over an hour, "If you go outside, watch for flies. Everyone's saying the flies in this area have been particularly aggressive lately. They've even gone up people's noses. Phil across the street had to put his finger up his nose to get one out."

Oh. Oh, no. Gladys was filled with remorse. Without another word, she got up and went to the telephone.

Samantha sat curled on the couch, eating a sandwich as she nursed the hangover she had given herself last night. Darrin had made her a BLT for breakfast, and now he had brought her another BLT for lunch. According to him, there was no better cure for a hangover.

The night before when Darrin had found her drunk was nothing but a fuzzy memory to Sam. She had been shocked when Darrin told her she'd been about to commit suicide by sticking her head in the oven. Still, she remembered enough to recall that it had been a highly unpleasant experience. She swore never to get drunk like that again.

She was sitting there watching something on TV about how washing your hair outdoors (and it had to be outdoors) with ferret shampoo instead of regular shampoo makes your hair super soft and silky, when the doorbell rang.

"Darrin?" she called, hoping he would get it. "Darrin, there's someone at the door." No answer. Wearily, she dragged herself off the couch and went to go answer it herself.

When she opened the door, she was shocked to see June Foster, Gladys Kravitz, Shirley Clyde, and a couple other gals she'd seen around standing on her doorstep. June held a big plate full of something, and Shirley carried the cookie tin Sam had delivered cookies to her in days ago. "What do you want?" Sam wanted to say. In the end, however, she decided to give them a flat "Oh. Hi." But before she could get the words out of her mouth, Shirley spoke up.

"Oh, Samantha, we're terribly sorry for the beastly way we've been treating you."

"We've come to apologize," said Mrs. Kravitz.

"I brought you hors d'oeuvres to make up for it, and Shirley made you some cookies," June added.

Samantha was speechless. What had caused this abrupt turnaround?

"We know now," Shirley explained, "That you were never picking your nose. We found out all about those pesky flies, and… well, we're so sorry."

"We're so sorry about no-showing to your cocktail hour last night. We were immature and petty, and we want to make things right."

Did Samantha forgive them? Of course she did. She had always been good-tempered and forgiving (except when she was drunk). She couldn't wait to get a second chance at making friends with these gals.

Before long, Samantha and these neighbor ladies were all sitting together in the living room, talking and getting to know each other and having a good time. Samantha brought out the leftover drinks and appetizers from last night. She insisted on sharing Shirley's cookies and June's hors d'oeuvres and put those out too.

"Pick the nice green ones," June said to Sam, pointing at the hors d'oeuvres, "They're delicious."

"Why are you not having a drink, Samantha?" asked a young woman named Lizzie.

"I, um… I don't think that's such a good idea right now."

A wonderful time was had by all. It felt to Sam like making up for the cocktails hour she never had. A whole hour quickly went by.

When the women finally left, it was not without exchanging phone numbers and making plans to meet up in the near future. Samantha was happy. She felt so cared about and appreciated, she could have cried.

Gladys Kravitz peered over the fence into Darrin and Samantha Stephens' backyard. She was visiting Florence, the neighbor who lived next door to the Stephens. She and Florence had been hanging out in Florence's garden. Then Flo had excused herself to go visit the john. The woman always took twenty minutes in the bathroom, so Gladys took the opportunity to climb onto a big rock by the the fence and peek into the Stephens' backyard. She had always wondered what it looked like back there.

As she took in the view, she saw Samantha come out carrying a washtub, a towel, and a plastic bottle of something. Sam didn't seem to notice her snooping neighbor, so Gladys went right on watching. She looked on as Sam took the hose, filled the washtub with water, and began combing out her hair. What was she doing? They didn't have a dog to wash, did they?

Once done combing, Sam dunked her head in the water and soaked it thoroughly before applying whatever was in the bottle to her wet hair. Obviously believing herself to be alone, she began to sing loudly as she scrubbed.

"Compliments like that are charming

Warm and real and kind and rich

But my looks are not disarming

You're hooked by my twitch!

I'm wild again, beguiled again…"

Huh?! Why was she washing her hair outside?!

"… a simpering, whimpering child again

Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered AM IIIIIIII!"

Gladys kept on watching, amazed, as Samantha rinsed her hair with the hose and continued belting out the song without reserve.

"I'm in your power, but what of it?

He is lost, I can tell

Watch my nose, how I love it

It's a be-witch-ing speeeeeelllll!"

And that was that. Gladys Kravitz bolted inside, through Florence's house, back outside straight to her own house.

"ABNEEEEER! EE-ABNEEEEER! Samantha Stephens! She has LICE!"

Fin

A bit of trivia- The nose-picking guy Samantha sits next to at Jack In The Box is based off a real guy who regularly hangs out at my local Jack In The Box. He sits all the way in the back in a corner, picking his nose the entire time. He is always there.

Crap I used in this story that isn't mine:

-Boogie Bands. I saw these a couple times in a store, but I made up the name "Boogie Bands". I don't remember what they were actually called.

-Jack In The Box

-Hughes Markets and the Hughes Markets jingle. According to my dad, the jingle I used in this story was used in Hughes radio commercials around the 70s-80s. We looked all over for it online but couldn't find it, however.

-The television show My Three Sons

-The song Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered was originally from the 1940 Rogers and Hart musical Pal Joey. The version Samantha sings in this story was sung by Vic Damone and Elizabeth Montgomery on The Hollywood Palace in 1966.