Our first date was Halloween. It was the culmination of years and years of devotion – sometimes implicit, more recently explicit. Time spent talking on instant messenger, then on the phone – for hours, every night, despite the fact that I had to wait up until midnight so her unlimited cell phone minutes would kick in, seeing as she was an entire country away. There was a lot of buildup for this one date.
We had started talking online probably three or so years earlier, having met on a message board for a now-defunct comedy website, like so many couples do. She said something mean to somebody I hated on the Internet, so naturally I fell in love. That's how guys work, by the way – especially guys on the Internet. We fall in love very quickly, and for any reason we want to. “She made a joke about David Byrne. She and I must be soulmates. Better latch on FOREVER.” So I latched on.
---
A few weeks before Halloween, I got invited to a party. Now, I hate Halloween and I hate parties and I hate costumes and I hate everything and ugh Jesus I'm a wretch. I told her about the party, and how I wasn't going because I didn't have a date. That was a lie. I wasn't going because, y'know, fuck that noise, right? Being social? Having fun? No thank you.
“What if I were your date?”
“Yeah, right. You fly out to Massachusetts and I'll go to this party.”
“Done. I have that weekend off. See you then.”
Shit. Well, now I have to go this horrible party full of jerks. (NB: I really don't actually hate everybody who was at this party, just everybody in general. You understand.) On top of that horror, I had the unenviable task of meeting my, I suppose, girlfriend. Meeting somebody from the Internet is a scary thing. I've done it a handful of times now, and it never gets easier. Meeting someone you've only spoken to a few times is nerve-wracking, but there's something much worse about spending years and years getting to know somebody – falling in love with somebody (because, let's be clear, I was completely in love with her) – and then having to actually meet her. It's not a voice on the phone anymore. It's not text on a screen. She's an actual person who knows everything about me. Fears, hopes, shame. Everything.
And there she is, getting off the plane. And I can read it on her face – she hates me.
I was awful. Just the worst. I was sweaty and pimply and exhausted and poorly dressed. She had every right to look at me and immediately turn around, get back on the plane and fly back to Los Angeles. I now know that she would have, if the plane hadn't already left the terminal. Planes work the same way buses do, right? They have a circuit that they just follow all day? I'm pretty sure that's how they work.
So we drove back to my parents' house. They were much more interested in meeting the mystery girl I'd been spending years talking to than I was, and I helped pay for her flight. We couldn't even look at each other for the whole first night. It was too surreal. I figured the best way to simulate a phone call would be for her to sit on the bed and for me to lie down on the floor next to it. We turned off the lights and just talked for a few hours. It helped, but it didn't solve the problem. I think we ended up breaking up three or four times that weekend.
So it's Halloween. She's some kind of vampirate thing or whatever. She looks good. I'm something that involved dress pants. I can't remember what. Tom Waits? Probably. Sure. We'll say that my costume was Fat Tom Waits. As we left for the party, my mom asked where we were going.
“There's a party over at Rachel and Julie's place.”
“Really, Joshua? 'Rachel and Julie?' You don't do that to somebody you love, Joshua.”
I'm not entirely sure what she meant by that. I guess if you love a girl, you shouldn't take her to parties at other girls' houses. That makes a certain kind of nonsense, if you squint your eyes and turn your head. Whatever. We drove to the party in relative silence. We stopped at Burger King so she could get some chicken nuggets or whatever. The moment we got to the house, we were accosted by a girl whose costume appeared to be “drunk pregnant girl with cat ears.”
Important: I'm terrible at parties. I have crazy anxiety around strangers. Frankly, I have crazy anxiety around familiarers. The ratio of strangers to familiarers was like, 40:1. It was too much for me to bear, especially considering I was certain that I had gone and ruined my friendship with the girl from the Internet. We broke up. Again.
We talked and talked and didn't talk and didn't talk. Finally, we decided on going to a different party over at my friend Joe's house, which consisted of Joe, the rest of the Magnuses, Joe's girlfriend, our friend Nate and nobody else. I was instantly at ease, although I can't remember if that was a result of the familiarity of Joe's house, or the fact that I started drinking the moment I got there. Whatever it was, something clicked. I explained to Nate and Joe that the girl from the Internet and I were just going to be friends. We had broken up for the Nth and final time. It's all over. We're just friends. Phew. At least we were still friends.
That night, we were both hanging out in my bed. My mom poked in and asked us if we were in love. That's the kind of question a child of divorce asks his mom and her new boyfriend. It's awkward when a kid says that, and boy was it ever awkward when my mom said that. The thing is, we probably weren't. The rest of her visit was a blur. We went out for breakfast the next day. It snowed, which made her cry – not in a fun, “oh this is so beautiful” way, but in a “GODDAMNIT WHY CAN'T ANYTHING BE THE WAY I WANT IT TO BE” way. We watched State and Main. I drove her back to the airport. I cried the entire way home. We got married a little over a year later.
Josh Grimmer lives in Hollywood with his wife (who he met on the Internet) and cat (who he met in person). He kinda sorta runs this blog, and has another one at http://mousebed.blogspot.com. Twitter him up at http://twitter.com/JoshGrimmer
---
Trick or whatever who cares. How was Halloween week for you guys? Good, I hope. What are you guys and gals going to dress up as tomorrow night? I'm thinking Doughy Elvis Costello. No, not for me. For you. For all of you. Each and every reader of this blog should dress up as a Doughy Elvis Costello. Put on the weight, I don't care. Just do it.
Living in Hollywood, every day is like Halloween. Oh, except for Halloween. That day is like getting punched in the solar plexus by Halloween. Thousands of people in costumes, clogging the streets. It's difficult to get anywhere. You can't drive, you can't park, you can't walk. It's utter misery. Second worst day of the year for me, right behind Oscar night. Good thing I'm moving soon.
[[HOLY SHIT LOOK AT THIS SEGUE]]
Speaking of moving, that's next week's theme! Starting tomorrow, we'll be posting a bunch of great essays about moving from all of your favorite writers, including Katie McMahon, Sarah Vowell, Steve Strong, Charles Bukowski, Marsi White, JD Salinger – all of them and more! (Can you say “special guest writers?” I'm not saying you should expect something from Mark Twain but uh... I hope you like Southernisms. That's all I'll say.)
The next theme for submissions is fashion. Now, I know what you're thinking. “Great! I can write about Etsy.” You know what? Go ahead. If I get a dozen essays about Etsy, then cool. Please, though, be sure to be interesting. That's all I care about. Oh, interesting and before the deadline. November 5. That's a Friday, just like every deadline.
The week after that, the theme will be “Listen to This.” I'd like to receive essays about your favorite mix tape, or the time your friend took you to see a band that you hadn't ever heard of but you ended up liking, or the time you dated a girl who was really, really into Tori Amos so you ended up becoming a Tori Amos fan by osmosis. There's something very scary and intimate about giving somebody some music to listen to for the first time. Hopefully there'll be nothing scary about submitting your essays by Friday, November 12.
I'm running woefully long, so this'll be my last thing. Do any of you write music. HYPOTHETICAL QUESTION. I know some of you do. If you have a song you've written or would like to write about any of our topics, I'd love to post them. Songwriting is still writing. Let's make this thing an Internet multimedia extravaganza or something.
Grosses bises,
Josh Grimmer, Editor-in-Chief
Showing posts with label Halloween. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Halloween. Show all posts
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Barbi Beckett: Scary Things
Threats to my family’s safety and health are what scare me now. And paranormal activity. That spooks me. Strangely, (or not) the things that scared the pants off me as a kid, mostly involved my mother. This was literally true for my brother.
One of mom’s favorite things to do was tease her hair into a giant, gnarly mane, remove her false teeth and burst out roaring at Ken, with her arms raised and hands all clawed. He would sprint outside screaming in his Fruit of the Looms. She’d be sure to surprise him in his skivvies because, while it was funny to see him terrified, it was hilarious to see him standing humiliated on the sidewalk. I’d be inside watching this over-weight, gummy maniac chuckle at the screen door while saying, “Come back in, sweetheart. It’s just your mother.”
At least two of my brothers were tormented by my mother’s velvet clown painting. They truly hated it so, of course, she made a game of agreeing to put it away and then randomly hanging it around the house. As I played quietly I’d hear a boy scream, followed by a woman’s cackle. I was very young and could see the creepiness of the painting but my discomfort was born of my big brothers’ fear. They were the older, tougher ones. It was unsettling when they were afraid.
Years after my parents were divorced I spent two weeks with mom in Pecos, Texas. I was twelve and traveled the three hours to get there in a truck with some guy my mom knew but my dad and I had never met. Why no one deemed that scenario scary baffles me still. The man turned out to be harmless but the visit did not. One afternoon I told my mom I wanted to watch the Exorcist, which was showing on HBO. Of course I had no idea what the movie was about but she wouldn’t turn it off because I’d said I wanted to watch it. For months, after I returned home, I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing Linda Blair in various stages of possessed.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d had some experience as Satan’s spawn. There’s a photo of me in an early Halloween costume, I’m a year and a half old and wearing all white, with black whiskers painted on my cheeks. There are some feathery ears on my head and around my neck hangs a sign that says, “Rosemary’s Baby.”
They don’t show this in the movie but, apparently, the antichrist sired a kitten.
For the short time I was under the same roof with my mother and all of my siblings, I existed in the relative safety of being the baby, too young to understand the things that scared my brothers and sister. I was often confused and worried, picking up on tension around me, but it wasn’t until I was grown that I understood more about their real fears. My oldest brother told me about a time he’d gone with our mother to drag my sister from a friend’s house where she was hiding. Sabrina had been trying to escape our mom for some time. Jimmy painfully admitted that he hated to see what was happening to her at home, but the survivor in him said, “better her than me.” As they arrived at the friend’s house, Sabrina flew out the back door and Jimmy was ordered to go after her. They ran, jumping the rock walls that fenced all of the backyards in our town. She crossed a street and disappeared behind a house on the next block. When he climbed the wall in that yard he looked down to see our sister crouched against it on the other side. She stared up at him, panting, but they didn’t speak. He lowered himself down and took the long walk back to tell everyone that he’d lost her.
Occasionally at night, back in those very early years, my mother would instigate a game of Murder in the Dark. We’d turn off the lights and draw the curtains to make the house as dark as possible. Someone would have pulled the “x” from a bowl of torn papers and that person would be the murderer. The rest of us would hide under beds, behind furniture, and in closets until the murderer came creeping around. You’d freeze and try not to breathe but, inevitably, you’d hear a whispered, “You’re dead” before they’d slink away. At some point, the lights would be turned back on for a trial where the murderer would defend him/herself. I didn’t really understand anything beyond the hiding, but I liked the game because I always got paired up with someone. I was so desperate for family unity and it brought us all together. Snuggling up in a dark hidey spot with my mom or a big brother protector felt consummately safe and cozy. We’d squeeze each other extra tight as we felt the killer’s breath upon us. I would advocate multiple rounds of the game in hopes of being rubbed out with each member of my family. Eventually, interest would fizzle and everyone would disperse but, while it lasted, Murder In The Dark was a tender reprieve.
One of mom’s favorite things to do was tease her hair into a giant, gnarly mane, remove her false teeth and burst out roaring at Ken, with her arms raised and hands all clawed. He would sprint outside screaming in his Fruit of the Looms. She’d be sure to surprise him in his skivvies because, while it was funny to see him terrified, it was hilarious to see him standing humiliated on the sidewalk. I’d be inside watching this over-weight, gummy maniac chuckle at the screen door while saying, “Come back in, sweetheart. It’s just your mother.”
At least two of my brothers were tormented by my mother’s velvet clown painting. They truly hated it so, of course, she made a game of agreeing to put it away and then randomly hanging it around the house. As I played quietly I’d hear a boy scream, followed by a woman’s cackle. I was very young and could see the creepiness of the painting but my discomfort was born of my big brothers’ fear. They were the older, tougher ones. It was unsettling when they were afraid.
Years after my parents were divorced I spent two weeks with mom in Pecos, Texas. I was twelve and traveled the three hours to get there in a truck with some guy my mom knew but my dad and I had never met. Why no one deemed that scenario scary baffles me still. The man turned out to be harmless but the visit did not. One afternoon I told my mom I wanted to watch the Exorcist, which was showing on HBO. Of course I had no idea what the movie was about but she wouldn’t turn it off because I’d said I wanted to watch it. For months, after I returned home, I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing Linda Blair in various stages of possessed.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d had some experience as Satan’s spawn. There’s a photo of me in an early Halloween costume, I’m a year and a half old and wearing all white, with black whiskers painted on my cheeks. There are some feathery ears on my head and around my neck hangs a sign that says, “Rosemary’s Baby.”
They don’t show this in the movie but, apparently, the antichrist sired a kitten.
For the short time I was under the same roof with my mother and all of my siblings, I existed in the relative safety of being the baby, too young to understand the things that scared my brothers and sister. I was often confused and worried, picking up on tension around me, but it wasn’t until I was grown that I understood more about their real fears. My oldest brother told me about a time he’d gone with our mother to drag my sister from a friend’s house where she was hiding. Sabrina had been trying to escape our mom for some time. Jimmy painfully admitted that he hated to see what was happening to her at home, but the survivor in him said, “better her than me.” As they arrived at the friend’s house, Sabrina flew out the back door and Jimmy was ordered to go after her. They ran, jumping the rock walls that fenced all of the backyards in our town. She crossed a street and disappeared behind a house on the next block. When he climbed the wall in that yard he looked down to see our sister crouched against it on the other side. She stared up at him, panting, but they didn’t speak. He lowered himself down and took the long walk back to tell everyone that he’d lost her.
Occasionally at night, back in those very early years, my mother would instigate a game of Murder in the Dark. We’d turn off the lights and draw the curtains to make the house as dark as possible. Someone would have pulled the “x” from a bowl of torn papers and that person would be the murderer. The rest of us would hide under beds, behind furniture, and in closets until the murderer came creeping around. You’d freeze and try not to breathe but, inevitably, you’d hear a whispered, “You’re dead” before they’d slink away. At some point, the lights would be turned back on for a trial where the murderer would defend him/herself. I didn’t really understand anything beyond the hiding, but I liked the game because I always got paired up with someone. I was so desperate for family unity and it brought us all together. Snuggling up in a dark hidey spot with my mom or a big brother protector felt consummately safe and cozy. We’d squeeze each other extra tight as we felt the killer’s breath upon us. I would advocate multiple rounds of the game in hopes of being rubbed out with each member of my family. Eventually, interest would fizzle and everyone would disperse but, while it lasted, Murder In The Dark was a tender reprieve.
Cari Shanks: Halloween Happened
Ah, the sweet smell of decaying leaves. The laughter of children scurrying from door to door yelling “trick or treat!” in a shrill that only comes from the anticipation of sugar. And oh, the whores! Wait, I mean... nope, I was right the first time. Whores.
When did Halloween become the new Spring Break? Just as I was breathing a sigh of relief that summer was over and I could break out my hoodies and indulge in some serious stuffing and pumpkin pie, Halloween happened!
How did my princess and fairy costumes from few years ago get replaced with the slutty witch and the FBI agent with a leather mini skirt and thigh high boots? Where did the few months between bikini season and my New Year’s Resolution go? Wasn’t I supposed to be allowed some eggnog and fun size Snickers somewhere in there? I'm not trying to sound bitter about the lack of carb and sugar loading that I can indulge in during my later years, but honestly when did the innocence of Halloween disappear?
I understand Halloween originated with the Pagans and Los Dias de le Muertos, and basically every aspect of any religion that believed in spirits and the continuation of one’s soul after the body has left this life. But just like many of these cultural staples is one’s religious and historical background, stories today have been “Disney-fied” to create a PG strobe light of images of classic literature and scripture. Charlie Brown’s “It’s The Great Pumpkin” and Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” have all but faded away in their gloriously Hallmarked grandeur and left with visions of stiletto stalking mistresses and Jersey Shore wannabe Snookis. I look at the younger kids today and their Halloween costume choices and I see shorter and shorter skirts the younger the girls get and more testosterone driven outfits for the strapping young James Deans of our generations.
With a holiday stemming from the mischief and unknown of spirits among us, there will always be some devilish behavior, but in all honesty, what happened to the joy of getting a king size candy bar? When did we start having to check candy wrappers for needle holes? And why does every costume I think of this year end with the word “whore”?
I can only request that we all revert back to our youths of fully clothed ghastly characters and pretty princesses. Try to reclaim a hint of our innocence with a touch of a toothache. And for ghoulish sakes, I want more this Halloween than a hangover, I just want some candy!
When did Halloween become the new Spring Break? Just as I was breathing a sigh of relief that summer was over and I could break out my hoodies and indulge in some serious stuffing and pumpkin pie, Halloween happened!
How did my princess and fairy costumes from few years ago get replaced with the slutty witch and the FBI agent with a leather mini skirt and thigh high boots? Where did the few months between bikini season and my New Year’s Resolution go? Wasn’t I supposed to be allowed some eggnog and fun size Snickers somewhere in there? I'm not trying to sound bitter about the lack of carb and sugar loading that I can indulge in during my later years, but honestly when did the innocence of Halloween disappear?
I understand Halloween originated with the Pagans and Los Dias de le Muertos, and basically every aspect of any religion that believed in spirits and the continuation of one’s soul after the body has left this life. But just like many of these cultural staples is one’s religious and historical background, stories today have been “Disney-fied” to create a PG strobe light of images of classic literature and scripture. Charlie Brown’s “It’s The Great Pumpkin” and Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” have all but faded away in their gloriously Hallmarked grandeur and left with visions of stiletto stalking mistresses and Jersey Shore wannabe Snookis. I look at the younger kids today and their Halloween costume choices and I see shorter and shorter skirts the younger the girls get and more testosterone driven outfits for the strapping young James Deans of our generations.
With a holiday stemming from the mischief and unknown of spirits among us, there will always be some devilish behavior, but in all honesty, what happened to the joy of getting a king size candy bar? When did we start having to check candy wrappers for needle holes? And why does every costume I think of this year end with the word “whore”?
I can only request that we all revert back to our youths of fully clothed ghastly characters and pretty princesses. Try to reclaim a hint of our innocence with a touch of a toothache. And for ghoulish sakes, I want more this Halloween than a hangover, I just want some candy!
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Marsi White: The Costume in our Garage
The box sits in my garage. Buried. When I say box, I really mean one of those 50-gallon tubs with the snap-tight lids that are supposed to keep stored items safe from dust, water, rodents, what have you. Ours needs protection from all of those things. Simply put, the garage is the victim of a home remodel and its predecessor, the inheritance of a plethora of keepsakes, clothes and junk from our parents.
Otherwise known as “the stuff house” to his boyhood friends, my husband’s parents’ house was rented last year in order to help pay the increasing health care costs for his ailing mother. It is amazing what you find when you are forced to clean out a house that was lived in by a family for more than 40 years. Especially a family influenced by depression-era saving. A whisper shy of hoarding, everything was safely stored so it could be re-purposed. Or, as they would call it in today’s lingo, “being green.” Empty Kleenex boxes served as jewelry receptacles. Keepsakes were found in toolboxes next to the hammer. Drawers contained a mixture of coupons, receipts, pictures, books and maybe a scarf or two.
This house was “green” on steroids. Fifteen years ago, my husband and I spent the first two months of our marriage living in the study of “the stuff house.” Still trying to impress my new in-laws, one interminable summer day, I thought I would clean out the cabinets of the upstairs bathroom. The cabinets were old, as were their contents. Not necessarily dirty though, so my job was more along the lines of sorting my findings. I do not remember all that I threw out or all that I sorted that day, however I do remember ending up with a basket brimming over of give-away plastic key chains, stamped with the logos of almost every business in town. This was in the age before the recycle bin, so I put them out for the trash collector. As I found out months later, every last key chain was, in fact, collected from that curb -- by my mother-in-law, who quietly snuck each one back in the house. I guess an extra key chain, or a hundred, are handy to have around?
Despite my protests, last year, the senseless treasures of the “stuff house” matriculated into my garage. I fought it. I really did. But in the end, efficiency and sentiment triumphed and every week, more boxes found their way into my husband’s car and our house. Mind you, it is not all bad: when we were invited to an 80’s party last year, my husband handed me his original acid-washed blue jeans, dug out of the piles that flanked my parked car. He even had a paisley shirt to match. Done and done.
We have been trying to organize. So, after I finished reliving my teens in my like totally awesome acid wash jeans, I deposited them into our costume box. The costume box contains nothing in a child size. Instead, the box contains reminders of Halloweens past, bringing back memories of wild nights and pre-children, even pre-marriage, morality. Some of our costumes were more conservative. The time we were salt and pepper shakers our costume required nothing fancier than black and white street clothes with billowy, hand-made aluminum foil hats. There were outlandish costumes, such as the year we were Drew Carey and Mimi. That blue eyeshadow I wore was exquisite, like blue frosting iced across my eyelids. That night we danced under the stars in a rural neighborhood where loud music escaped heedlessly and good friends tried to drink each other under the table.
Our 70’s costumes are also in the box. Now that is a sexy dress: brown with yellow and white flowers and lots of cleavage. Lots of cleavage. I was pregnant that Halloween. We returned to the same house. Again, we danced under the stars until the wee hours of the morning.
And then there was the year we were pirates. I don’t remember much about that year, except that I think we may have been on a double decker bus touring downtown San Diego like a wild bunch of banshees. Pre-kids. Not pre-marriage. Ten years later, we took that bus trip again. Me as a sexy nurse, my husband as Dr. Feelursnatch.
This year, there will be no organized parties for us. We are getting smarter or lazier, take your pick. We will take our children trick-or-treating, but the effort we previously put into our costumes will now be channeled into pulling our cooler full of beer down the block, as our kids run from house to house. The first year we pulled the cooler, we forgot drinks for the kids. When my daughter (age five at the time) cried from thirst, I was lucky enough to knock on the door of another mother that I knew from PTA. As she handed my daughter water, she spied the cooler through the dark night. Her puzzled look was quickly followed by scowl of disgust as she realized what made up our cooler’s contents. My daughter did not notice. I did not mind. I did not have a crying child to deal with anymore. Done and done.
So why do we save the box of costumes in the garage? Honestly, mostly because we treasure our authentic 80’s clothes contained within. Saving the Halloween costumes is just a bonus.
Otherwise known as “the stuff house” to his boyhood friends, my husband’s parents’ house was rented last year in order to help pay the increasing health care costs for his ailing mother. It is amazing what you find when you are forced to clean out a house that was lived in by a family for more than 40 years. Especially a family influenced by depression-era saving. A whisper shy of hoarding, everything was safely stored so it could be re-purposed. Or, as they would call it in today’s lingo, “being green.” Empty Kleenex boxes served as jewelry receptacles. Keepsakes were found in toolboxes next to the hammer. Drawers contained a mixture of coupons, receipts, pictures, books and maybe a scarf or two.
This house was “green” on steroids. Fifteen years ago, my husband and I spent the first two months of our marriage living in the study of “the stuff house.” Still trying to impress my new in-laws, one interminable summer day, I thought I would clean out the cabinets of the upstairs bathroom. The cabinets were old, as were their contents. Not necessarily dirty though, so my job was more along the lines of sorting my findings. I do not remember all that I threw out or all that I sorted that day, however I do remember ending up with a basket brimming over of give-away plastic key chains, stamped with the logos of almost every business in town. This was in the age before the recycle bin, so I put them out for the trash collector. As I found out months later, every last key chain was, in fact, collected from that curb -- by my mother-in-law, who quietly snuck each one back in the house. I guess an extra key chain, or a hundred, are handy to have around?
Despite my protests, last year, the senseless treasures of the “stuff house” matriculated into my garage. I fought it. I really did. But in the end, efficiency and sentiment triumphed and every week, more boxes found their way into my husband’s car and our house. Mind you, it is not all bad: when we were invited to an 80’s party last year, my husband handed me his original acid-washed blue jeans, dug out of the piles that flanked my parked car. He even had a paisley shirt to match. Done and done.
We have been trying to organize. So, after I finished reliving my teens in my like totally awesome acid wash jeans, I deposited them into our costume box. The costume box contains nothing in a child size. Instead, the box contains reminders of Halloweens past, bringing back memories of wild nights and pre-children, even pre-marriage, morality. Some of our costumes were more conservative. The time we were salt and pepper shakers our costume required nothing fancier than black and white street clothes with billowy, hand-made aluminum foil hats. There were outlandish costumes, such as the year we were Drew Carey and Mimi. That blue eyeshadow I wore was exquisite, like blue frosting iced across my eyelids. That night we danced under the stars in a rural neighborhood where loud music escaped heedlessly and good friends tried to drink each other under the table.
Our 70’s costumes are also in the box. Now that is a sexy dress: brown with yellow and white flowers and lots of cleavage. Lots of cleavage. I was pregnant that Halloween. We returned to the same house. Again, we danced under the stars until the wee hours of the morning.
And then there was the year we were pirates. I don’t remember much about that year, except that I think we may have been on a double decker bus touring downtown San Diego like a wild bunch of banshees. Pre-kids. Not pre-marriage. Ten years later, we took that bus trip again. Me as a sexy nurse, my husband as Dr. Feelursnatch.
This year, there will be no organized parties for us. We are getting smarter or lazier, take your pick. We will take our children trick-or-treating, but the effort we previously put into our costumes will now be channeled into pulling our cooler full of beer down the block, as our kids run from house to house. The first year we pulled the cooler, we forgot drinks for the kids. When my daughter (age five at the time) cried from thirst, I was lucky enough to knock on the door of another mother that I knew from PTA. As she handed my daughter water, she spied the cooler through the dark night. Her puzzled look was quickly followed by scowl of disgust as she realized what made up our cooler’s contents. My daughter did not notice. I did not mind. I did not have a crying child to deal with anymore. Done and done.
So why do we save the box of costumes in the garage? Honestly, mostly because we treasure our authentic 80’s clothes contained within. Saving the Halloween costumes is just a bonus.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
J. Allen Holt: Don't Get Too Excited
Once upon a time, I would get really excited for Halloween. Then, I would get a little bit excited for Halloween. Now, I mostly just dread trying to come up with the obligatory costume. It's a shame, really, that what promises to be a very awesome holiday just isn't, at least not for me.
As a kid, my favorite costume ever was a black ninja outfit. I tried it on probably a dozen times the week before Halloween. I even wanted to wear it again the following year. The only problem was that I was growing very, very fast. Too fast for my ninja costume's sleeves and pants. I didn't love it enough to be the high-water ninja that next year. My brother was able to squeeze one more trick-or-treat out of his ninja costume, and I was extremely jealous.
One problem with that Halloween and several others was that I lived where nature always liked to take a dump on my costume plans. Now the Ohio River Valley is great weather if you like sudden changes in climate and digging your car out of the mud. It's not so great, however, for ninja costumes at the end of October. My mom carted my brother and me around all night with our sweet ninja costumes hidden by big, puffy winter coats. We were two little flashers, whipping open our coats to show that underneath we were, in fact, deadly assassins simply masquerading as two cold, wet little kids. I don't know exactly what material they used to make those costumes. It wasn't quite cloth. The cheaper ones were like wearing toilet paper stitched together. Whatever they were made of, they were not made for braving the elements.
Halloween is good at that, in my experience: being utterly disappointing. I was naïve and blissful enough to not care when I was 10 and leading the charge with the “ninjas are cool” movement. Now, it's something I'm prepared for. The best way not to be disappointed in this life is not to expect too much in the first place. I know that sounds like an awfully cynical way to live, but that's just because it is.
The bright side is that at least I'm not a kid now trying to enjoy Halloween. In the 80s, it was merely potential razor blades or poison that put a damper on the socially accepted mass begging of October 31st. Now, it seems like even darkness is too dangerous for kids. When I was a kid, anyone who went trick-or-treating before the sun went down would have been labeled the biggest pussy to ever walk through our school doors. They would immediately pass over the kid who started crying because he went too high on the swing set. Unfortunately for that kid, Eric, our current extreme level of over-protectiveness had yet to be seen before his time at Sinking Fork Elementary had come to an end. Sure, we had a couple of kids who didn't believe in celebrating Halloween, but they had even more problems than Eric, which might be difficult to believe for anyone who actually witnessed him howling while clutching that rusty chain for dear life.
The last time I went all-out for Halloween in the costume department was when I was living back in Kentucky again. A friend had invited me to his place for a party. I got this crazy, evil priest-type robe and a small, scary make-up kit. My freshly shaved head I covered in white make-up while I accented my eyes and lips in black. It was extremely satisfying admiring my transformation into a scary looking creature of the night. I may have overdone it though. I showed up at the house and rang the door-bell. A girl in a cat suit (one of four cat girls that night) opened the door, took one look at me, and slammed it in my face. After a moment of standing there, my friend opened the door and let me in. “I know you, and you're freaking me out.” That was the last time I really tried. There's just so little pay-off for the effort. My best-received costume was probably the one in which I just stuffed a pillow in my shirt and went as my fat friend.
So, for all you spooks and spookettes out there: Dress up like a princess or a prostitute. Beg for candy or swill tequila. Whatever your age, go all out. Just don't expect me to be impressed with your cat ears.
As a kid, my favorite costume ever was a black ninja outfit. I tried it on probably a dozen times the week before Halloween. I even wanted to wear it again the following year. The only problem was that I was growing very, very fast. Too fast for my ninja costume's sleeves and pants. I didn't love it enough to be the high-water ninja that next year. My brother was able to squeeze one more trick-or-treat out of his ninja costume, and I was extremely jealous.
One problem with that Halloween and several others was that I lived where nature always liked to take a dump on my costume plans. Now the Ohio River Valley is great weather if you like sudden changes in climate and digging your car out of the mud. It's not so great, however, for ninja costumes at the end of October. My mom carted my brother and me around all night with our sweet ninja costumes hidden by big, puffy winter coats. We were two little flashers, whipping open our coats to show that underneath we were, in fact, deadly assassins simply masquerading as two cold, wet little kids. I don't know exactly what material they used to make those costumes. It wasn't quite cloth. The cheaper ones were like wearing toilet paper stitched together. Whatever they were made of, they were not made for braving the elements.
Halloween is good at that, in my experience: being utterly disappointing. I was naïve and blissful enough to not care when I was 10 and leading the charge with the “ninjas are cool” movement. Now, it's something I'm prepared for. The best way not to be disappointed in this life is not to expect too much in the first place. I know that sounds like an awfully cynical way to live, but that's just because it is.
The bright side is that at least I'm not a kid now trying to enjoy Halloween. In the 80s, it was merely potential razor blades or poison that put a damper on the socially accepted mass begging of October 31st. Now, it seems like even darkness is too dangerous for kids. When I was a kid, anyone who went trick-or-treating before the sun went down would have been labeled the biggest pussy to ever walk through our school doors. They would immediately pass over the kid who started crying because he went too high on the swing set. Unfortunately for that kid, Eric, our current extreme level of over-protectiveness had yet to be seen before his time at Sinking Fork Elementary had come to an end. Sure, we had a couple of kids who didn't believe in celebrating Halloween, but they had even more problems than Eric, which might be difficult to believe for anyone who actually witnessed him howling while clutching that rusty chain for dear life.
The last time I went all-out for Halloween in the costume department was when I was living back in Kentucky again. A friend had invited me to his place for a party. I got this crazy, evil priest-type robe and a small, scary make-up kit. My freshly shaved head I covered in white make-up while I accented my eyes and lips in black. It was extremely satisfying admiring my transformation into a scary looking creature of the night. I may have overdone it though. I showed up at the house and rang the door-bell. A girl in a cat suit (one of four cat girls that night) opened the door, took one look at me, and slammed it in my face. After a moment of standing there, my friend opened the door and let me in. “I know you, and you're freaking me out.” That was the last time I really tried. There's just so little pay-off for the effort. My best-received costume was probably the one in which I just stuffed a pillow in my shirt and went as my fat friend.
So, for all you spooks and spookettes out there: Dress up like a princess or a prostitute. Beg for candy or swill tequila. Whatever your age, go all out. Just don't expect me to be impressed with your cat ears.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Steve Strong: A Mormon Gorilla with a Human Head
Everyone who knows me knows I’m a Mormon. It’s no secret really. It seems to come up in business conversations all the time because I can speak Japanese, and people seem interested in knowing how I learned that language. So, depending on the nationality of the person I’m dining with, I get loads of questions about my faith/culture.
If I’m eating with Asians, they want to know why I’m not drinking alcohol. Then they spend the rest of the trip trying to entice me to do just that. If I’m eating with a European, they may ask me about Salt Lake City, and assume I make a pilgrimage there every so often. They’re usually shocked to find out that not only am I not from there, I have no relatives or business ties to Utah.
I spent some time last year with a business acquaintance who was also a Baptist Preacher in Brazil. When he found out I was LDS he asked me if I thought Barack Obama is the antichrist. I told him no, he’s a Democrat. Anyway, I thought that was funny. But this guy missed the humor and kept pressing me about the President. He actually was shocked that everyone in America didn’t see that he’s the antichrist.
But it’s Americans who seem to have the wildest questions for me everywhere I go. People often tell me that I’m the first Mormon they’ve met they feel they can speak frankly with and can ask any question without worrying that I will get upset.
So what kinds of questions do I get from Americans?
- Are you Christian?
- How many wives do you have?
- Have you been saved?
- Are you allowed to dance?
- What do you think about Harry Potter?
- Do you celebrate Christmas? (substitute Easter, Birthdays, etc. here)
Maybe you’ve been sitting on some of those same queries too. If so, allow me to help: Yes; one is plenty; so far so good; allowed to but not willing to; it’s a book – it’s not real; yes indeed!
As to that last question, I usually say something to the effect of, “If it’s about kids having a good time, we’re all for it.” So yes, we celebrate Christmas, and yes we hang stockings and have Christmas trees, and yes we think the whole thing is too commercial and takes away from the real meaning of the season, but yet we celebrate the same as other Christians.
Besides the spiritual hymns associated with Easter, we also decorate and hide eggs and give the kids baskets. I have no idea what all this fascination with eggs has to do with the resurrection of Jesus Christ, but I don’t really dig that deep. We celebrate spiritually at church, then go home and have a nice ham dinner with Easter baskets for the kids. So you see, Mormons aren’t really all that different, right? Not so fast. It seems inquiring minds want to know how Latter-Day Saints handle the subject of Halloween.
In the past few years I’ve had well-meaning “Christians” witness to me that Harry Potter and J.K. Rowling were agents of the devil. I’ve been told that Star Wars was troubling because of “the Force.” But perhaps weirdest of all was when I did a little sleight of hand number I freaked out several people at work who told me that if I continued to do that I was opening myself up for demon possession.
OK folks. Let’s relax a bit and take a breath here. Bewitched was just a TV show. Jeannie didn’t really turn into smoke and hide in a bottle. Criss Angel doesn’t really levitate. And by the way, the WWE is fixed. And allowing my kids to dress up as Power Rangers is not paving their personal road to Hell.
Now, on the subject of Halloween, yes, Mormons decorate their homes and pass out candy to neighborhood kids who come trick-or-treating. We also usually have a Halloween party at our local church building. But for some of you, it may be a bit different from some of the Halloween parties you’re used to. For one, it’s not all that dark. It also will usually have tons of carnival type games for children. But the biggest difference you will see is that none of the costumes include masks. The simple reason for this is that some people may change their behavior if they think their identity is hidden. So to encourage a good time without nasty teenage pranks, LDS parties enforce the no mask rule. It doesn’t mean you can’t use tons of makeup though. We have some wonderfully frightening vampires and zombies at our parties.
But through the years my favorite attendee at an LDS Halloween party was a 12 year old boy who clearly was having problems with his parents' rules. Andrew had purchased a gorilla costume with his own money and was determined to wear it to the Ward party. But the problem was what to do about the mask. His parents told him absolutely no, he couldn’t wear the mask to the party. But Andrew complained that it wasn’t fair and that he bought the suit with his money. He wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to bounce around in public like a simian.
The compromise was the funniest costume I had ever seen: A gorilla with a boy’s head. Even better, Andrew was a red-haired freckled faced lad. Everyone at the party had the same question I had: What was he? Robin Williams? Some kind of mutant? I guess he was a darling half-man. Maybe some kind of comment on evolution.
But my Christian friends demand an answer: How can Mormons recognize Halloween when its origins are so, I don't know, questionable? Hey, haven’t you ever heard of “don’t ask, don’t tell?” The origins of Halloween are probably no stranger than the way we all celebrate Christmas and Easter.
If I’m eating with Asians, they want to know why I’m not drinking alcohol. Then they spend the rest of the trip trying to entice me to do just that. If I’m eating with a European, they may ask me about Salt Lake City, and assume I make a pilgrimage there every so often. They’re usually shocked to find out that not only am I not from there, I have no relatives or business ties to Utah.
I spent some time last year with a business acquaintance who was also a Baptist Preacher in Brazil. When he found out I was LDS he asked me if I thought Barack Obama is the antichrist. I told him no, he’s a Democrat. Anyway, I thought that was funny. But this guy missed the humor and kept pressing me about the President. He actually was shocked that everyone in America didn’t see that he’s the antichrist.
But it’s Americans who seem to have the wildest questions for me everywhere I go. People often tell me that I’m the first Mormon they’ve met they feel they can speak frankly with and can ask any question without worrying that I will get upset.
So what kinds of questions do I get from Americans?
- Are you Christian?
- How many wives do you have?
- Have you been saved?
- Are you allowed to dance?
- What do you think about Harry Potter?
- Do you celebrate Christmas? (substitute Easter, Birthdays, etc. here)
Maybe you’ve been sitting on some of those same queries too. If so, allow me to help: Yes; one is plenty; so far so good; allowed to but not willing to; it’s a book – it’s not real; yes indeed!
As to that last question, I usually say something to the effect of, “If it’s about kids having a good time, we’re all for it.” So yes, we celebrate Christmas, and yes we hang stockings and have Christmas trees, and yes we think the whole thing is too commercial and takes away from the real meaning of the season, but yet we celebrate the same as other Christians.
Besides the spiritual hymns associated with Easter, we also decorate and hide eggs and give the kids baskets. I have no idea what all this fascination with eggs has to do with the resurrection of Jesus Christ, but I don’t really dig that deep. We celebrate spiritually at church, then go home and have a nice ham dinner with Easter baskets for the kids. So you see, Mormons aren’t really all that different, right? Not so fast. It seems inquiring minds want to know how Latter-Day Saints handle the subject of Halloween.
In the past few years I’ve had well-meaning “Christians” witness to me that Harry Potter and J.K. Rowling were agents of the devil. I’ve been told that Star Wars was troubling because of “the Force.” But perhaps weirdest of all was when I did a little sleight of hand number I freaked out several people at work who told me that if I continued to do that I was opening myself up for demon possession.
OK folks. Let’s relax a bit and take a breath here. Bewitched was just a TV show. Jeannie didn’t really turn into smoke and hide in a bottle. Criss Angel doesn’t really levitate. And by the way, the WWE is fixed. And allowing my kids to dress up as Power Rangers is not paving their personal road to Hell.
Now, on the subject of Halloween, yes, Mormons decorate their homes and pass out candy to neighborhood kids who come trick-or-treating. We also usually have a Halloween party at our local church building. But for some of you, it may be a bit different from some of the Halloween parties you’re used to. For one, it’s not all that dark. It also will usually have tons of carnival type games for children. But the biggest difference you will see is that none of the costumes include masks. The simple reason for this is that some people may change their behavior if they think their identity is hidden. So to encourage a good time without nasty teenage pranks, LDS parties enforce the no mask rule. It doesn’t mean you can’t use tons of makeup though. We have some wonderfully frightening vampires and zombies at our parties.
But through the years my favorite attendee at an LDS Halloween party was a 12 year old boy who clearly was having problems with his parents' rules. Andrew had purchased a gorilla costume with his own money and was determined to wear it to the Ward party. But the problem was what to do about the mask. His parents told him absolutely no, he couldn’t wear the mask to the party. But Andrew complained that it wasn’t fair and that he bought the suit with his money. He wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to bounce around in public like a simian.
The compromise was the funniest costume I had ever seen: A gorilla with a boy’s head. Even better, Andrew was a red-haired freckled faced lad. Everyone at the party had the same question I had: What was he? Robin Williams? Some kind of mutant? I guess he was a darling half-man. Maybe some kind of comment on evolution.
But my Christian friends demand an answer: How can Mormons recognize Halloween when its origins are so, I don't know, questionable? Hey, haven’t you ever heard of “don’t ask, don’t tell?” The origins of Halloween are probably no stranger than the way we all celebrate Christmas and Easter.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Katie McMahon: Not a Drop
Apple picking. Cider drinking. Pumpkin carving. Baking cookies, cakes, pies, muffins, loaves of sticky, crumbly breads. These were things that had to be done. All at once. I wanted the feeling of fall on my mittened fingertips. I wanted marshmallows floating in mugs of hot cocoa, peering out of the top like little eyeballs, watching and waiting to be chewed up and swallowed. I wanted the wind to blow in my face and make my cheeks cold and red. Raindrops on my glasses. To walk inside any building, anywhere, and for my face to get redder from the warmth. To connect, maybe with you or with him or with her or with anything at all.
We try too hard to get back there.
I needed it and I needed it instantaneously. I took the day off from school and I spent it alone, driving to the cider mill. I brought my green glow-in-the-dark ghost purse. I wanted apples and pumpkins and things made of apples and pumpkins. I found two pumpkins. They were both orange and round and looked just how you would imagine pumpkins would look. The apples were too expensive and I could not understand why I could not pick my own. And why would an apple cost so much money? A huge crock pot of cider sat near the exit and I ladled some into a white paper cup. Cinnamon sticks floated near the top of the pot. The donuts were not fresh, but they were covered in sugar and cinnamon, so I grabbed one with a crinkly piece of parchment paper. I paid for the donut and the cider, walked outside and got into my car and then sat there. I ate the donut and drank the cider until it was completely gone. I started up the car and drove home, passing by fields of pumpkins and signs for fields of pumpkins and children walking home from school.
And I felt like it was not enough.
On Halloween night, I stood in the kitchen, baking pumpkin muffins out of a box, and covering the kitchen countertops in powdered sugar. I laid out old newspapers and brown paper bags across the table and set out different sized knives, like preparing for the pumpkin’s surgery. I sat near the vent in the wall to keep warm and I drank half a bottle of cheap red wine while scooping out the insides of one of the pumpkins. I wanted it to be simple, so I carved a tree into the pumpkin. I found a package of tea lights in my bedroom and carefully placed one inside the carved pumpkin. Then, I turned off all the lights and looked at the empty tree. I took a picture. I moved across the room to get a different angle. I took another picture.
I drank more wine. I put on a black dress that I never got to wear and teased my hair. I put on dark red lipstick and painted fake blood around my neck to look like my head had been cut off. I put on lots of black eyeshadow and rubbed it around my eyes, so I would look like a dead person. I took a picture.
I went to a party and made fun of the music. I flirted with someone’s boyfriend. I drank someone’s expensive vodka that they left on the table. I drank my own vodka. Words formed in my mouth, but I drank them down my throat so I could come up with better words. I could tell no one was listening, so I said the words very loudly and then left. I drove around in the rain. I called him even though I didn’t want to call him. He smelled like cigarettes and wore gloves he got from his grandma last Christmas. We ate with friends. We left and I went home. I called him again and cried my whole drunk self into the phone. I drank more and cried harder until there was not a drop left.
Someone else called me and he said, “Are you okay?”
I said, “No, I am not okay.”
Then, the sky got lighter and lighter and suddenly it was not Halloween anymore. And suddenly it was Thanksgiving. And then it was my birthday. And then it was winter.
Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/katiemcmahon/sets, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.
We try too hard to get back there.
I needed it and I needed it instantaneously. I took the day off from school and I spent it alone, driving to the cider mill. I brought my green glow-in-the-dark ghost purse. I wanted apples and pumpkins and things made of apples and pumpkins. I found two pumpkins. They were both orange and round and looked just how you would imagine pumpkins would look. The apples were too expensive and I could not understand why I could not pick my own. And why would an apple cost so much money? A huge crock pot of cider sat near the exit and I ladled some into a white paper cup. Cinnamon sticks floated near the top of the pot. The donuts were not fresh, but they were covered in sugar and cinnamon, so I grabbed one with a crinkly piece of parchment paper. I paid for the donut and the cider, walked outside and got into my car and then sat there. I ate the donut and drank the cider until it was completely gone. I started up the car and drove home, passing by fields of pumpkins and signs for fields of pumpkins and children walking home from school.
And I felt like it was not enough.
On Halloween night, I stood in the kitchen, baking pumpkin muffins out of a box, and covering the kitchen countertops in powdered sugar. I laid out old newspapers and brown paper bags across the table and set out different sized knives, like preparing for the pumpkin’s surgery. I sat near the vent in the wall to keep warm and I drank half a bottle of cheap red wine while scooping out the insides of one of the pumpkins. I wanted it to be simple, so I carved a tree into the pumpkin. I found a package of tea lights in my bedroom and carefully placed one inside the carved pumpkin. Then, I turned off all the lights and looked at the empty tree. I took a picture. I moved across the room to get a different angle. I took another picture.
I drank more wine. I put on a black dress that I never got to wear and teased my hair. I put on dark red lipstick and painted fake blood around my neck to look like my head had been cut off. I put on lots of black eyeshadow and rubbed it around my eyes, so I would look like a dead person. I took a picture.
I went to a party and made fun of the music. I flirted with someone’s boyfriend. I drank someone’s expensive vodka that they left on the table. I drank my own vodka. Words formed in my mouth, but I drank them down my throat so I could come up with better words. I could tell no one was listening, so I said the words very loudly and then left. I drove around in the rain. I called him even though I didn’t want to call him. He smelled like cigarettes and wore gloves he got from his grandma last Christmas. We ate with friends. We left and I went home. I called him again and cried my whole drunk self into the phone. I drank more and cried harder until there was not a drop left.
Someone else called me and he said, “Are you okay?”
I said, “No, I am not okay.”
Then, the sky got lighter and lighter and suddenly it was not Halloween anymore. And suddenly it was Thanksgiving. And then it was my birthday. And then it was winter.
Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/katiemcmahon/sets, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Moura McGovern - Pumpkin Skies
This Halloween I’m going to be either a) Nurse “Juana be Betta,” b) a love bug, or c) a dream woman. That’s right, this Halloween, I’m going to be a slut.
I’m very excited. I’ve never been a slut before (at least not for Halloween).
Actually, the last time I celebrated Halloween, I was still young enough to have my mom make my ghost costume. And by “celebrate,” I mean to put on a costume, of any kind; or to participate in trick or treating, of any kind; or attend a Halloween party, of any kind. This may or may not be sad. I am trying to decide. Mostly Halloween looked to me like a reason for people to pretend to be something, someone else. I have always had a hard enough time being me.
When I was teaching and going to grad school at Penn State, I had the unfortunate experience of being on the “trick” side of trick or treat. The night was cold enough to shatter glass, which is what happened when the first egg hit my storm window. Another egg stained the house’s aluminum siding, which then baked into a nasty splotch that power-washing could never remove. And to think: I thought I was a nice teacher. And to think: I would prefer to believe that those eggs were aimed at the professor who lived in the house before me.
On the topic of before and after: Before I went off to grad school, I worked hard at being a respectable wife and businessperson. I wore a lot of navy blue, and I frowned a lot. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to have fun. I also forgot how to be me. I poached a lot of eggs. Perhaps I should have thrown them instead.
For many years, I had a recurring nightmare in which I was lost. Different versions of the dream played out: I’d be walking through the rain, trying to catch sight of Boston’s Hancock Tower so I could locate myself. Or I’d be driving in the rain, but it would be coming down in sheets, sheets so thick that I wouldn’t be able to see the exit signs. I used to try to be who my husband wanted me to be (nurse, love bug, dream girl, respectable wife, or business person). Then one day, I woke up and realized I didn’t celebrate anything anymore. I avoided Halloween. Thanksgiving was a nightmare to be borne. Christmas was a pain in the nether regions. Forget about celebrating the beauty of every day life. I was blind to the sunrises and sunsets that saturate the horizon in a pumpkin glow.
Then one fall night, I woke up realized I couldn’t be who someone else wanted me to be. That’s when I got divorced and went back to school. During that time, I had the nightmare again, and it turned into a dream. I was on a long road, and -- finally -- I could read every sign before me. I could navigate. I drove, and I walked, and I rode, and I found my way, with every twist and every turn.
It has been a long road. So, this Halloween, I might be a) Nurse Juana Be Betta, because I have in fact made my life better. I might be b) a love bug, because I have learned to love -- and to celebrate -- again. Or, I might be c) a dream woman. Because now I am who I dreamed I would be, back when I was still young enough to believe I could be anyone I wanted to be. Just me.
Moura McGovern is an editor and writer who lives in Philadelphia, PA. You can read more of her work at http://southofsouth.com/.
I’m very excited. I’ve never been a slut before (at least not for Halloween).
Actually, the last time I celebrated Halloween, I was still young enough to have my mom make my ghost costume. And by “celebrate,” I mean to put on a costume, of any kind; or to participate in trick or treating, of any kind; or attend a Halloween party, of any kind. This may or may not be sad. I am trying to decide. Mostly Halloween looked to me like a reason for people to pretend to be something, someone else. I have always had a hard enough time being me.
When I was teaching and going to grad school at Penn State, I had the unfortunate experience of being on the “trick” side of trick or treat. The night was cold enough to shatter glass, which is what happened when the first egg hit my storm window. Another egg stained the house’s aluminum siding, which then baked into a nasty splotch that power-washing could never remove. And to think: I thought I was a nice teacher. And to think: I would prefer to believe that those eggs were aimed at the professor who lived in the house before me.
On the topic of before and after: Before I went off to grad school, I worked hard at being a respectable wife and businessperson. I wore a lot of navy blue, and I frowned a lot. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to have fun. I also forgot how to be me. I poached a lot of eggs. Perhaps I should have thrown them instead.
For many years, I had a recurring nightmare in which I was lost. Different versions of the dream played out: I’d be walking through the rain, trying to catch sight of Boston’s Hancock Tower so I could locate myself. Or I’d be driving in the rain, but it would be coming down in sheets, sheets so thick that I wouldn’t be able to see the exit signs. I used to try to be who my husband wanted me to be (nurse, love bug, dream girl, respectable wife, or business person). Then one day, I woke up and realized I didn’t celebrate anything anymore. I avoided Halloween. Thanksgiving was a nightmare to be borne. Christmas was a pain in the nether regions. Forget about celebrating the beauty of every day life. I was blind to the sunrises and sunsets that saturate the horizon in a pumpkin glow.
Then one fall night, I woke up realized I couldn’t be who someone else wanted me to be. That’s when I got divorced and went back to school. During that time, I had the nightmare again, and it turned into a dream. I was on a long road, and -- finally -- I could read every sign before me. I could navigate. I drove, and I walked, and I rode, and I found my way, with every twist and every turn.
It has been a long road. So, this Halloween, I might be a) Nurse Juana Be Betta, because I have in fact made my life better. I might be b) a love bug, because I have learned to love -- and to celebrate -- again. Or, I might be c) a dream woman. Because now I am who I dreamed I would be, back when I was still young enough to believe I could be anyone I wanted to be. Just me.
Moura McGovern is an editor and writer who lives in Philadelphia, PA. You can read more of her work at http://southofsouth.com/.
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