Spooky Sidekicks

Oh Halloween, how I’ve always loved thee. The 31st day of October was – and still remains – the kick-off to a long-awaited holiday season for me.

I'll cut a bitch

I’d still cut a bitch.

With an assist from my dad.

Letting Dada CBXB (you know, the guy who dresses up like Pam Anderson) do all of the carving work because even way back my nails were “jewels, not tools”.

In a small Iowa town where I was raised, 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 fucking 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 showed 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?


A spectator sport for the entire town where I could show off my killer cookie wheels.

In my younger years, I carried the burden of celebrating Halloween by myself and being a lone Cookie Monster got frustrating.

Ho Hum

One is the loneliest number.

Begging my parents to procreate, I was presented with Sister CBXB (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.

Sugar'n' Spice

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.

Creepy Hollow

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 as a two-headed monster, um, farmer?

very busy

That’s right. I was hardcore even in elementary school.

We slid slightly into the ghoulish department as my side kick joined me in grade school.

Scardey Crow

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.

Lady and the Tramp. Or Princess and Sock Hop Girl…however you want to see 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 in the eighth grade.

Barley a Boo

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 Halloweens 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.


Permanent partners-in-crime.

Scary season #2.

I know, I know. The cutest fucking dog and cat you've ever seen.

I know, I know.
The cutest fucking cat and dog you’ve ever seen.

Scary season #3.

Princess Leah and Yoda

Star Wars at its silliest.

Scary season #4.

A mermaid with her super hero.

Scary season #5.

Captain America and a Princess Peacock.

Scary Season #6.

Lloyd the LEGO ninja and a bitchin’ witch.

No matter how you choose to spend Halloween, here’s to having a side kickin’ ghoul for your spooky festivities.

Happy Haunting!



How to Be Your Own Superhero

Being that I’m above the voting age and not married with kids really freaks the fuck out of some people. Then hearing that I’m happy with where I am in life practically sends them over the proverbial edge.

Aren’t you lonely? Yes, I’m so lonely that I get to do as I please whenever I please.

Who will take care of you when you’re old? My cat. Duh.

Why aren’t you married? Because I’ve never asked anyone to marry me.

Suck it Spidey

Who needs a superhero when you have yourself?

My love affair with Spider-Man started at birth (as well as my love for all things cat). Upon entering toddlerhood, I was bedazzled in dresses accessorized with Spidey necklaces and matching kicks.

Shoe lovin' in the form of Spiderman.

And the love of shoes was born….all because of a superhero.

Don’t know what to get a two-year-old gal? Why an apron and Spider-Man shoes of course.

Not only can I cook but I can also kick your ass with my fabulous sneakers.

Not only can I cook but I can also kick ass due to my powerful shoes.

Batman had Robin, I had Spider-Man.

Who wants a doll?

Who needs girlie dolls when you can have this side-kick?

My love of Spidey didn’t end with my welcoming of puberty. I happily stole thunder from six-year-olds as I hoarded their superhero at my table while in a Marvel restaurant at Universal Studios. Did my grown ass know better? Yes. Did I care? Hell no.

Seriously. Loving Spidey.

Me and my handsome crusader. He’s mine. ALL MINE. So suck it kids.

I always loved that Spidey was a lone superhero. He didn’t need a wing man, he didn’t drive a tricked out ride or wear a jet pack to zip around. My guy just used his wrist web shooters, superhuman strength and his spider sense (which I suppose for us regular humans translates to ‘gut feeling’)…basically relying on himself.

It makes sense that the no-frills, no-nonsense Spider-Man was my fave masked warrior. He used what natural powers he had to thwart the bad guys and seemed happy as Peter Parker, living a normal life – pursing love interest Gwen Stacy (or Mary Jane Watson – take your pick here), enjoying time with his Aunt Mae and being a regular dude in his ‘off’ time.


Pretending I’m Gwen, being whisked off my feet…

So while some people tend to look at us happily single folks, moving about our daily lives with a sympathetic eye, allow me to speak for all of us in the unattached population. We’re fine. We’re happy. In fact, we’re thriving!

It’s not to say that I don’t want to settle down, gather more cats and live alongside a partner in crime. I’d love to share my life – but I want it, I don’t need it. And I most certainly won’t settle. I’m really happy with my life, which is all anyone can ask for, ya dig?

Web slinging

Webslinging with my main superhero squeeze.

I’ve found that as ebb and flow moments have carved my life, I’m responsible for my happiness, not anyone else. Not comic book characters. Not family members. Not friends. Not a man of romance. These relationships can enhance contentment of course but ultimately the choice of happiness falls on my own shoulders.

Which makes each one of us our own superhero.

Encountering a chance meeting with my hero Spider-Man last spring, it was all fun and games until he asked, “What’s wrong with you…you’re not married?”

Suck it Spidey

Not a damn thing wrong with me, Spidey.

Who needs a man in tights when I’m my own superhero?