Halloween

I just turned out the lights and closed the drapes to convey the universal (or at least all-American) message of "no more candy here." As I did so, I looked up and down the street and saw that just about every other house on my block had already done the same. I should have shut down the candy-dispensing an hour ago already, as I know that the only kids who show up after 8:00 are the ones who are old enough to drive and still think they should get free candy, even though they can't be bothered to put on a real costume. The last one of those actually had the nerve to show up twice, claiming that he got lost or disoriented and forgot where he'd been already. Sorry dude. I may be a little worried that you and your hoodlum friends will egg my fresh paint job in retribution, but I'm going to take my chances and withhold the second round of fun-sized snacks anyway.

The cutest kid of the night, hands-down, was a threeish-year-old in a plastic tiara. No costume below her forehead--just a shiny pink winter jacket and blue jeans. But she was precious in the tiara anyway, as she exclaimed, "I'm a princess!" She took her candy and then edged past me to stick her head into my living room, asking "Where's your doggy?"

"My doggy?" I repeated. "I don't have a doggy."

"Oh," she said. "Where's your father?"

I told her that my father doesn't live here; he lives in Wisconsin; and she said "Oh," as though she knew exactly where Wisconsin was and it all made perfect sense to her. Then I gave her an extra piece of candy for apparently thinking I look young enough that I must still live with my parents, as opposed to thinking I look like a lady who must be a mom and asking, "Where are your kids?" instead. I realize I'm overthinking this; I don't care.

I actually like Halloween, mostly because it's one of the few holidays where there are parties and candy but you don't have to spend any time with your family (unless of course you want to). I have a hard time with the costumes because I never want to wear anything that makes me look stupid or ugly (as I feel I can manage those things quite well enough on my own on some days without needing a costume to accentuate it), but I like the idea of dressing up as something or someone completely different. I think it's good practice for me to loosen up and not be so self conscious all the time.

More than one person has told me I have an incredible memory for insignificant details, so I think it's strange that I actually can't remember more than three or four of the costumes I chose as a child. I know that when I was very young, I had a few of those store-bought costumes that were just two pieces of vinyl cut out with some child-sized industrial cookie cutter and then fused together around the edges and equipped with a tie at the neck. The vinyl was printed with details meant to make you look like some cartoon or movie character or superhero, and the outfit was always accompanied by a stiff plastic mask that was most likely a suffocation hazard. At the very least, it made your face slimy with sweat, and the elastic band rubbed the edge of your ear raw. By the end of the day, the plastic had cracked in at least one place, leaving a sharp edge that would prick or pinch if you didn't handle it with the utmost care. I remember picking a few of these costumes from "The Dime Store" in town, choosing from stacks of cardboard boxes with cellophane windows on top. My sister went as Bernard from The Rescuers once, and I know I had a "Cinderella" one year. Beyond that I don't remember any specifics.

The year E.T. was released, I went as a cowgirl, just like Gertie did. And a couple years later I went as a witch, because I'd never done so before. I know there was a gypsy year, too, and one year when I wore a dress my mom had saved from a high school dance she attended, though I don't remember what or who I was trying to be in that dress.

In college, two of the most popular costumes were farmer girl and hippie, mainly because either could typically be achieved just by raiding your own closet, possibly supplementing with items your dorm neighbors had on hand as well. It was the early 90s; just about every 19-year old female had a pair of overalls and several flannels, or a long skirt and various necklaces.

My last year of college I went as Miss Wisconsin 1969, donning a lime green rhinestone-studded polyester dress that exposed far more cleavage than I was remotely accustomed to revealing, a satin sash, and a plastic tiara. The high point of the night was Conan the Barbarian begging me onto the dance floor with the insistence that "[he] would love to dance with Miss Wisconsin." The low point was about five minutes later, when I broke the "no kissing strangers in public" rule that I made for myself shortly thereafter and full-on made out with him on the dance floor of my least favorite bar on Water Street.

My favorite costume of my adult life was when I went as a tattoo artist. Again, I probably enjoyed this costume because it gave me an excuse to be someone completely different for a night. Red pleather pants are not something I could wear with a straight face in public, but for one night, with a black mesh tank top and a blue wig, I felt like Jennifer Garner on Alias, and I enjoyed it completely. Tattoo artist was also a great ice-breaker costume, as it was highly interactive. I carried a set of washable markers with me (taped to mini-squirt guns, in my attempt to simulate tattoo guns), and I drew on anyone who let me give them a tattoo. I decorated my arms and shoulder blades with temporary tattoos, and I had some of those on hand to distribute to other party goers as well. Conan the Barbarian wasn't at that party, but I did make out with a satyr, and I'm not particularly proud of that, either.

The following year my costume basically bombed. I had always wanted to go as Mary Tyler Moore (something about her "single girl in the Twin Cities" thing appealed to me, I guess), but I never knew how to pull it off convincingly. As it turned out, I shouldn't have tried. With my 60s-era dress and flip hair, I had the time period right, but the only guesses I got were "Carol Brady?" and "60s housewife?" Maybe the beret would have helped, but unfortunately I inadvertently dropped it in a snowbank somewhere between the car and the party. I thought wearing a button that said "I can turn the world on with my smile" would be enough of a clue, but as it turns out, not everyone watched as much Nick at Nite in high school and college as I did.

Last year I tried to make up for my previous misstep with an impressive costume again. I chose the very specific role of Miss Scarlet in the dining room with the candlestick. Props are very important, I've learned, even if they are a hassle to hold onto all night. Maybe the beret would have saved my Mary Tyler Moore costume after all.