Costumes through the ages (of Sharon)

In the spirit of Halloween, I went scrounging through my old pictures to find out what I used to look like when I dressed up.
It’s pretty bad.  I mean, really.

First up, this wasn’t for a special occasion, this is what I wore EVERY DAY.

No, I’m not a tiny Amish nun but thank you for asking.  That Strawberry Shortcake towel is my luxurious, long hair. Obviously.  I wanted long hair and didn’t have it because (according to my mother) I refused to brush it.  If I refused to brush it, she refused to let me grow it out.  This apparently stayed in my subconscious when my hair reached my waist in high school.  Take that!!

Next we have: Little Bo Peep goes grocery shopping.

At least, that’s as near as I can figure it.  I’m wearing a dress and a matching freaking bonnet.  I’m not sure that’s even legal now. But in 1983, why not?

A year later: Another hideous dress!!  This time with a wee bit of costume jewelry!

Really, that dress is beyond me.  Did someone make it?  Who made it?  Were they blind?

Of course, I’m not much better at dressing myself.  This is what I came up with one year for a Mardi Gras parade.

Yes, that is indeed a purple sequin mesh/net shirt. Please note the addition of glitter war paint dramatically streaked across my cheeks and some heinous clip-on earrings.  That’s RIGHT.

I would like to point out that my father was willing to go along with it.  Not only did he allow this outfit, he played along.

As you can see, he used color hair spray to make his beard blue and pink.  Because that’s how we do.
You may ask yourself, “Where did you obtain such things as a purple sequin mesh/net shirt AND a gold sequin belt?”  Honestly, I have no clue.  It couldn’t have been from dance recitals, because that was all tutus and what not.  And the costume jewelry came from my grandmother, but I’m certain she didn’t have a stretchy sequin belt stashed away in her cellar from her youth.  It was the 80s, maybe this stuff was just commercially available everywhere.

And now, my favorite costume of all time.  One year, age 8, I tell my mother that I want to be a witch.  Okay!  She’s going to make me a skirt.  With pointed edges, because pointy-edged skirts are what witches wear.  And black stockings!  Yes!

The result, though, looks less like I’m about to stir a cauldron and more like I’m a tiny woman of the night.  Boy, those skirt slits went higher than we anticipated.  And those are fishnets, by the way.  And yes, I grabbed a magic wand from the magic supply closet, but at that angle it’s looking a little like a cigarette holder. AWESOME.  I can’t believe I was allowed to leave the house like this.

Ghost Stories

A Pajiba friend has been posting some of his ghost experiences, and they inspired me to tell my own. It’s the Halloween season, I guess.

It’s not as exciting or vivid as his, but it sure scared the hell out of me when it happened.

The first one happened in my bedroom of the house I grew up in (on Westminster). My bed faced the window, which faced nothing, really. Just the fence and a narrow strip of side yard. And one night, as I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep, I saw something.

It didn’t look like much at first. Just a shadow. But the shadow looked . . . wrong somehow. If you lie in a bed and stare at a window for that many years, you get pretty familiar with where the light hits in any given situation. This shadow just didnt make sense. It seemed detached, set apart from the fence, and it didn’t fall like any shadow I had ever seen.

Just as I was puzzling over this, the shadow moved. And the best I can explain it is that the shadow seemed to ripple slightly and move through my window. I was terrified, unable to move or cry out or do anything except stare at it in rapt horror.

I remember lying there, crying and unblinking as I felt a kind of malevolence  rush over me.  The room was thrumming with it. And all I could think to do, frozen as I was, was to silently pray.  My relationship with the church by then was tenuous at best, but some habits and faith will stick with you no matter what. I fervently sent up every plea I could think of, shivering the entire time as the room grew colder and the shadow hovered first in the window, then past it, and then moved closer to me. And as I lay there, I watched the shadow suddenly dissolve. I bolted upright and ran to the bathroom where I huddled in a towel and tried to convince myself that I had been dreaming.

But I knew I hadn’t been asleep. Not at all. And I didn’t sleep in my room for a week.

The truth

Long after I had suspected that the Tooth Fairy might be a load of crap, I made a different discovery.

Let me back up. Like most little girls, I was fascinated with the things on top of my mother’s dresser. Little glass boxes filled with random, mismatched jewelry; a basket full of makeup; fluffy brushes; a little plastic McDonald’s coffee stirrer she used for mixing two shades of liquid foundation (this was the 80s when everyone was inexplicably pink-tinged and never looked right); pictures. I don’t think my mom wore perfume, but if I catch a whiff of the right moisturizer or Shaklee makeup I’m sent right back to my childhood.

But one day, I found another glass box. It was tucked away, a little further back on the dresser that was so much taller than me. And in it, were a bunch of baby teeth. Some of which had remnants of dried blood.

Now, I understand that some mothers keep that kind of stuff. But I had no clue at the time! What theory was I supposed to come up with upon finding her freaky tooth collection, what might a child in South Louisiana think of all this?

VOODOO.

Yes, I was convinced my sweet, church choir-singing mother was going to try to put a hex on me. No lie. I put the box back very carefully and kept my eye on her. I got suspicious when we had chicken, wanting to see if she kept the bones. When she put me to bed, I pretended to go to sleep and then snuck out to spy on her as she sat in the living room. I spent a lot of time crouched in the foyer, peering around the corner. I never caught her, but I did get to see some late night TV.

I’m sure I must have eventually asked my mother, like a week or two later. I remember her laughing really hard at me (though, to be fair, that happened a lot). And I’m certain she assured me that she had no creepy use for my teeth other than a warped sense of sentimentality.

But still . . .

Learning the Rhythm

A conversation with A made me remember one of my greatest friends tonight.  Not that he’s ever too far from my thoughts, but still.  I still miss you like mad, babe.

Eddie was a sensualist. Not in the sexual way (although that certainly came into play as we grew older) but because of his love of beauty. All beauty, especially music. He could be brought to tears by a good guitar riff, or a spectacular piano melody. But rhythm was his true love and he engulfed himself in it. One day, when I was fourteen and he was sixteen, he arrived at my house. I was in a mood, one of those moods that spontaneously pounce upon fourteen-year-old girls, and was sulking in my living room. “Field trip!” he announced. We went to New Orleans and walked to a corner near a construction site. He grabbed my arm to stop me and closed his eyes.

“What are you doing,” I asked. “Are you sleepy?”
“Shut up for a minute,” he said patiently.
“If we’re just gonna stand here, I came out for nothing. There are plenty of construction sites in Slidell. Aren’t we gonna DO something?”
“I said shut up. Have I ever brought you out here and not shown you a good time? If you shut up I can find it.”

Suddenly, he did. He opened his eyes and smiled.

“Okay, do you see that big yellow thing over there? The one that’s pounding the street?” he asked.
“Uh…yeah. So?”
“That’s the bass drum. Hear it? It’s a real slow beat, in 4/4. Now pay attention.”

I looked at him with my right eyebrow cocked in sarcastic bemusement. I had no clue what he was getting at. My early teenage attitude was on the rise and I was about to say something, but he beat me to it.

“I said shut up. You can give me that shit when we get home, but for now I need you to listen. So, we have a bass. Alright, hear that glass? Like a crashing, tinkling sound. Those are the cymbals. The hammer over there, that’s the snare. The heels, hear em? Those are the rims. Now close your eyes and listen.”

I did. I closed my eyes, before he yelled at me, and leaned my head back for good effect. I stood there, thinking what a moron and then…I heard it. I heard it. I heard the beat of the bass start it off, I heard the clicking of a woman’s high heels at a faster tempo. Someone threw a bag of trash somewhere, crash.  Glass broke, cymbals shivered. I heard something new: swish, swish. A street sweeper had come along. I opened my eyes and looked at Eddie. He was thrilled; he’d always wanted to try brush sticks. He pulled me in front of him and began to beat a rhythm on my back. We stood there, audience for the street corner concert, and listened.

Genetic muscle memory

The other night, I was tired and a little silly.  I was trying not to laugh at something C was doing, and I felt my face arrange itself in an expression of my mother’s.  I knew, without looking, that it was precisely the same one.

Weird.

And then I found this picture, probably one of my favorite ones ever.

Yeah, that’s tiny baby me sleeping with Mom.  In the same position.  And I’ve been assured repeatedly that nobody arranged us that way.

And then C looked at this picture and said “It’s like looking at you while you’re sleeping.  Except it’s your mother.  And we don’t have an ugly couch.  Or a baby.  That’s freaky!!“

Not really any point to posting this, I just like the picture a whole lot.

Thank you, Mr. Scanner

I was emailed some old pictures that my parents found and yay! I was so cute. First, we have the fateful Smurf meeting . . .

Oh yeah, I can see by my face that I am about to freak out. That little half smile says to whichever parent is taking the picture, “I am putting up with this for about 2 more seconds, but I would like you to know that there is something extremely wrong. Save me now, or I will destroy everything around me in my efforts to escape.”

Next up, me getting into my mother’s makeup! According to her, I was about 3 here. I really did it up right.

At least I got the lipstick on the mouth, though I can’t say if the rest of it is mascara or eyeliner and I don’t know why I decided to make a cat nose or put it along my jawbone. And that expression? I think I’m about to be in the biggest trouble ever ever ever. According to my mother, she thought I was super cute and wanted a picture of me. I thought she was gathering evidence of my wrongdoing to justify the giant vat of punished waiting for me. Also, don’t ask about the hat. I remember the hat, but I don’t understand the hat. It’s horrible.

The next picture I’m looking for is one of me with a towel clipped to my head. Common practice, I’m told, for little girls with short hair who wish they had long hair. There are legions of girls running around looking like tiny nuns.

New words

When I was a kid, I apparently thought a lot of myself.  Case in point, when I heard someone use a word I wasn’t familiar with, instead of wondering what it was or asking, I just thought they were really stupid.

Example 1
I’m 5 years old at girl scout camp and hear some mother say that it’s drizzling.  I’ve never heard this word.  I think she’s too stupid to know that it’s sprinkling.

Example 2
Age 6, I hear some friend refer to crayons as Crayolas.  I think she’s too stupid to know how to pronounce the word crayon.  Turns out, I had been using generic crayons (i.e. Prang, the worst crayons on the earth) since preschool.

I still have a massive yen for a giant box of Crayola, you know, with the endless colors and the sharpener in the side, because I was SO jealous of the kids that had them.  I’m an adult now, and I think I should probably just go and buy myself some crayons.  And a coloring book.

Brilliant

What is my favorite story about my parents? My mother’s constant irritation at my father’s ability to just go to sleep. I don’t like it either. It’s not fair. He just kind of decides that “Okay, it’s time to sleep now” and so he does.

One night, he was able to do this after a fight. Mom, like me, can’t sleep after a fight. So his sleeping was especially annoying. Apparently, Mom sat in the living room with a pair of scissors and meticulously shredded an entire spool of magic rope all over the floor. She felt much better after that and went to bed. Dad woke up during the night, went into the living room, and saw the shredded mess. He did not, however, see the scissors. And then wondered if she was keeping them under her pillow and wasn’t able to go back to sleep. Now that is sneaky. I have so much work to do before I reach that level.

Revision: She didn’t shred an entire spool.  Just a little bit of it.  As she is telling me RIGHT NOW on the phone because she doesn’t want to seem crazy.  Like this is going to help.

This is Nola’s fault

Nola told a gross story on her blog and it made me think of one:

When I was 14 or so, I went with a group of friends to a concert at the UNO arena.  I think it was Candlebox, which seems really funny now.  Anyway, my friend’s boyfriend was driving us home when two of the girls in the car had to pee.  There was NOWHERE to stop because we were in that dead zone past New Orleans east but not quite to the Twin Span.  So he pulled over on the side of the road and let them pee.  Being the eternal gentleman that he is, he took off his shirt so they wouldn’t have to drip-dry in the tall grass and risk getting bitten by something weird.  The shirt was then tossed way up onto the dash and he continued driving us home topless.

A few minutes later, he got pulled over for speeding.  The cop, upon approaching the car, snapped at him.  “Boy!  Don’t you have a shirt?”
“Uhhh, yeah.  I do.”
“Put it on!  I don’t wanna stand here and look at your dumb-ass half naked!”

And Scoot, without any argument, put on the pee-shirt.  And everyone in the car winced.  And kept quiet.

He’s still quite the gentleman, though hopefully there haven’t been any more incidents like THAT one.  He does have kids, though.  So who knows.

Wish I could find the picture

During a conversation with M yesterday, I remembered when I met Papa Smurf.  I was maybe 5 or 6, and my parents took me to the Plaza mall in New Orleans East because the Smurfs were gonna be there.  Yayyy!  I was so freakin’ excited.

Imagine my shock when I got there.  I’m here to tell you that a full-grown man in a Smurf costume is terrifying.  All I could think was “That is WAY bigger than two apples tall!”  And then I had a mini-freak out thinking that Gargamel had infiltrated the Smurfs somehow and managed to look like their leader and was in New Orleans to kidnap me and make me help him kill all the Smurfs.

Which explains why there is a picture of me standing in front of a 5′7″ Smurf with tears streaming down my red face in agony.