Halloween Costumes: A Cautionary Tale

Recently, I accidentally wandered into the halloween costume aisle at Target.  I quickly turned around and ran out of the store, sped home, and poured myself a big glass of Ketel One. The children screaming “but I WANNA be Hannah Montana, I don’t WANNA be a ladybug” made my ovaries retract.  This is why I have dogs. I can put them in a hot dog costume or slap a Darth Vader helmet on them, and all they can do is silently judge me and then surreptitiously poop in my bed.

After seeing this spectacle of expense and whining, I gained new appreciation for my mother.  She refused to buy Halloween costumes.  Her rule was that the costumes would be made, and they had to be warm because Pennsylvania October evenings do not lend themselves to temperate weather.  This was in the 80’s before global warming got so popular; I’m sure legions of little Pennsylvanians now run around dressed as mermaids and lifeguards and don’t even have to wear mittens.

Between Mom’s creative ingenuity and my grandmother’s seamstress skills, our costumes were all homemade and I also credit her for not really giving us a choice as to what we wanted to be.  If it couldn’t be sewn or put together from things around the house, then too bad.  No whining.  And I also can’t blame her, because I apparently did not understand the concept of a Halloween costume.  One year I dressed Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and the next year, The Easter Bunny.  I started reading at the age of three, but apparently the concept of a calendar was too far above my head.

Here I am Christmas morning wearing my made-by-grandma Rudolph costume as pajamas. Which is an appropriate time to dress as a reindeer, not Halloween, but hey, kids are dumb.  Missing are the red clown nose and antlers made of branches (not kidding) as they were pretty painful to sleep in.  My mom is dressed as  a woman who was up half the night putting together a bicycle for an ungrateful daughter who will put horrible pictures of her on the internet 20-plus years later, and my little sister is dressed as a chubster mcchub. That look on my face, pretty sure I just heard a Wham! song for the first time.  Dad is the only smart one, as he’s not in the picture.  He was dressed as a dad.

Here I am dressed as St. Christina for All-Saints day at my Catholic school.  I also wore this as my trick or treating costume the night prior.  It’s costumes like this that made me stop going to church and turned me in to the 1998 UR Beach Week kegstand champion.

This is me.  At the age of eight. Dressed as Lawrence of Arabia. This is what happens when your parents leave you unattended with your other grandmother, who lets you stay up until the wee smalls watching old black and white movies.  Instead of Snow White, you dress up as Peter O’Toole. This costume has all the hallmarks of our halloween gear – sweatsuit base (note the rockin’ late 80s print sleeves), something my grandmother sewed out of sheets, and my mom’s belt. This is also pre-orthodontia. (I’ve left out pictures of the years I dressed as a Mexican man,  (complete with mascara-drawn mustache), Indian, and gypsy because they are just too insensitive and people will get their panties in a bunch.  Especially considering my husband is Cherokee and my great-great grandfather was an actual gypsy.  The 80s were a different time. No one got their panties in a bunch over anything.  Must have been all the cocaine.)

Here I am with my sister.  In a departure from the norm, she is wearing her dance recital costume OVER a sweatsuit.  Though this violated the rules, we didn’t actually have to buy anything for the costume, so apparently this was allowed.  The name of her costume is “Old Fashioned Lady” and the name of mine is “Ninja.”  Which is also, black sweatsuit and black mask.  There are throwing stars in my pumpkin.

These are probably our most memorable costumes.  I am that gorgeous butterfly there at the back of the line, and my sister is the frumpy little caterpillar bringing up the rear.  She was PISSED and who can blame her?  There was a lot of crying.  My grandmother made her costume and it’s a shame I don’t have a close-up, because she out did herself, down to the dangling legs and antennae. I am wearing (SHOCK) a black sweatsuit.  My mother created the wings from a refrigerator box and poster paint and would not let me help. This was at my cousin’s birthday party, and you can compare our costumes to those inferior store-bought ones in the picture.  That dalmatian especially is piss-poor execution.

Here we are, dressed as nurse and magician. We’re at other grandmother’s house, and that’s a picture of Jesus on the wall. Please note my old friend, the black sweatsuit.  Grandma made my cape.  Sister is wearing one of my dad’s shirts backwards over her sweats, with a belt.  Mom made her nurse cap from paper, and that’s a Fisher Price stethoscope.  I’ve replaced my throwing stars with a bunny; this was after my anger management classes concluded.

Here’s my sister, dressed as the Fire Chief.  Not just a regular fire man, the boss of all firemen. She’s wearing her sweats under her raincoat.  That’s a fire hat from our dressup clothes, and I think she’s got a piece of garden hose in her hand for authenticity.  She probably wanted to be something normal, like a princess, which would explain the look on her face.

And lest you think my mother didn’t get in on the fun herself, she’s in the back here.  Dressed as a construction worker. And the best mom ever.