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Pony: It's Hallowe'en, not Moulin Rouge
10.24.2002
Sarah still won't forgive me for Halloween 5 years ago.
I may have said this before, but I have been adamant that Halloween was not about looking glam, but ghoulish. Nothing makes me roll my eyes more than women who use Halloween to add another 2 hours to their beauty routine and emerge as tarts."I am a French Maid!" or "I am a hooker!"
Now, my beauty routine usually involves showering, puting my hair up, and, if you are lucky, I will cover my zits and put on a bit of lipstick. Sometimes, eye stuff enters the picture. But no matter how hard I try to look femme, there is always something off. Like a poppyseed in my teeth. Or my fly is down. Most of the time, I have food or mud from biking on my clothes. But I try! I really try to look attractive all year round. And it is hard, gentle reader.
Which is why I think Halloween should be about being something gross. Dead, fermenting, bleeding, mucus-y kind of gross. Defy the beauty myth! Go girl!
ahem.
So, five years ago, Sarah bought the rhetoric and agreed to go with me to Good Will where, with the mission to find anything hideous and green, we transformed ourselves into pregnant green aliens with matching fozzy bear dolls (wakawaka). It was just a wonderful coincidence that there were two fozzies in the toy bin. With the help of green face paint, we were pretty darn ghoulish.
Got to the party, and no one recognized us. Cool! But thing is, no one would talk to either of us, even once they realised who we were. We actually cleared the room. And there were cute boys there, too.
So this year, Sarah wants me to be her pregnant girlfriend of unclear ethnic origin while she goes as (my apologies to the Italians in the house) Guido with lots of hair gel and chains.
Do I owe her for 5 years ago?
Last year I was a last-minute dollar store bee and for some reason it made me cry. I stood in my wings and antennae and wept. It was odd.
Two years before that, I came to Montreal and was a creepy dolly parton. I walked into the party and there was a Kenny Rogers. He made me dance with him all night. People kept trying to get us to sing Islands in the Stream. Eventually I told him I wanted to dance with other cowboys.
Is it time to try an attractive costume?
kissy kissy kissy
