The Rooster and Boba Fett

Today is Halloween.

Because our city is weird, Trick or Treat was last night on October 30th. I don't know why it is on the 30th and is called "Beggar's Night."

The build-up in our house has been positively fierce, particularly for 7-year-old Wesley, who declared in July that he was to be Boba Fett. We put off buying the costume as long as possible because the price on the thing was outrageous and, unlike other families who enthusiastically embrace Halloween and all of its spookiness, I see money spent on costumes equivalent to money flushed down the crapper.

The only time I can say that this wasn't the case was when Wesley was four and he went as Spiderman. Like every other four year old boy, Spiderman was his obsession, and was egged on by the rapid-fire releases of the Spiderman trilogy.

"Spiderman" was one of those polyester, highly flammable jobs that tied up the back and had the fake, fluffy muscles in the front to intimate the massive strength of the pint sized Spidey . Wesley wore the thing for four weeks leading up to Halloween (even to bed), and throughout that winter. I think he might have continued to wear it into the summer, but by that time it was too tight, specifically in the crotch area, and created a frontal wedgie that would be deemed, by any reasonable person, highly inappropriate to wear in public .

Unfortunately, unlike the Spiderman of yore, Boba Fett's novelty wore off after the first day or so. By the time October 30th rolled around, he wouldn't even put on the helmet. I made him carry the helmet around the neighborhood so folks could AT LEAST get the gist of the costume and would satisfy my own concern with getting my money's worth out of the over-priced ensemble.

The baby's costume was bought on Ebay because I felt I had to, pressured by the endless questions about "what Maggie was going to be for Halloween" and the fear of reproach if I said she wasn't dressing up. Sadly at thirty-something, I am highly affected by peer pressure (in a thirty year old's sort of way). But by this age, peer pressure no longer occurs in the areas of beer and bongs... it moves onto things that bring out fundamental issues of guilt. In this case, depriving a child of the experience, even if only through photos later in life, of participating in holidays of which the importance is grossly inflated and driven by retail sales.

The baby's costume was .99 and shipping was a mere 3.00. I felt that this was very reasonable. It was a costume of a chicken, although Chris pointed out that the comb on top of the hood technically made it a rooster, thus all wrong for a baby girl. But it was cozy for a chilly October night. I couldn't have anticipated that Beggar's Night this year would be unusually mild and the minute I put the stifling costume on her she would flip out.

We set her in the stroller and she cried even harder.

We started walking and the freak-out was impressive in its ferocity and intensity.

By the end of the block, we had to pick her up and carry her.

My trick or treat experience was souring by the minute and as we made our way up the hill one block over, I had experienced enough of it already. The dirtballs were out en masse and we were walking through plumes of cigarette smoke and dodging doggies dressed in costumes (which is no simple feat with an SUV sized stroller). The parents yelling and dragging their children around reminded me very much like the last time I visited the east side Kmart.

I had Chris plunk her down in the stroller and, the as the ferocity of the flipping out reared its ugly head once again, I half walked/half jogged the rest of the way to our house where our oldest son was sitting on the porch handing out candy, trying to look cool and uninterested, and receiving positive attention from girls. At least he had a good night.

Which leads to today, October 31st,the actual "holiday." I will probably fire up more tea lights and put them in our jack-o-lanterns outside (we went all out this year). It will feel very anticlimactic until I see the 75% off sale on seasonal items at the local Target, my highlight of every holiday season.

The Firm Butt and Red Velvet Cake

Lots of things happened since I blogged last:

I have my very first ever niece! Sweet lil Isabella is now almost 3 weeks old.

I stopped nursing due to a medication change in my PIH (Pregnancy Induced Hypertension) saga.

I decided that, after yesterday's turd and spillage, I was no longer the "cloth diapering" type of gal and am throwing in the towel.

We saw Sarah Palin today at a rally, and I am convinced I am never going to have her butt. You can bounce not one, not two, but I'm sure AT LEAST three quarters off of it. It is a butt I will never have, considering I had a burger and fries for dinner and there is a piece of red velvet cake waiting for me in the fridge (hellooooo, lovaahhhh).

I comment on her butt because that was the view we had, and that is, quite literally, all I saw.

A friend of ours delivered early on her "pastor's appreciation month" obligation and got us onstage for the Sarah Palin rally. She was wearing her hooker boots and trotted lil Piper out to tell us to "vote for her mom."

Before the rally started, a staffer handed out hand painted signs to us. Since we were directly behind Palin, we were to part of the "Iowa ***hearts***Palin" message. I was the heart, so I considered this to be an uber important job. Hubby was the "S." Our 7 year old also standing with us, was slighted and quite pissy for not getting a letter, and our 13 year old's job was to cuddle the six month old and to keep her from crying. For his efforts, he was pissed on when the diaper failed (which, due to the reaction to the leakage, could have been the worst possible thing to happen to a 13 year old. Ever. In the history of mankind.).

The "coolness" of holding the letters wore off in about, oh, sixty seconds. Because, not only were we obligated to hold them up above our heads when Palin came out, we had to hold them before she came out, as she walked out on stage, during her speech, and as she exited the stage. Needless to say, by then end of the deal, I felt as if I was holding an anvil. Of lead. My cheerfulness about the whole endeavor had worn off, not only due to the challenge of holding these things up for so long and so often, but also due to the comments of the people behind us, which went something like this:

"Put the signs down!"

"Signs down, please!" (Not said in the polite manner as it appears in print.)

"Put the damn signs down."

"How rude! Put those signs down!"

I wanted to turn around and point out the effeminate guy in the front row in the pink bow tie who was DIRECTING us to hold the "damn" signs up, that this wasn't an all out effort to block the views of Sarah Palin's ass to the unfortunates behind us.

Besides getting yelled at, a raging headache from the lights and the realization that I shouldn't have worn that white t-shirt under that black sweater because all I could see were **boobs, boobs, boobs** on television, it was a pretty good day.

At the end of this good day and as I was contemplating Sarah Palin's ass, I proceeded through the drive through of a local burger joint and ordered a burger with everything on it, a large french fry and a large (diet) Pepsi.