Diagnosis: Costume Obsessive Transference Disorder

I’m a little obsessed with Halloween.  Always have been.

It’s not the scary stuff.

It’s not the candy.

For me, it’s all about playing dress-up.

I may like who I am.

But boy, do I like to be somebody else.

And I don’t just dress up.

I COMMIT to my character.

If I’m Courtney Love, I paint bruises all over myself, then spend the entire night fake-smoking a cigarette, putting my leg up on speakers and pretending to play guitar, smearing lipstick around my face and flipping people off without reason.

This is the night I scared my husband (then boyfriend) so badly, he almost decided he didn’t wanna date me anymore.

Then there was the Halloween, when hubs and I had been married for about a year, that we thought a redneck wedding theme would be rad.

Notice the pink bra, the cigarette packet in the garter belt, the Nascar-themed bouquet, the combination flower/veil/dangling pearls in the big hair.  The GAUNTLETS on my wrists. And oh, the bronzer.

Here’s the lovely couple.  Gabe has on a tuxedo jacket we cut the sleeves out of and a mullet sewn into the back of his ball cap.   His plastic flower boutonniere has a charm dangling from it that reads, “It’s a boy!”

Not long after I was the redneck bride, I became pregnant.  Fitting, no?

And guess what happened?

I believe the proper medical term is Costume Obsessive Transference Disorder.

Now instead of planning and coordinating my Halloween costume for months, it’s all about the kids.

The first Halloween that we dressed up, Ash, my husband and I wore store-bought pirate costumes.

It was kinda fun to walk up the street to our little business district to trick-or-treat, pushing a stroller dressed as a band of pirates.

But soon after arriving, we saw this.

Ash’s little punk rocker friend Lu put our costumes to shame.

Aww, HELL NO.

I spent the rest of that Halloween night swilling margaritas and brainstorming about what Asher would be the next Halloween.

This is not an exaggeration.

A year later, we rolled up to our Halloween Extravaganza in this.

There was the bad blond hair, the blue bandana, the tattoos and rock-n-roll cowboy hat, the bus, Poison tunes blasting out of the ipod…I even tried to talk some neighborhood girls into dressing as ROL hoochies and hanging on my 2-year-old son all night long.

No takers.

Ahem.  Maybe that was asking a bit much.

I settled on a hooched-up thrift-store doll.

We called her Starla Dawn.  .

I made her bra, of course.

We showed up at our neighborhood costume contest to behold this.

Lu again.  This time as Baby Edward Scissorhands.

I think her mom has an equal case of Costume Obsessive Transference Disorder.

The following year, I bought a gnome costume and transformed it into a Wizard of Oz munchkin outfit.

Meh.  People liked it.  But I needed more.

Finally last year, my ultimate costuming achievement.

Here’s my little costume-contest winning Peewee Herman.

Yes, I had a special suit made.  Yes, I went to a mall where people shop for Quinceaneras to buy white patent leather shoes.  Yes, I painted my son’s face with make-up and slathered his hair with enough product to embarrass Ryan Seacrest.

But it was worth every last second to become the owner of a ridiculous plastic dollar-store necklace that said “I won.”

I enjoyed it for about 10 minutes.

Then I started thinking about how in the world I was gonna top myself this year.

So much pressure.

And 2 kids to dress now.

Doctors say there is no cure for Costume Obsessive Transference Disorder.

So I better get to work.

 

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