a three hour tour

So we had to wade through two whole shows today in order to put on the costumes that we had really been anticipating.

For me, it was Marianne of Gilligan's Island fame.

And Marianne wouldn't exactly be Marianne without the whole crew, now would she? But we decided to go with a twist, it being the holiday that is and all.

So we were Gilligan's Island, dead.

Like, we never made it off the island and here's how the story ended.

And here we are:

• Gilligan (tragically drowned, trying to swim his way off that island).
• Marianne (eventually succumbed to starvation; I guess the professor used the last coconut to fashion one of his famous radios that unbelievably worked but couldn't actually aid them in getting off the island).
• Ginger, the movie star (substance abuse, folks.).
• Mr. Howell (...eaten by a zombie and then became a zombie...and yikes).
• Mrs. Howell (eaten alive by spiders).
• The Professor (blown up by one of his own science experiments gone awry).
• Skipper (not shown because we ate him--and this was before Marianne starved to death, of course).

Now don't you feel so sorry for us? Poor Mrs. Howell was beside herself all evening and could only manage to murmur over and over again, Beware of three hour tours...!

And I would have to concur.

But being dead didn't get us down too much.

I mean, we were still a pretty lively bunch.
And managed to have a great time.

Even if we waited an hour in the cold for a cab that never did show up and finally just hopped into the car of a total stranger who offered to drive us home for a fee of $15. We were so tired and freezing by that point that he probably could have offered us a ride home by way of a three hour tour and we still would have hopped in without a moment's hesitation.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

Oh, and in case you wondered, that skirt will promptly be going to one of my nieces because yes, I realize it is far too tiny to wear again. Once was enough, thank you.

happy halloween. or happy birthday. or choose treat.

Um, happy halloween.

I passed this sad little pumpkin on my way to work tonight.
Poor little guy with a broken heart. A broken heart that, according to him, can't be fixed.

But I am going to say it can.

It just takes time, Little Pumpkin. Time, love, grace, and maybe you need to forgive someone--but we don't need to talk about that right now, if the pain is still too fresh. And judging from the size of the lightening bolt through the heart, I am going to say it is.

But you won't always feel this way, Little Pumpkin.

Oh, and do you know what else Halloween means?

Besides that no-brainer of a decision we have to make each time this year?

Really? Trick or treat? I get to choose? Cause I am pretty sure that most of the time, I don't. And I am also pretty sure that the tricks seem to be running rampant lately while the treats are a little less forthcoming so I am gonna do something crazy here and say TREAT, you moron.

Ahem.

Sorry about that.

Because Halloween means the birthday of someone who not only gave me his nose, but it would seem the keen sense of smell that accompanies a nose with that particular shape as well.

So, thank you for the nose.

And I really love smelling roses. And hate smelling body odor. And because of you, I get to smell each of those things very well indeed.

Wait. That makes it sound like my pop smells like either roses or body odor, when in fact I have never experienced him to smell like either. What I mean, is that I inherited my Legolas-like sense of smell from him.

Oh, and thank you for all the years of love, humor, weirdness, and fun.

You are the best, pop.

Happy Birthday.

And Happy Halloween to all the rest of you. May I just suggest that like me, you also choose treat when posed with the age old dilemma.

Cause it's kind of the only way to go, I think.