decorating: it’s all in the little touches

It may pain you to know this, and I am sorry, but I am not much of the decorating type.  This is true not just of my house in general, but my approach to holidays as well.

As much as I adore Halloween, I’m not moved much beyond the pumpkin-carving aspect of accoutering our abode.  MUCH to the chagrin and dismay of the resident six-year-old, particularly as we live in direct view of a family that believes every holiday deserves its full due of indoor and outdoor ornamentation. Yes, there are inflatables.

To appease Miss Megs, and because I thought it was fun and a great use for all those blessed plastic bags we can’t possibly get our newspaper delivered without, one early October day we made a dozen or so cute ghosts to hang in the trees.

Whaddya mean, you’ve never seen a green ghost?  Don’t tell my girls.  Me, I was amused by the double entendre.   Green, and green, get it?  Hah.

And because we have a Halloween advent calendar, courtesy some relative, I dutifully hung that baby up.  And then, because there was still a lot of sadness and general gnashing of teeth and rolling of eyes over the great undecoratedness of our abode, I ponied up the idea that we could make it a tradition every year to go and pick out a new halloween decoration.  I’m all about Making Childhood Memorable and Fun.  Really, I am.  I’m just not about buying, owning, or storing a bunch of stuff.

Megs immediately began lobbying hard for a full complement of faux tombstones like she saw in front of the house a few blocks down. I don’t mean to crush her dreams, but I can tell you there will be a real one planted with my name engraved thereon before there are any fake ones in my yard.  Witches, ghosts, black cats, pumpkins, yes.  Skeletons,  graveyards, tombstones, scary shit or gruesome anything, not so much.

We settled on pumpkin-shaped lights.

But apparently that benefaction, and even the promise of more to come, didn’t quite live up to her vision of House Halloween.  Because one weekend morning, these and others popped up all over the downstairs:

I hated to take them down, they’re so daggone cute, but hey — it’s time to start decorating for Thanksgiving, you know.

I’m just one vase of autumn-toned flowers on the table away from being done.

Halloween ‘09

So, here’s the obligatory Halloween-costume shot, though I didn’t realize it was out of focus until now.  Blame it on the wine lighting.

I got off so easy this year I’m practically cringing in embarrassment just thinking about it.

Because when Kira started talking about what she thought she might be, I led her quickly down the Purple Kittycat avenue and she, good second child that she is, never veered course. I am costume crazy, but I am also lazy: for every handmade costume, there is a season, and it is two seasons long. Minimum.

I couldn’t quite figure it out, but for some reason, maybe because the whole suit was just a little big on her, or maybe because I got the angle on the ears wrong this time, she somehow looked much, much more like a Wild Thing — or maybe just a purple Max — than the sweet kitty that I swear Megan did.

I’m not sure how that happened, but with the recent Wild Things movie release, it all tied in just fine. She had whiskers and a pink nose and pure astonished delight that everyone she glanced at shyly put candy in her pumpkin.

And I swear, I was all set to hand-craft Megan’s tiger swallowtail wings using coat hangers, black stockings and who knows what all else, consuming the better part of my free hours in early October, when I happened onto a pair online that she deemed perfect. For seven-ninety-nine plus nominal shipping. SOLD, to the lazy lady with the charge card.

I already had that black shimmery bodysuit because when you are a little wacked about costuming and you find one of those at Goodwill, oh you snap it up then and there even if it is, and it was, the middle of December. Some moms shop seasons ahead; I shop Halloweens ahead.

One headband, two pipecleaners, two fuzzy balls, an inch of hot glue later and she was good to go. Criminal, I tell you.

It was such a fun evening, and completely devoid of even a flicker of last year’s Halloween meltdown. Score one in the treat column.

time to relocate

Along about last spring, we became aware of a constant, odd pittering noise coming from the front of the house.

It turned out to be a squirrel who had decided that the little seed buds on our dogwoods constituted a fine mealtime buffet. What we were hearing was the empty pods, hundreds on hundreds of them, being cast aside and hitting the stone and concrete steps of our front stairs.

We learned to walk carefully, cos those little pods are sharp and, en masse, a little slippery.

Then began the foraging in the garage. Safe neighborhood and all that, it must be said (I know, people, I know I KNOW) that we were in the habit of leaving the door up, along with the windows open in the car.

What the squirrel apparently discovered was that floor of the car was a total bonanza: a delightful, delectable repository for stray cheerios, pretzels, and such. To the point where last summer it GNAWED THE RUBBER off the window seal on the MPM’s car when he — most inconsiderately — put them all the way up, thus denying easy access.

We learned to close the garage door. Mostly. Though I did come upon him rummaging about in MY car one day and, I confess, I screamed.  I mean, I really screamed.  I’m no girly girl but the daggone thing STARTLED me.  Kira still talks about it.

So. Here it is, autumn. Here are our lovely Jack-O-Lanterns that I carved with the girls on Sunday.  They dictate the design; I am old-fashioned and lazy and carve freehand with an old paring knife.  Feel free to judge harshly my creativity and finesse, however.

Oh, wait; no.  Fact is we don’t have a photo of how they appeared on Sunday. What we have is our Jack-o-Lanterns as they appeared on Monday, in a state that Kira termed “different and more scarier” — indeed, note the gruesome effect wrought by That Damn Squirrel:

And both the others lost their teeth.

Hear me now, Mr. Squirrel: we do not begrudge you the natural abundance of the dogwoods, nor even the occasional breakfast cereal. But defacing Jack-o-Lanterns? Is just that one step over the edge. Operation Rodent Relocation will commence at dawn.

wit and witches and suchnot

My love affair with Halloween is, fundamentally, about two things:  candy corn, and costumes.

Regular readers know I feel eating locally and seasonally is important. I consider candy corn seasonal to October and, like cherries in June, I do my best to consume enough during their short season to tide me over the long months between.

I think my delight in the costume aspect comes from time dating a clown.  To be sure, I dated a number of men who could qualify for the title, but only one who made a portion of his living at it.  Frankie T, aka Crossroad the Clown, was a great entertainer and an inspired costumer.

Every now and then I got to join in on one of his gigs, and I thought it was honestly about the most fun you could have with your clothes, or rather someone else’s, on.

Nowadays I only do it once a year, but I haven’t missed a Halloween in ages.  Somewhere in a shoebox is a collection of photos over the years, and someday maybe I’ll track it down and give my brother, the tech gadget king, the opportunity to run ‘em through his groovy new ultra-tech scanner so I can share the love and the silliness.

There was the classic “Madonna with Child” — or perhaps not so classic, involving as it did a diapered baby doll and coned Blonde Ambition Tour bustier.  My date was, naturally, the Holey Ghost.  (A woman of paralyzing Catholic faith hissed at me, “That’s not funny.”  Um, au contraire, Your Righteousness.)

Marge from Kissimmee Florida, complete with dyed red hair, 30 extra pounds stuffed into her capris, and spectacular cankles.

Miss Conception, whose one-piece bathing suit showed off her baby bulge (aka my bike helmet).

Gritty the Thru-Hiker, with full facial hair and a blonde female companion of astonishingly ugly persuasion (that would be the MPM).

The list is long, and without photos I won’t bore you further with my self-proclaimed cleveritude.

So indeed, I’ve been to a lot of Halloween parties over the decades. But I have to say, none even close to holding a candle to the one that we’ve found ourselves lucky enough to be invited to the last couple years.  There are easily a couple hundred attendees, and nary a one sans costume.

And not any old lame costume, either.  As with ‘Ween parties everywhere, you can’t swing a bloody ax without hittin cleavage, of course, but there’s also plenty of wit and style, not to mention time and effort. Honestly, you might think you were in New York or L.A. rather than little ole backwoods small Southern city us.

The house decorations are nothing short of incredible, the hosts are prodigiously generous with their food and bar offerings, and I’m thinking it’s entirely possible they imported the DJ from a much bigger city.  He worked his boyscout-uniformed behind off and the dance floor was packed the entire night.

Costumes and liquor drinks are a dangerous combination for me, as is, admittedly, dancing and liquor in most any form.  Long after Cinderella had taken off in her pumpkin coach, I’d worn out the MPM and resorted to a sturdier companion:

that robot can dance!

And in case you’re wondering what the heck kind of costume is THAT, Miss All-About-Halloween, this may clear it up:

achoo!

When you lack cleavage of illustrious proportion, you gotta go with the wit.  What a fun night.  (Thanks to Katie, aka Glinda the Good, for the photos!)

OMG:  I just Googled “Crossroad the Clown” and found a video about him and his son, and his 30 years’ volunteering with Camp Good Days & Special Times in upstate New York.  It’s not great, but I had to include it.  Just because.  My friends used to refer to him as “The Voice.”  20-some years ago he had, let’s just say, a lot more hair on his head (and a lot less on his ARMS??!!?), but the voice, yes The Voice, is the same.

OMG, Part II: Through the power of Facebook… I bring you Crossroad the Clown, 2009! What a riot.

opening/closing on Salem Ave

With apologies to those for whom this locally themed joke is meaningless, I’ve been under some pressure to post a photo of this year’s costumes:

closings and openings on Salem Ave...