Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Gonna Dress You Up in My Love
When I was seven, my BFF and I decided to be a pair of dice for Halloween. Our crafty mothers got large cardboard boxes and cut armholes in them. They painted them white and glued black dots made from construction paper to each side.
Just before I left the house to join my friend, my mother suggested a last minute addition. Grabbing a large black marker from the kitchen junk drawer, she carefully drew two dots on my left cheek, six dots on my right, and :: on my chin.
Later, when my only wish was to slip into a candy induced coma, I went to wash the dots off my face. In her enthusiasm, my mother had used a large black PERMANENT Marks-Alot Marker--the kind you can smell two states away, that can successfully be used on 100 washes of laundry.
When she discovered the markings were impervious to her Ponds Cold Cream, she caressed my cheeks gently with a steel SOS brillo pad. I still went to school the next day wearing two black dots on my left cheek, six on my right and :: on my chin.
Luckily, I had a full supply of miniature Hershey bars to dull the pain.
This is not even my worst Halloween costume story. If my father were not a regular reader of this blog (Hi Dad) I would be tempted to write about the Halloween when I was 22, and new to the city, and dressed up as a lobster, and went to the wrong address for what I thought was a Halloween party. I didn't figure it out for awhile because all the people around me were dressed in leather. It was only after the third time someone called me Mistress Lobster that I discovered I was at a club called The Dungeon. And that's all I'm gonna say about that. (Hi again Dad.)
This year: ComplicatedBoy would like to be a robot. But not a cardboard box robot, or even a Johnny Five Robot. He wants a Terminator meets Justin Timberlake robot. He wants a silver suit, shirt and tie with just flashes of electronics showing through-I believe he suggested fiber optics. Most importantly--the costume requires A WORKING JET PACK. I'm thinking this year I will not be able to leave the whole thing to the tenth hour and then pull it out of my butt: the way I whipped a yard of faux fur into a teenage werewolf last year.