I could be princess if I wanna
Fall is in the air. But don’t tell that to Commercialism. To
Them, fall was two months ago, and by its calendar, we are about to
celebrate Christmas and then Valentine’s Day the following
week.
I could be princess if I wanna
Fall is in the air. But don’t tell that to Commercialism. To Them, fall was two months ago, and by its calendar, we are about to celebrate Christmas and then Valentine’s Day the following week.
I’m thinking that if they keep going at this clip, we’ll be buying lawn furniture and fire pits again in November and toasting marshmallows outside, while wearing shorts after Christmas dinner.
When I was a kid, it was fun to go into the store and see all the Halloween decorations put up and aisles and aisles of candy. Strange, exotic kinds that only come out for Halloween. Black and orange pumpkins made from the same stuff as Peeps at Easter, and no one really eats Pixie Stix at any other time of the year. Nor should they.
Now, as an adult, I can understand why my mother always heaved a huge sigh while roaming the rows of costume displays in late August. While my sister and I chatted excitedly about what we were “going to be this year.” Not that it mattered.
It also explains why our mother, the frustrated costume designer and bored suburban mom, always resorted to home-made costumes for us. And not just any costumes, either. For some reason, mom had tons of those Cleopatra wigs. You know, the black, bobbed do, made famous by Elizabeth Taylor in the movie. Every year, Suzie and I would clamor to be princesses or fairies, but it was never to be. Mom thought those costumes were ordinary and the streets would be teeming with princesses and fairies. Her girls were originals and they would have original costumes.
Mom never liked Halloween, what with all the doorbell ringing and little kids running around, but when it came time to dress up two pouting princess wannabees, her imagination took over. There was nothing we could do but be still as she dressed us in dad’s old black T-shirts that she’d ratted and torn even more than they already were, smeared our small faces with pancake and fake blood and slapped two Cleopatra wigs on our heads. Now, we were vampires. Or “Vampiras” as she called us.
We would glower at our reflections in the mirror, but when we were handed our pillowcases to hold our loot, all thoughts of fairy wings and princess tiaras were banished. We were finally turned loose on the mean streets of Danville Station subdivision. The only trouble was, when we got to the neighbor’s house, we heard, “Well look, it’s little Suzie and Kelly Mulry and they’re dressed up like … what are you girls supposed to be?”
Two small, deflated voices in unison would reply, “Vampires, Mrs. Richie.” We would look at each other like this was the worst fate imaginable. To have to explain our costumes at every stop was exhausting. I began to think people were taking pity on us and giving us extra candy because our bags filled up a lot faster than our friends’. I didn’t care. I was happy to take a Pity Snickers, and in those days, they gave you the full-sized ones.
The Boy is already wandering down the aisles at the store with that look that only a kid close to Halloween gets. The store is their smorgasbord. They can be anything. I follow behind, begrudgingly. He eyes a Ninja costume while I harbor secret fantasies of fairy costumes and princess gowns. It was fun to dress The Girl. It was almost like I was getting to dress myself, but now she’s too old (read cool) to dress up.
Maybe this will be my year. If you see a full-grown woman in a fairy princess get-up, standing next to a Ninja on your doorstep, don’t worry. Just drop the Snickers in the bag.
