The Cutness is coming to get you. Resistance is futile.

Behold, The Godson. How cute is he??

I know, I'm hardly objective. I have to give him big props for choosing the coolest character in the entire Star Wars lexicon for his Halloween costume. He's also very happy that Obama won the election.

Cool, gorgeous, funny and politically savvy! He takes after his godmother.

His mom emailed me to let me know that he has a girlfriend. He might have more than one; apparently he came home with two love notes this week. Naturally, this does not surprise me. I'm mostly just happy that he's friends with, and hangs out with, both girls and boys, still innocent of the deeper intrigues that overshadow and influence modern gender relations. That won't last much longer, of course. I jokingly emailed back that it's almost time for a "birds and bees talk," and inquired as to which parent would be handling that job. Suzi is adamant that it won't be her.

I remember having that talk with my mother when I was nine years old (if it were up to my father, I would probably still be ignorant about the bump and grind). Mom was an early developer who found blood in her panties at age nine, passing out in a Catholic school bathroom stall immediately after. She wanted to spare her own daughters the frightening experience of mysterious panty blood. She gave me one of those illustrated paperback books - you know, the ones with titles like "Your Growing Body," and had me read it. Then she explained the act of sex to me in very simple terms, making it very clear that what she had just described was, in fact, the reason for my existence, and hers, and everybody else's. Then we had a question and answer session, which was both horrifying and fascinating to my nine year old self. Thinking back, she was really very progressive. I have a feeling that it was more difficult for her to tell me that there was no Santa.

I remember my first love note, too; I got it in the first grade, when I was two years younger than my godson is now. It was left on my desk by Chris, a cute blond boy from my neighborhood that I was friendly with. We took the same bus to school. He was more of a jock; I was one of those weird kids who had learned to read by age three and used words like "asphalt," "landscaper" and "realm" in everyday speech. I taught myself to write in script by tracing my mother's handwritten letters, so I was able to read my fellow students' report cards aloud to them. First Grade Teacher was a battle-axe who had started her career in a one-room schoolhouse at the age of nineteen, and she was particularly hard on Chris for some reason. He was not a bad kid, but he was an overactive, fidgety type, which I could sympathize with, being antsy myself. When report cards came around, Chris appreciated knowing what his parents were going to be reading ahead of time.

One day, I got to my desk after lunch to find a sheet of looseleaf folded into a small square. Chris had scrawled "I Love You" inside, in black crayon. I took the note home and kept it in the drawer of my night table. I think I kissed him on the cheek once before the end of the school year. We were nice to each other. It was simple. Of course, second grade rolled around soon enough, and all was forgotten.

Years later, though, we got to talking in high school and he said, "You know, you were my first girlfriend." We laughed about it. Later on, I related the story to my mother, who went through her hope chest and pulled out Chris' love note, which she had saved. Being a teenager, I was embarrassed, of course.

But it really was sweet. And simple.

So much for Joan.

Here's Rita.

Here's a close up of the hair.

Didn't my hairdresser do an amazing job? She used the photo from my previous post. I actually had a few people ask me if my hair was a wig. It was bulletproof, and took me forever to wash out, but lasted all night through humidity and dancing. I was amazed at how much shorter my hair was after all that curling and sculpting. It looked like four inches had been trimmed off.

Joan will have to wait until next year, assuming that Mad Men remains as kick-ass as it is right now. Otherwise, I'll have to find a new redhead for Halloween 2009. A friend joked that I should aim for Red Sonja:

Kick ass woman? Check.

Red hair? Check.

Costume?! Ummmm. I'd have to work out every day until next Halloween. I like bagels too much.

Going down

Happy Halloween, everyone! My company is having a costume contest today that I'm really looking forward to. Creative people tend to go all out, with very entertaining results. It looks like I'm not going to be Joan Holloway after all this year; all the major fetes are tonight, leaving me no time to get her elaborate 'do. Women had to work so hard on their appearance back then. I would have needed hairpieces, setting, the works. If I had a party tomorrow night, I'd be fine with it, but it's too much for me to handle after 9 hours of the corporate grind. I don't exactly walk out of the house right after showering in the morning, but I'm out the door in an hour most days. When I gussied myself up to be Rita, just getting my hair done took an hour and a half. I haven't got the stamina for that after a long workday. I'm done for the year, but I can and will wear the fab "Joan dress" that I bought to work.

I'm still waiting on the Rita pictures, by the way. Sarah still hasn't emailed them to me. That's the last time she's on camera duty!

Last night I headed to a restaurant that was just a few blocks from work to meet a friend for dinner. While it's not exactly true that nobody walks in LA, most people won't walk if they can drive. I walk whenever possible, since my ass is in a chair all day five days a week. Not surprisingly, a great deal of my crazier encounters have taken place on LA streets, but I managed to walk to and from the restaurant without incident.

Things got interesting when I got back to the office to pick up my things. I used the ladies' room before leaving the building, and left my keys on the counter. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that until I was on the 7th floor of the parking garage, within 100 feet of my car. Shit! What an idiot. I had no choice but to go back to work to find them. The irony of having wanted to get some exercise that evening did not escape me.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a woman, who was quite pretty, and a man, whose face I didn't see for a moment, because it was buried in her substantial, and mostly uncovered, cleavage. She let out a small shriek and he snapped his head up, looking annoyed with me for showing up unexpectedly. I really didn't care. Slurp on it all you want, if you have her consent, as long as I don't have to watch. I turned my back to them and put my iPod buds in, pressing the elevator's lobby button.

My iPod Shuffle was set at a low volume, and the couple behind me were mostly quiet. I didn't hear much except for his grumbling and a few "tee-hees" on her part.

We reached the ground floor. Apparently, the couple had meant to get off (pun only slightly unintended) on the 4th floor, but were too wrapped up in each other to remember to press the button. The man was annoyed. He also thought, mistakenly, that my Shuffle was at a higher volume.

"Aw, man," he moaned, "we went all the way to the bottom because of this ho." He meant me. Cleavage Ho giggled, also unaware that I could hear.

Oh, hell no. They picked the wrong ho.

"That's nice," I snapped, turning my head slightly as I walked out. "Why don't you learn to fucking use an elevator, retard?"

She gasped. He was completely wide-eyed and silent. I smiled. The doors shut.

And...scene.

Joan, meet Rita.

I unexpectedly have a Halloween party this Saturday, but my Joan dress hasn't arrived yet (I ordered it online and it will be delivered next week). Last night I headed down to American Vintage on Melrose and attempted to squeeze myself into every 1960s style dress the place had; it wasn't happening. I had always figured that vintage clothes would fit me well, since I'm more on the curvy side (instead of the 'needle shape' that is currently so popular here in LA).

Well, shit.

What the hell kinds of undergarments did women wear back then? I'm assuming that weariing a very stuffed bra and the cruelest girdle known to man is the only way that a human woman can have a 40" bust and a 25" waist. Those are Barbie measurements, people. The hell?

I was finally able to squeeze my ass into a 1940s black velvet cocktail dress. I managed to get it for $27, since it was missing one button and another was broken. I'll replace them with a couple of jeweled buttons from an old Jones New York blazer. Looks like I'll be Rita Hayworth tomorrow night. Not a bad switch, and still a redhead. I'll be Joan next week, I guess!

Halloweenies

Halloween is almost upon us, kids. What will you be this year? I'm still planning to be Joan Holloway, continuing my 'famous redheads' costume theme of the last few years. Assuming that I have a party to go to, I've got a 1960s style 'wiggle dress' on call. I'll make any excuse to wear the clothing from back then!

A lot of people refer to All Hallows' Eve as "Slut-O-Ween," but I prefer to call it "Freak-O-Ween." What time of year could be more appropriate to proudly fly your freak flag? When I lived back in Boston, I used to go to Salem to celebrate. Weirdos crawl out of the woodwork; everybody is off their meds and nothing is too bizarre. If you're into the darker parts of New England history, the Witch Museum is open that night, along with the Dungeon Museum, where actors recreate witch trials based on surviving transcripts. Spells, stones and potions can be purchased on famous Essex Street, where you can have your fortune told, or your aura read, by one of the many practicing witches in the area. My favorite shop was Angelica of the Angels; my girl JoAnne and I went there for readings with Rev. Barbara or one of the other mediums a couple of times a year. Silly, I know; but really fun. We'd make a day of it - have our readings, purchase a bauble or two, then have lunch at some cute spot in town.

On our most memorable trip to Angelica's, we made a quick stop at a Mailboxes, etc. so that I could send a birthday package to my sister. There was a man in his forties in line ahead of us, who overheard JoAnne and I chatting about our upcoming readings. He turned around.

"You know," he said, very gravely, "they do the work of the devil."

"Oh, sure," I smiled. "That's why we go." He glared and walked out. JoAnne and I waited for the door to shut, then erupted in laughter.

Wicked activities aside, the one tourist attraction that I would absolutely recommend is the House of Seven Gables, otherwise known as the "Hawthorne house." On Halloween night, the house stays open into the early morning, offering candelit tours. For a sentimental literature buff like myself, touring the house that the author of The Scarlet Letter lived in was heaven, but it's a cool place to check out even if you couldn't care less about Hester Prynne.

I'm sure it goes without saying that the Witches' New Year (that's Samhain for you history nerds) is far more imaginative in Salem than it is in Los Angeles. Out here, the Slut-O-Ween label is very apropos. Go anywhere in Hollywood that night and you'll be surrounded by angels and devils - both in nothing more substantial than underwear, horns and wings. They look very good in their non-costumes, mind you; most of them are actresses and models. My personal objection comes from a lack of originality. Then there's the fact that, when you go shopping for adult costumes, there isn't much choice besides "Slutty Fillintheblank." Slutty firefighter, slutty schoolgirl, slutty French maid...the slutty astronaut costume exists too - Jesus wept! I have seen it with my own eyes. I have to 'fess up that I myself was a slutty cop a few years back. I hadn't planned to go out for Halloween at all, but got a last minute plea from a good friend, who took me to Trashy Lingerie to shop. I know. I was open to something new - a little too open. Officer Naughty was by far the most demure costume I could find - a shirtdress that buttoned up the front, had full sleeves, and came down to mid-thigh. Still, she was less than shy; I'm pretty sure that stilettos and fishnets aren't standard issue for the LAPD. Even so, I felt like a Mormon compared to most of the women I passed on the street. Strangely, I feel safest on Halloween, the one night when even I think anything goes. I can drop my conservative wardrobe with no fear. In a sea of exposed flesh, no way do I stand out the most, no matter what I have or haven't got on. The year that I was a cop, one of my tiny, very fit friends decided to be Pocahontas, who must have been incredibly cold back in the day, wearing not much more than a suede bathing suit with beaded fringe on the Virginia coast in wintertime. No wonder John Smith fell for her so hard! We jokingly called her "Poke-a-hot-ass" all night that year.

I much prefer making use of my own clothes to create my costumes. The year before I was Officer Naughty, I decided to be Jessica Rabbit - she of the icon that I use in my profile.



Yes, dear readers, c'est moi, in character. I took a previously worn Ann Taylor gown and dressed it up with a pair of $15 purple opera gloves from Hollywood Costume. It's easily the cheapest and most elegant costume I've ever worn - I was a poor imitation of the real thing, I know, but it was fun to be Jessica for one night. Unfortunately, I had to explain who I was to some members of the under-25 set. Apparently, I've gotten to the age when recent college graduates haven't seen any of the movies from my childhood! These kids today. I spent a good part of my evening advising my fellow partygoers to add to their Netflix qeue.

Jessica is the least revealing costume I've ever worn, but she backfired on me, big time. Earlier I mentioned the freedom of going unnoticed in a sea of uncovered limbs, but Jessica got a reaction, whether the guys knew who she was or not. Was it because I was covered up? You know, the lure of the unseen? I can never get this right. To wit:

Catwoman (unitard, mask) - no problem
Wonder Woman (sparkly bathing suit, boots) - no problem
Officer Naughty (shirtdress, stilettos) - no problem
Ginger of Gilligan's Island (long gown) - harrassed incessantly
Jessica Rabbit (black tie ready) - randomly groped, booty call

You know what? It's not me at all. It's a tossup whose outcome depends on the quality of men I'm surrounded by.

As Jessica, I had such a lovely conversation with a man dressed as the Phantom of the Opera that I gave him my number. He called. Not a few days later, to ask me on a date, but at 3:30 that morning, to booty call me. Jessica might not have hung up on him, but Ginger did.

He called back at 4am. "You're just scared," he slurred drunkenly.

"No," I countered. "I'm smart."

Even Officer Naughty didn't get that kind of treatment, and she had handcuffs! Wonder Woman didn't have to deal with that, either. Then again, she had the Lasso of Truth. Maybe that's what kept them at bay. Would Joan Holloway carry handcuffs and rope in her purse? Probably not. Hopefully, there's some magic in the special gold pen she wears around her neck. I'll let you know.