Halloweenie-er

It sneaks up on me. I was deciding, quite nerdily I’ll admit, between varieties of charcoal for the next drawing when someone reminded me I should be thinking about a costume. What I gleaned from the rest of the lecture: my plaintiff plea that my outfits are starting to look more and more like costumes anyway, doesn’t now, nor at any point will ever, count*.

I still have yet to come up with one, and I’m dying for your suggestions. Luckily, my plans have come together for once, and they remain only slightly less cool than last year where I watched Stephen King’s It as my brother interrupted every, oh, four minutes or so with his narration of what was happening (“They are so going to die!” and “When are they going to die?” and “Why haven’t they died yet?” and “Do you think they’re going to die soon?”).

This year, the dance party continuation will happen the night before. On Halloween proper, we’ll take the day off to bake pie and carve pumpkins and watch movies, because we don’t have boyfriends this time and we’re starting to be pretty glad, because then we have one another, in our pajamas and painting our nails. And with one another and in our pajamas and painting our nails, we’re already doing everything in the world we could ever want.

*Case in point; the recent dance party and my singular predominance of spandex and crystallized accessories. But as a hostess, I figure it’s my job to get the ball rolling. And the conversation that followed did prompt the idea of having a Thanksgiving fete, where all the girls dress as Pocahontas and all the boys have to come as turkeys.