Growing up (and still today for yours truly), Halloween was the kick-off to a long-awaited holiday season.
Even at the tender age of three, I’d cut a bitch.
In small Iowa town where I grew up, we had costume parties at school and church (when you used to be able to call it a Halloween party complete with witches and bats, instead of a bland Fall Festival with scarecrows and hay bales – why are there fun haters? Why?), parades to prance proudly down our eight block Main Street (where every single one of the 1,200 citizens seemed to show up) and so much trick-or-treating mania, I’d have to come home halfway through the evening just to dump my candy (hiding it all from my dad in the dryer or it’d be gone by morning) because my pumpkin got so overloaded, it was too heavy for me to carry.
Forget my adorableness for one second – what about the clown behind #165?
Spectator sport for the entire town.
In my younger years, I carried the burden of celebrating Halloween by myself and being a lone Cookie Monster got frustrating.
One is the loneliest number.
Begging my parents to procreate, I was presented with my sister (you know, the one who called my dad a goddamn son of a bitch at the age of four) who was immediately awarded with side kickin’ it as my lifetime partner-in-crime (lucky her). If I was going to be dressing up (oftentimes making an ass out of myself in later years) she was going to be doing it too, by god (town parades included).
In the beginning of our twosome, we were all about cutesy costumes.
The rock star and Raggedy Ann. A little sugar for my spice.
The ‘cute’ theme seemed to carry on in our early years. Except for the tilt in our heads…and the fog in the background…and the overall sinisterness of this photo.
Cute masked crusaders in Creepy Hollow.
As we grew older, I wanted a little edge (well as much edge as an elementary kid and toddler could muster) to our giddy ups. I let my young inner badass out, as my sister scared the pants off no one.
That’s right. I was hardcore even in elementary school.
We slid slightly into the ghoulish department as my sister joined me in grade school.
Scaredy crow and premature mini old man. Almost spine-chilling. Almost.
Then I graduated to truly frightening and fearful territory as I crept toward junior high. Pebbles was not impressed.
I’m also starting to wonder if there was any other color of hair paint than green, since that tends to be a trend here.
When we thought we were oh so grown up, our costumes reflected our mature attitudes.
Lady and the Tramp. Or Princess and Sock Hop Girl…however you want to look at it.
We were reminded in following years just how far from adults we were…especially yours truly. A recycled mask and costume from a previous Halloween hid my “I’m way too old for this shit” attitude toward trick-or-treating when I was forced to go with my younger sister.
I can’t tell who’s more excited – the monster or the witch.
And being older we’re not so much cute, cuddly or even scary creatures…we’re just mostly cocktailed.
The odd couple. Pocahontas and Kid Rock.
Now that we’re miles apart during the costuming time of year, it’s fun to look back at our sisterly ghosts of Halloween’s past. But what’s even more fun is seeing her twin goblins growing to love the holidays as much as she and I did as kids.
Scary season #1.
Scary season #2.
I know, I know.
The cutest fucking cat and dog you’ve ever seen.
As we’re on the eve of Halloween, you should take a look at the old skeletons in your closet.
You aren’t a fraidy cat, are you?