Halloween Hangups

Well my clamoring comrades, I write to you in the throws of a conundrum my great and brilliant mind is trying to work out. I am currently attempting to assemble a Halloween costume. Normally this would not be a mental hurdle, save for the fact that I am no longer a young, bright-eyed child of single digit years. Today, at my age there are some rules I have found that must be followed, otherwise some sort of public ridicule will follow (and its Halloween so that could mean a number of things...). I will now share them with you along with my dazzling comments, because i know the 4.7 people that read this will be thankful.

1. Costume Size: there is your real age, then your Halloween age. While you may be in your early 20's, many find themselves in a costume meant for a small tike ages 3 to 5. Allow me to clarify, oh Drunken Slutmonster: 3 to 5 is the age of the toddler that should be in your "sexy" Thomas the Train outfit. That “3 to 5” on the package is an age, not how many drinks it’s guessing you had before you walked into that innocent Wallgreens and decided that it would be “supercute!”

2. Ears and Tails: despite what you think, just adding ears and a tail do not make a costume; they make a deformity. They do not justify you squeezing into a unitard and calling it a kitty. Maybe you feel that they represent evolution, but if that were true you would have been dead many moons ago.

3. Make-up: sadly, due to ‘The Jersey Shore’ and the downfall of humanity, the makeup people put on on Halloween is only allegedly different from their everyday regimen, but I'm not so sure. Anyone that has been to a party with twenty-somethings in this post-‘Hangover’ era knows that people, mostly ladies, do show up to parties wearing makeup that is very similar to that of a zombie. On the 31st, they just add a nose and some whiskers.

4. Bastardization: as a general rule, one should not recycle costumes that you wore in your infant/toddler years when, I am told, you were cute. I don't care what way you slice it, pumpkin + baby = cute and a bit squishy, but pumpkin + anyone over the age of 6 = boob cover. Moral of the story: stop bastardizing your youth and move away from the intimates section at Walmart.


And so as you can see, my mysterious munchkins, it’s not that easy when, due to the life choices of others, Halloween becomes a whole different kind of scary when the sun goes down.

In Fear with the Shades Drawn

So, for those ten people who care and are wondering what I have been up to lately—what might be on my brilliant young mind—I thought I would share the recent highlights with you:

1. I live in fear of the Snickers woman. I fully believe that it’s not just me—everyone has to be scared of her. It is not enough that we must be visually assaulted by our favorite childhood characters—slutted up and worn 12-sizes-too-small by girls that have just drunkenly stumbled off the bus from Playboyville (yes, I believe that in a few years, Hugh Hefner will have a town); Now we, like so many diabetics, live in fear of caramel and nougat.

2. I also might be arrested in the near future. And this brings me to my next point in the line of this week’s winners. So I will tell you a tale, part horror, part fall-of-humanity—all the makings of a good story. Before I begin though, let me just say that I plan on having this face until I’m 67 and 3 months, and that means expressions should be made at a minimum. . . but I digress. Anyway. It begins on the bus going home. It was crowded, so a man sat down next to me. I began apologizing for my portfolio, a large black canvas case, which was in his way. To be nice (and because I was bored), I asked him about what his major was and whatnot. After we talked about that he said, “Let me guess. . . You’re an artist?”

This is where things went a big awry. I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “No, I’m not an artist. I’m a freelance assassin.” I realize upon looking back that I maybe should have smiled, indicating that this was, in fact, a joke. However, that is not my MO, so I just looked at him. He got a bit uncomfortable and asked, “So. . . What’s in the bag?” I replied, “Long distance rifle, scopes, hand guns. . . You know, the basics.” Again, this was a time a smile might have been appropriate, but instead I held his gaze and stared him down. Let’s just say things got really uncomfortable. Long silence. And then the bus pulled away from the stop. Twenty-three minutes of awkward

I live in fear of the Snickers woman, adult Tinker Bells, and law enforcement. I sit with the shades drawn. . .

Dear Men of the World

Today I was almost spit on as I was walking down the street. This disgusting act was not aimed at me, but it would have landed upon me if I had not been careful. This harrowing experience has prompted me to put angry fingers to keys. . .

Dear Men of the World,

Why is it that you feel every fluid that is produced by your body is a substance that people would want you to share? Apparently, life is different with a ding-a-ling, but I for one (and I feel comfortable speaking here for all women), do not have a desire to see or come in contact with any liquid your body produces. Somewhere along the line, your less-evolved brains made some misguided conclusion in regards to this subject, and have been harassing the finer sex with it ever since. We do not, in fact, feel overjoyed watching you pee, spit, sweat, or release the Underpants Navy on or upon poor, unsuspecting civil structures or landscape-- are you trying to punish the bush? Let's leave it at this: unless we ask (which we probably won't), let's have a rule that states that this swill that you are so fond of stays only within your dwelling. Furthermore, this nectar that you produce with such pride should stay primarily in the bathroom, unless asked otherwise. And let's face it: you have a hard enough time containing things even in a controlled environment. I can say, with almost complete certainty, that you are many steps away from awesome, and in an effort to raise your rank-- do this for me. Please. I beg you. If something of yours gets on me again, I will flip a lid. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Sidney

City Symphony

As some of you may know, i have now officially moved to a city whose population is above "embarrassing". I think it is now safe to say that i have moved out of the sticks, past the covered wagons, and on to moderate adulthood. For those of you i have left behind to frolic with Bambi and friends, the city is a nosy place. It is filled with horns, sirens, strange people, and assault. Through this one can receive a unwelcome symphony of sounds at any time of the day or night. And so, my randy reader, i will share with you some of these glorious noises, and what they do to the poor people that must listen to them all day and night...

a) Sirens: when you hear a siren you think death, somewhere in this city there is an old lady that is pinned under a beam with a hungry-looking cat and things aren't looking up. Then, of course, you lay awake thinking of death and destruction, war, all that, this is followed by some glorious nightmares and when you wake up in the morning you are a Republican. I think that a good way to combat all this worry would be to have different sirens for different situations; kitten-up-a-tree would sound very different than 5-alarm-fire-with-Lifetime-movie-to-be-made-soon. It would save everyone a lot of worry. The downside to this is that people, not me, upon recognizing different alarm bells, may take it upon themselves to be the evolutionary soldier we all wish was out there and not get out of the way. Some kittens need to learn lessons... the hard way.

b) Car Alarms: while car alarms are frequent, people that will go attend to them seem few and far between. We all know that our car has an alarm, we just don't know what it sounds like, thus defeating the purpose. I think, in my infinite wisdom, that car alarms should be like a ring tone, you can program some angry rapper into the car and when you hear Eminem's angry voice going on and on about his wife you know that someone is after your car. Additionally, if a person has 'Bubbly Toes' by Jack Johnson as his alarm...rob him, life is about learning bust his car up.

c) Crazy Ramblings: in a city known for its atheism we still have many who feel that a certain someone is coming back and he is not a happy camper. The only way to really avoid this is with a noise-canceling pillow which they have yet to invent, and as a footnote they should make it fireproof so that it can easily fit in your carry-on on your way to hell.

And so i believe, my fabulous follower, that with these small minor adjustments, the city in which i reside would be a less stressful symphony of sounds; bottom line, upgrade. I have not, however, found a solution to my rapping neighbors, besides a uncomfortable murder-suicide so stay tuned.

Owling Birthday

Last weekend was my birthday dinner. As I journeyed home, i suppose i should have known the night would be weird seeing as on my way home there was a clearence sale at the gun store; nonetheless i carried on. My house is a cross between a murderer's paradise and a place that would be perfect for growing weed. The point is it's in the middle of nowhere and if things didn't go well and my parents got me more airplane booze no one could hear them scream as i quietly beat them with small bottles. The evening started off normal enough-my parents have become mildly obsessed with happy hour (and, oddly enough, biscotti) and so we had libations and cheese. We talked of this and that, despite the fact that i was in close-to-paralyzing fear about what was wrapped in cartoon paper sitting in the living room.

For some reason my mother thought it wise to drink to my 22 years as well as my father's new change as he slipped out of the working class and into a life of leisure (and if he has his way, gleefully making weather vanes for all those who need to know where the wind blows). The house was filled with things from his office cubical: a 900-pound coat rack he black smithed, and signs from homeless people that he decided he should collect. It occured to me that my father's cubical could have been on hoarders, and i was happy if i could get out of the house without inheriting any of his bum sign collection.

Anyway somehow we got on the subject of owl calls, yes that was not a typo, there may have been some wine from my father ex-colege. My mother, an avid bird observer, swore that the way to remember a great horned owl was from its distinctive call "who cooks for you you you". My father, whose commuting partner was a professional owl caller, told him a different story.

And so my birthday dinner was spent with my father hooting over and over and my mother on the verge of divorce. My sister, the diplomat that she is, googled the owl call and we found that my father's very convincing owl call was indeed the correct one.

Not only was this issue put to bed but i realized that my mother had been lying to me all these years and when we had hunted for an owl that only seem to appear in our chicken coop for a good nibble, we were hunting in vain. In the end i received pillow cases, no booze, travel-size or otherwise, and somehow that 6,000 pound coat rack is in my car. I did learn some lessons, my loveable literary, and that is that one should always ask for things for one's birthday, that alcohol and bird calls do not mix, and that i wish i made this up.

Birthday Blunders

Today is my 22 birthday (i know, so much humor and intelligence in one so young and beautiful). I realize that after the big 2-1 there is very little to look forward to in the coming years besides a crisis or two and social security, and let's face we have good anti-psychotics and social security is a dream we will never realize, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, the point is, there's not a lot going on. I have learned, however, that there a few things that start to happen on and around one's birthday once they begin to enter their third decade. That being said, i will now share with you some insights into my date-of-birth dilemmas...

1. Date: now that i have left the nest my birthday falls on a time when normally, in my nomadic existence, i have moved. This leads to me asking for strange and useful things for my birthday such as light bulbs and extension cords. While this gift is well received in the moment, it doesn't leave you with much.

2. Presents: for some reason as you get older it becomes harder and harder to find items that you need or want. This is not to say that they do not exist, but on the month that is your birthday somehow everything leaves your head and you become almost un-American in your lack of desire for material goods. That being said, it is time to tell you a tale of the past about this strange phenomenon and how my parents chose to deal with it with regards to their eldest daughter.

For my 21st birthday i could not come up with things for my parents to get me. This is not a new occurrence for me, but nonetheless my parents chose to deal with it in a unconventional manner. A few days before we celebrated my glorious birth my parents had cleaned out the pantry. I, however, was unaware of this fact and was delighted to see 20 or so presents waiting for me. As i proceeded to open each small individual present i was more and more surprised by its content. I had managed to acquire 10 bottles of airplane/minibar-sized alcoholic beverages that appeared to have survived Prohibition. In addition, i also received a onion-shaped bottle opener that may or may not have been a gift at my parents' wedding, and last but certainly not least, a jug of wine. Not only was this jug of wine in a jug that is no longer manufactured, it was also from when my father was in college. This jug had seen both Bushes as president, it also had content that could be used to removed battery acid.

To conclude, i haven't ask for anything again this year and i fear the result, stay tuned.

Regretfully Remiss

As you may have noticed, i have been neglect in my duties to bring you my important thoughts. I apologize to the ten people that it affected and thought that i would give you an update as to what is happening in my life at the moment:

1. Moving - i have now officially moved to the big city. There have been many amendments to the country-bumkin-hillbilly lifestyle from which i was raised and so far there has not been anything too awkward

2. Neighbors - i was so happy to learn that the people that live below me are aspiring rappers. Every night i have the privilege, no let's say the pleasure, of listening to them warble on about whatever middle class white people discuss in the form of rap, ice ice baby?

3. Movies - this is a twofold experience. First, i went to see the Help, and all i wanted before my dose of period racism was some good previews. However, after the 5 minutes of previews i was overwhelmed with the urge to be anything other than human so that i would not be lumped in with the moderately brain dead people that are going to watch these movies. And so i pose this question to the world: how many movies does one need about a very special horse, or people beating the crap out of each other? We have Black Beauty, Secretariat and Mr Ed (even though they have yet to see the feature-length possibilities therein) so check on the equine movies. Then there is some strange need to watch aging actors sweat, overcome difficulty and pummel each other multiple times over a number of decades. that seems a bit much, even if the new twist is brother vs brother, just go into any self-respecting American family with a bunch of kids and you can see this very movie, maybe a light version as they won’t be big men yet, but nonetheless it is the same plot. 

Then, as if i wasn't punished enough, i found myself at the movies yet again watching the uplifting and comical Contagion. Before i begin, let me just say that everything is probably a moot point because very soon we will all die. Also STOP TOUCHING EVERYTHING. And since it is flu season you are going to thank me for this gentle reminder… By the time i went to see this movie my apartment was all furnished so all i had to do was stop and get 100 cans of soup, and all the antibacterial hand wash there was in the store,  and i'm in for the decade.

And so, my valiant viewer, i apologize and will now be giving you a more frequent does of epic sarcasm.