Why I fail at Halloween

Oaxaca, Mexico
Day of the Dead is not scary.

I eat the candy before the trick or treaters come.

I am afraid of being afraid.

I startle easily. If someone dressed as a ghoul or an ax murderer jumps out at me from somewhere I might actually die.

Gore freaks me out. Fake blood? Real blood? How do you know?

I did Halloween when my kids were small. Walked them around the neighborhood with my heart pounding. The very first Halloween when my older daughter was one or maybe two we went to the mall. Someone told us it was a great venue for a really little kid. The lights were on ,and I thought it might be fun for her to see the older kids dressed up. But there were trick or treaters in scary masks, wielding rubber axes and roaring like monsters. She cried. I wanted to. We left.

One Halloween this same daughter and I made luminarias and lined our long driveway with them. We sat on the porch, dressed as rather benign witches with harpsichord music on our laptops. It was great. We didn't terrify anyone. But children did approach with a certain cautious wonder.

My other favorite Halloween wasn't real life. It was  a dream. Dan and I went to a party dressed as John and Yoko. He, wearing a long black wig, was Yoko. I still smile when I think of it.

I get that people love Halloween and have a great time. Cool.

But I love Day of the Dead.  A days long celebration to remember and to connect with our lost loved ones. Magic. I'd love a giant room full of marigolds right now.

Booooo. Boooooo.

Essential zip-lock of toiletries

I hate Hallowe'en.
I hate to fly.
So here I am, combining both my phobias in some weird through-the-looking-glass like-cures-like move. Waiting to board a spooktacular (Ugh) flight to the east coast, it  turns out that LAX is pretty much Hallowe'en neutral. Unlike, say, Hollywood Boulevard (my most terrifying Hallowe'en night ever) or any shopping mall or pretty much anywhere. There's one friendly ghost half-inflated inflatable at one of the Southwest gates, and one gate attendant sporting an indeterminate set of animal ears. (Bear? Mouse? Anybody's guess.) There's no one here dressed like death, no one streaming fake blood, no fake weapons. Hurray. Now pass the spiked apple cider and the day will be pretty much perfect. There is a guy next to me in corduroy trousers with mallards embroidered on them, but I just heard him say it's his weekend casual outfit. I'll take that over a zombie covered in goo any day.

I did spend one fairly decent Hallowe'en on my front porch. C and I dressed in basic black and witches hats with a great playlist on the laptop. Neighborhood children approached but were not terrified. We gave out good candy. (One year when my kids were small I gave out glow-in-the-dark toothbrushes. Sorry.)

Okay. So go dress up. Scare people. I'm already scared, so you can skip me. But maybe read THIS first.

As I begin to shape my weeks in a way that will include experiences other than staring at a blank word document and wishing I could or would write something, I have been doing a couple of different volunteer jobs. Today I sorted clothing donations at the DWC. A mountain of clothes. More clothes from Ann Taylor Loft than the inventory of an actual Ann Taylor Loft store. Things in such pristine condition that they may have actually been donated by the store. And if not, there's someone out there with a serious shopping addiction who just cleaned out her closet.

Los Angeles amazes me in this way. Such plenty. Such poverty. Three times a week, the women who patronize the DWC day center (these are the women who drop in for meals and showers and other care, but don't live there) get to "shop." The clothing, given the once over by volunteers like me in order to eliminate things too dirty or tattered, is sorted into piles of small, medium, large, and extra large before the women have at it. I haven't seen this in action yet, but today both residents and day center women chose Halloween costumes from the items we pulled from the giant pile and laid out on tables in the conference room. If you're downtown frequenting some of the meaner streets in the City of Angels, look for boas and flapper headdresses, for a genie, an airline stewardess, a church lady, a magician, a mannequin, a convict, and a doctor. Look for women who, once upon a time, probably had a place to call home just like you and me.

photo credit: dallas.about.com