A portion of this newsletter was published via tinyletter in October 2020.
I sit on my porch with about four hundred pieces of candy, though I’m not sure it will be enough for the approaching parade of children, yet still this fact does not stop me from tearing into another Milky Way. The shiny foil wrappers dance across the countertop as a chilling gust passes through the open window. Andrew arrives through the front door and mimes that it’s freezing in here, then abruptly laughs and replies to an unknown other. His Airpods are locked in place: sometimes he’s on the phone, sometimes I think he isn’t really on the phone but he wants me to think that he is on the phone.
Happy Halloween! Today we look away from ourselves and embody an imagined other. You tell me your most memorable halloween costumes. You are a little jester (very cute) before you grow older and you are only allowed to be an angel. You insist on being Baby Bop for at least three halloweens. You are a cowgirl - literally, your entire outfit made of cow print - and you are mercilessly bullied by the boys in school. Your most memorable costume is one of your brother’s - a headless man fashioned out of your dad’s old suit. Yeah, that would be memorable, I imagine. You both tell me that your most memorable costume is from uni when you dressed as the chuckle brothers and I remember how you berated me for not knowing who the hell you were meant to be? You went as the womping willow one year: stuck some twigs and leaves to a green shirt, and then carried a big branch around that you’d occasionally hit people with. You are Mother Nature with a homemade costume comprised of felt and moss. You’re a Hooters waitress and I HOWL when you send me the photo. You’re Buzz Lightyear - to infinity and beyond!
I'm Minnie Mouse, I know because there is a picture of me with my cousin Sarah, dressed as Jasmine, holding hands in my driveway. I'm Cinderella, but it's cold, so I my mom layers a white turtleneck under my dress. Blue satin, tulle, a plastic wand with shimmery ribbons. I'm a witch, but "not from Harry Potter." A pointed hat and not much else. I think I am a black cat. I don't remember. I never liked cats, so it doesn't make sense to me now. I'm a Smurf, swallowed in my dad's indigo quarter zip fleece. I paint my face blue. I spray my hair blue. Someone at school says my sweatshirt is purple, but I still think it's blue. I'm Wonder Woman because a bunch of girls at school are dressing up as superheroes. The costume is a strapless dress, which is insane for October, so I wear a black long-sleeve t-shirt and black leggings underneath. I'm the girl from the Sour Patch Kids ad who has her pigtail cut off in her sleep. Evie's the orange Sour Patch, and we trick or treat with her friends even though we suspect we're too old for it. I'm a mime and my friend is a hippie; together we are Peace and Quiet. I'm nothing: we skip our senior Halloween parade because we can't be bothered to come up with costumes.
On Sunday morning, I wake up cranky. I lay in bed as muted sunlight spills into the room and I scroll through different versions of the people usually on Instagram. Isn’t it funny that we are dressing up in costume and still pretend like we aren’t doing this all of the time? We curate ourselves in pursuit of authenticity, try on labels to see what sticks. I don’t have a costume today, but you already know I’m dressed up as some version of me that I probably won’t recognize a few years from now.