Halloween is a holiday built around candy and costumes...and for some...humiliation.
My mother was not the crafty type when we were growing up....until a morning show called "Home" came out.
My brother and sister were lucky enough to have outgrown trick or treating by the time she viewed the "make your own costume" special...but alas, I had not.
Every year, we had a choice for Halloween. We could be a witch, a clown or a tiger. Those are the 3 costumes we had at the Orth household....it was boring. It was predictable. It was comfortable....but of course, being the true original that I am, I had to balk at the idea of wearing my sister's hand-me-downs.
It's true what they say. Be careful what you wish for...
It was 1987....a simpler time, a simpler life. There was no "Political Correctness" or "Children's rights"...people were inappropriate all the time, and no one ever batted an eyelash.
I was 9 years old, wanting a new, original Halloween costume, and luckily (or unluckily), my mom had an ingenious idea-r.
I remember sitting in the passenger seat of my mom's Chrysler, listening to her excitedly talk up the costume idea she had for me.
"...I saw it on that new show I like...you know the one...Home, I think it's called? Anyway, they dressed this kid up in an outfit, using only things they had around their home...get it?? Because the show is called Home?? Isn't that clever??"
My mom was so excited, I thought she might eat her own tongue in the process of jabbering about this new costume.
When I was able to get a word in, I asked the most important question about a detail she failed to mention. "Well, what is it? What am I going as?"
She paused to build the anticipation and then said dramatically, "A hobo."
I stared at her. This is what she had been so excited for?? Tommy Gillihan dressed like a bum every year!
I felt duped. This was nothing new.
BUT...being the awesome daughter I was back then, I didn't want to hurt her feelings so I plastered on a fake smile and said, "Sounds good, Ma."
She could sense my lack of enthusiasm.
She tapped my leg and whispered, "I haven't told you the best part yet."
I raised my eyebrows. "What?" I was expecting her to tell me I got to have a cool accessory like a live dog wearing a bandana or a life-like shank.
"You get to have stubble!"
At age 9, I had no idea what "stubble" was...so again, I just stared at her. I was wondering if "stubble" was another word for "shank". (Why I knew what a shank was at 9 is a whole other story...)
The enthusiasm with which my mom relayed this last bit was contagious.
I was finally getting excited. I get to have stubble! Now THAT is something Tommy Gillihan did NOT have....and also, considering it was Halloween morning, I didn't have that many options...
We got home and my mom and I scavenged the house for "homeless looking clothing" (Like I said, PC is not something that even existed in the 80s...)
An hour later, I had my getup on. I was wearing my brother's "garbage" jeans that had holes and grass stains in the knees, a tired looking flannel shirt that my dad had put in the Goodwill bag that was so big on me we had to roll the sleeves up 5 times and a stocking hat (it was the midwest...Halloween was usually so cold that I had to cover my costume with a hat and a coat anyway...but this year, my costume was so versatile that I could wear my jacket underneath.)
I stood in the kitchen waiting for my mother to reveal how we were actually going to get this elusive stubble on my face.
She smiled broadly as she took out the syrup and some coffee grounds.
As a kid with some major sensory issues (I ate only Lipton soup for breakfast and lunch for 3 years for Christ's sake!), I couldn't believe my eyes.
Surely she was not thinking of putting that shit on my face...I took a deep breath and waited for her to make a snack out of these ingredients while she got the real stubble out.
No such luck.
I watched in horror as she squeezed the syrup onto one plate and spread coffee grounds on another.
When she felt everything was ready, she turned to me. "Ok, now all we have to do is roll your face in this syrup and then roll your face in the coffee grounds...and...wah-lah! Stubble!"
I was reluctant. I was grossed out. I was pissed.
Just then, my dad walked up behind us. "Aren't you going to get your costume on? Trick or treating starts in 8 minutes. If you want to fill up your candy bag, we're going to have to get a move on." (My dad was a bigger sugar hound than we were...he loved Halloween because it meant an unlimited supply of candy for 2 days...or less.)
Shit.
I had no choice. I plunged my chin into the syrup, grimacing at the sticky feeling.
My dad watched with a confused look on his face. "What the hell are you doing? Get that shit off your face and get your costume on!" (Again, it was the 80s...my dad freely cussed whenever he felt like it...except when he was singing hymns at church...)
"Larry!" My mom scolded. "This IS her costume. She's a hobo and we are making her a beard!"
My dad shook his head and said, "You're going to keep that shit on your face all night, kid?"
I shrugged. I was merely a pawn...a frankenstein of my mother's making.
I tried not to drip syrup on my shirt as my mom helped me mash my face into a pile of coffee grounds.
When she had finished, she took a step back to admire her handiwork...and burst into a fit of giggles so intense she had to lock her knees together and squat down to prevent an accident.
I opened my mouth to protest and tasted the bitterness of the coffee grounds.
"It's itchy!" I complained. "...and you're laughing! This doesn't look like crubble!"
Now both of my parents were laughing.
"It's STubble...not crubble...and of course it does. I'm only laughing because I'm not used to seeing you that way. Now go on. It's already quarter after. You're going to miss out on the big bar house."
That was enough to get me moving. There was one house in our neighborhood that was known for handing out REGULAR sized candy bars...not the fun size...REGULAR SIZE...but they only did it until they ran out and then they would turn their lights out.
Yep, this reminder snapped me back to reality. I grabbed my pillowcase and whistled for my dad to follow me. We had candy to get! There was no time to waste...itchy misery or no itchy misery.
That Halloween was rough. All night my dad would slap my hand away if I looked like I might scratch my face so I had to learn how to be a facial contortionist. I wiggled and frowned and grimaced and puckered, trying to figure out a way to get the itching to stop....but nothing worked.
I'm not sure how I did it, but I made it.
I made it the whole 4 hours without itching that damn thing off my face...all for a good cause...kid crack...CANDY.
Too bad the next day, half my booty was gone.
I was the only one who was still young enough to go door to door, but I wasn't the only one with a sweet tooth.
I thought that I had found the perfect hiding spot for all of that sugary goodness (the back of my closet...let's face it, I was no mastermind)...but my brother and sister were wise to me and had eaten more than half my stash before I caught them.
If only I had the guts to give those two "stubble" while they were sleeping.
I guess there's still time....what's that old saying? Revenge is a dish best served cold?
Those two hooligans better sleep with one eye open the next time I visit the midwest...
Actually, on second thought, I should give stubble to the instigator of this torture costume.
All I have to do is wait for her to take an Ambien. She'll never know what hit her. Hell, have you ever listened to the warnings for that drug??
(said in a soothing voice in hyperspeed: Sleep walking, talking and/or driving with memory loss for the event is not uncommon when taking Ambien...)
Yes, the more I think about it, the more I like this idea.
Watch out, Lynn.
Sleep stubble with memory loss for the event is coming your way this holiday season!
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