Hey, It's Lamb Chops!

For most, Halloween is but a distant thought, lagging behind last minute summer barbeques, the farewell to white come Labor Day, and the first pile of red and orange leaves.

But I am not most. For me, Halloween has always been THE holiday, and one that must be planned months in advance if done properly. And so I began my brainstorming last evening, weighed down with the burden of picking the perfect costume.

I’ve come a long way, costume wise, since the five consecutive Halloweens that I paraded around as a five to eight year old witch. My creativity wasn’t in high supply at the time, but I loved my costume and knew better than to ruin a good thing.

The particularly religious friends I had were only allowed to wear cheerful costumes, their parents surely viewing our witch and vampire ensembles as the devil’s work. I always felt especially sad for them as I watched my brother put the final touches of fake blood on his face.

My mother may have given us the secular freedom we desired, but she wasn’t one to waste money, placing store-bought Halloween costumes into the same category as the Lunchables: overpriced consumer goods we already had at home. And so each Halloween, my younger brother and I would root through the giant black trash bag of costumes my mother had collected over the years, searching for the perfect ensemble. The problem was that there were very few complete costumes in the bag. A cowboy hat, a witch’s broom and a hippie vest were all great accessories, but hardly the makings of an award-winning outfit.

Despite the wardrobe challenges, I finally hung up my witch hat and moved on to bigger and better things. Following an especially lucrative trip to Epcot one October, I emerged that Halloween as an impeccably dressed Japanese woman, complete with an authentic rice hat and decorative fan. To complete the costume, my mother covered my face in white powder. In hindsight, this final touch may have been offensive to the Japanese community.

The following year I continued to represent various ethnicities, this time posing as a Mexican man. The painted black moustache and brightly colored, striped blanket wrapped around my body screamed Little Tijuana, but it was the sombrero with the box of Hot Tamales resting on the brim that really completed the package. The costume became a real nuisance, as homeowners would demand to hear a little Espanol before handing over the goods. This clever back and forth always ended with me saying, “Je parle francais,” disappointment registering on their faces and they tossed me a Baby Ruth and closed the door.

My language skills aside, I was becoming quite the expert at trick-or-treating. The trick was to hit an upper middle class neighborhood, bypassing both the humble communities with stingy residents and the rich ones with massive yards that made it impossible to hit the proper number of homes in that two hour window of time. With this in mind, my mother began taking us to my best friend’s neighborhood, where the candy-lawn size ratio was perfect.

I’ve always been an incredibly competitive individual, which may explain the pure joy I felt every Halloween as I ran feverishly from house to house, always remembering to say “trick or treat” and “thank you” in the hope of collecting a bag full of candy too heavy to hold. Each year I would collapse on the floor at 8:01 pm, dumping out my bag of treats for inspection. From there, the candy would be separated into categories. Candy bars on one side, sweet things on the other, Jehovah's Witness pamphlets in the trash. Lollipops and Smarties were in a fourth category: cheap shit.

After the candy was separated into piles, trading would commence. My bartering skills improved with each Halloween, as I learned how to negotiate with the finesse of a divorce attorney. Three twix bars for one Butterfinger and a lollipop…not so fast.

While I viewed the world of Halloween candy collection with the utmost respect, my mother was far more cavalier. I still remember one particularly painful Halloween when she answered our door well past the standard 6-8 pm trick or treating time in our neighborhood to find two teenage boys on the doorstep, one of them in a wheelchair. “Trick or treat!” the paraplegic said.

My mother politely excused herself for a minute before running upstairs, where my brother and I had spread out all of our candy. “Kids, I ran out of Halloween candy and there is a boy at the door in a wheelchair and I feel sorry for him. Give me some of your candy.” I was in no mood to hand over my coveted Butterfingers, wheelchair or not, settling for a few fun sized candy bars I wasn’t as crazy about. I felt sorry for the kid too, but rules are rules.

By the time I entered high school, most of my friends had stopped trick-or-treating, a decision that boggled my 14 year-old mind. Why anyone would skip the ritual of running frantically for two hours in the pursuit of free candy was beyond me. Unphased by my peers, I emerged that Halloween in my best costume to date: Mary Katherine Gallagher. Save a few embarrassing “Superstaaar”s I had to do on command, I counted my candy that night with a real sense of satisfaction.

I continued to trick-or treat for the next three years and entered my freshman year of college with two costumes already in tow. That October I discovered I was just about the only college student on campus interested in trick or treating. A little discouraged, I decided I wouldn’t let this disturbing adult behavior bring me down. Clad in an intricate Little Bo’ Peep dress my mother had made herself, I set out on my own that night.

Walking down the street in a nearby neighborhood, I began to feel very out of place. There wasn’t anyone over the age of ten in sight and young mothers were sending disapproving stares my way. Nervously approaching my first house, I rang the doorbell. “Trick-or-treat,” I mumbled, trailing off at the end as the homeowner’s distaste became quite obvious. Apparently there was something particularly offensive about a 5’7”, 19 year-old college student indulging in a joyful holiday tradition. Seemingly disgusted, she tossed a Kit Kat in my bag and shut the door. Two houses later, I knew I wasn’t welcome in the neighborhood. I walked back up to campus, three measly candy bars in my bag, utterly dejected. I knew Halloween would never be the same again.

I returned to the dorm room looking rather depressed as I recounted my tale to others. I was then informed that trick-or-treating over the age of 16 is “frowned upon” in Virginia. Some would even call it illegal.

A lot of questions raced through my mind at that moment. WHY did I pick a school in Virginia and WHAT would they do to Little Bo’ Peep in the slammer were two of them.

In an attempt to cheer myself up, I decided it was time to put on the second costume I brought from home: a homemade head-to-toe sheep. I spent the next twenty minutes walking up and down the halls of my freshman dorm, creating quite a stir in the process. Determined to save the holiday, I marched down campus to the auditorium and entered the costume contest. Five minutes later, backed behind tremendous crowd applause, I won first place. Most of the kids thought I was Lamb Chops, but to-mato, tom-a-to.

I had to say goodbye to traditional trick-or-treating that fall of 2004, but that didn’t mean the costumes had to end. It is a well known fact that Halloween is an excuse for college girls to dress like sluts, but I was determined to forgo the skimpy skirts and suggestive mouse ears in favor of a legitimate costume. With a renewed sense of spirit sophomore year, I went to a costume party dressed as a tube of Crest toothpaste. My mother had sewn the white felt costume during my fall break, carefully cutting out the blue and red letters to spell “Crest.” To top it off, I wore a white lampshade on my head intended to resemble the cap of the toothpaste. Lampshade in place and digging into my skull, I doused my cheeks and forehead in baby powder before coating my face with a thick layer of hairspray to make the powder stick.

The costume was by far my most creative, but left little room for movement as I tried to dance at the bar. Mistaken at times for a lampshade, I was also accosted by two drunk freshman who sandwiched me between them before bouncing me back and forth, Night at the Roxbury style, in an attempt to “squeeze the toothpaste.” It was a harrowing evening, but I slept soundly that night, another Halloween done right.

After all of the hulabaloo I caused as a toothpaste tube and a junior year Girl Scout costume that was sub-par, there was an enormous amount of pressure senior year to pull off an amazing outfit. I toyed with the idea of posing as Lorena Bobbit, complete with a knife, nightgown, serial-killer esque hair and a hot dog in a jar, but my friends suggested I wear something less abrasive to the male sex if I had any hope of finding a dance partner that evening.

Naturally, I went with option number two: crazy cat lady. I spent hours that Halloween attaching dozens of feline pictures onto my blue robe. The night of the party I had my hair in Dollar Store curlers, cat toys dangling from the pockets of my blue robe, nylons that came just above the ankles, glasses and blue slippers. As a final accessory, I carried a cat bowl with frosted flakes taped to the bottom, the name “Fluffy Meowington” scrawled on the front with a black Sharpe.

The epitome of sexy, I arrived at my roommate’s boyfriend’s apartment to find a handful of guys eyeing my costume with intrigue. One of the guys finally came over, taking a good long look before speaking. “You’re not expecting to hook up with dudes in THAT costume, are you?!”

Apparently not.

I spent that evening at the costume party just as I had the last two years; an outsider in a sea of sluts. An outsider with another amazing costume, might I add.

In the years to come before I have my own children (and a legitimate excuse to re-enter the world of trick-or-treating), I will continue to uphold the standards I set for myself as a young child in any venue I can.

This year will be no different, as I spend the next two months fashioning the perfect costume. With any luck, I’ll create another masterpiece, something surely ill-suited for meeting and mingling with “dudes.” And if by chance I meet my soulmate at the punch bowl while attempting to balance my hot dog in a jar and butcher’s knife, well…..

At least it’s a good story.