Hallo-fuckin-ween

In grades 3 through 5, I was an Indian. I had a feather, I had a tomahawk, I had a brown dress with ornate silver piping that my grandma made, and I loved it. That's officially the last time I remember enjoying dressing up for Halloween. Strike that, I liked being Raggedy Anne one year too, but then I got to school and realized someone else was also that famous redhead, and I was instantly miserable.

So I make no secret of it, I hate Halloween. Why oh why do I have to dress up? My best friend reminded me this week that her favorite costume of mine was not the year I just wore mis-matched clothing, not the year I just put cat ears on my head, not the year I essentially wore my regular clothes, but the year I was a dead bride. Yes, in four years of college, I could only muster up the energy to buy ONE real costume and that's because it was on sale and included a blonde wig. I was toying with the idea of going blonde for my real life, so I thought I'd try it on for Halloween. Actually, I should give this stupid holiday some credit because it pretty much saved my life. I looked like a fool as a blonde.

Tonight, who knows. I snagged some free costume shit from my internship because one of the designers we work with came out with a costume line this season. These are the costumes I helped send as gifts to Leighton Meester, Britney Spears, Blake Lively and some other celebs. But the truth is, I'm not even sure they're going to wear them. And if they're not going to, why should I? WHY DO I HAVE TO DRESS UP??

Well, it's because I've been informed that Halloween in San Diego is a Big Fucking Deal. I sort of experienced that last night when I went to the bar and it was chalk full of naughty school girls, bananas and a girl in a tin foiled box who was a "robot" and cracked me the fuck up. I mean, I don't know if it was the booze talking, but I turned this little dial on the box, and she asked me to hold her drink as she moved her arms all around and twirled in the box and it was hilarious. But I'll never be that funny or that clever this "holiday" season, so why even try?

I drove from LA to San Diego last night seriously racking my brain over what to be. I thought: maybe I'll take the fireman/girl hat, make a pair of pants and wear some sort of... NO. Maybe I'll buy a white button-down shirt, get some dark sunglasses and hike up some socks to be Tom Cruise in Risky... NO. Maybe I'll wear the bee wings, put the antennas on my head and find some kind of yellow... NO!! I can't decide. I can't work it out. Maybe I'll just stay home, read my book and do some fucking laundry. 

The point, they say, is to dress like a slut. To me, that's just a regular night out. 

There's no longer any candy involved, I'm not aware of any drink specials, and furthermore, I don't think that I belong in a city that celebrates the Day of the Dead with more fervor than which they celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Now THAT'S a holiday I like to take a whole week off to embrace.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I'll be a leprechaun. It's over done, I don't have anything green, but perhaps it will be just the right note of defiance and compliance mixed together. 

Whatever I end up being, I'd kind of like to run into that french maid I saw last night, again tonight. His long blonde hair did make him look like a girl, but his low-cut apron revealed a whole mess of muscles that were begging to be touched--caressed even--by someone like me. Me, the bee/fireman/girl/Tom Cruise/leprechaun.