We typically don't pay a lot of attention to Halloween here in the SarcomiHaus. Sure, it's nice to see the neighborhood children dressed up when they come knocking on the door, but as a standard Mr. S. and I barely otherwise acknowledge the holiday. For some reason, this year I had an impulse to stop into the Halloween superstore driving by it a few days prior. I was thinking it might be fun to get Mr. S. a wig or mask since he would be walking around with his brother and two of our nieces to trick-or-treat.
Well, what began as a quick errand resulted in me wandering aisles of smelly plastic and giant hats, placing a disoriented call to my mother discussing the merits of foam viking armor versus pirate patches, and in the end I had a wig for each of us with only a vague idea about how it was all going to come together with clothes we had in our closets. After all, I personally haven't dressed in any costume for Halloween since I was 18 or 19 years old, and I think the same can be said for Mr. S as well. The results were, well...
This venture into the world of dress-up managed to terrorize our 13-year old cat. He scurried and crouched and hid stubbornly under the bed and refused to come out until we looked like ourselves again. He completely had no idea who we were. Of course, the dogs didn't realize anything at all was out of the ordinary - BIG GIGANTIC DERRR SHOCKER. (Please ignore disgusting skanky firehose dog toy in the photo below.) I whipped off that wig and dug into a pile of makeup remover wipes within 5 minutes of the end of the treat-dispersing. (And yes, that IS a George Foreman grill behind me, yo. Grilled cheese melts away stiletto boot pain, my friends. Also, Boot Hate is probably the cause of the look on my face.)
