Make your own costume
"During my teen years, for Halloween, I went as a registered voter." – Martha Plimpton
There’s just nothing more depressing to me than half-hearted Halloween costumes, those teenaged boys with a toothpick hanging out of their mouth who say they’re a hillbilly or kids who’ve done nothing but take a pillow case from Mama’s bed to hold all the loot. The ones who get a real talking to are the ones who come dressed as bums, as if that’s acceptable behavior. Of course, Halloween lends itself to stereotypes, but to imitate homeless people for sport is beyond the pale. Little do they expect a lecture on socio-economic differences, a booklet about homelessness, and a tiny box of raisins reserved just for that kind of conscious or unconscious callousness.
No, you need to work harder and smarter for your candy. I need to see some thought, some creativity, some energy about it, some investment of brain power, some foam core. Gone are the days when hard plastic masks and mass-produced costumes would do; those days of being Davy Jones or Mickey Dolenz for Halloween are over.
The older the kids, the less they can be bothered with the pretense of dressing up. The young ones are all sparkly and enchanting in their long flowing princess costumes and Harry Potter robes and spiky dinosaur heads; they truly believe in the magic of the evening, the glory of becoming the character of their dreams, the kindness of strangers, the thrill of the unknown, while the teenagers just seem bored, angry that they have to go through the charade just to score a micro-sized Snickers bar, sullen and embarrassed at showing excitement. Hmm…a metaphor for life?
Here in our house, we’re a big believer in making our own costumes—none of those Wal-Mart bat capes made of petroleum products for this crowd. It’s a family endeavor shored up with Emma’s quirky sense of humor and John’s love (and endless supply) of foam core. Add a touch of Classic Over Achiever, and you’ve got some fantastic creations: a washing machine with socks hanging out of the door and a box of detergent spilling out on top, a Chinese take-out box with big noodles and real fortune cookies around the open top and an aluminum handle like the real thing, and this year—a refrigerator with magnetic paint on the front and magnets holding up family photos, grocery lists, and reminders (her little sister an accompanying tiny carton of soy milk), each of those creations with little hidden compartments that open from the inside to accept the candy, much to the delight of surprised neighbors.
Of course, my personal favorite was dressing up one year as my she-ro, Pippi Longstocking. Already equipped with the long orange hair and freckles, it was a snap to transform myself with boots three sizes too big, a stuffed monkey sewed to my shoulder, two different colored socks, and my hair braided in pigtails around a coat hanger so each braid would stick straight out to the side and swoop up at the ends. For all intents and purposes, I became the spitting image of Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Eprhraim’s Daughter Longstocking, to use her full name. Imagine my horror when the uncouth and unread masses in my neighborhood kept asking who on earth I was. “Do these people not read?” I remember asking my father as I reunited with him at the sidewalk. I was eight at the time; he smiled and took my hand.
Put a little effort into living.
