Three Faces of Cup

Next to Christmas, Halloween was my favorite holiday when I was a kid. When you have an imagination like mine, there’s nothing more thrilling than putting on a costume and another persona. My favorite was a gypsy because I could dress in a riot of color and tons of my mother’s jewelry. I loved the jingle of the bangles.

Halloween is also a helluva lot of fun when you’re an imaginative adult. I came thisclose to a fun costume party this year, but there was the threat of a soap opera, so instead I revisited costumes of years past.

Somewhere among all those T-shirts and floating pens and CDs and books and baubles are photos of me in the costumes described below, but I can’t find them (I’ll find them next week, no doubt) … so here I am on another Halloween.


Best Costume — Adult Category

Being a woman who loves color and baubles and outrageousness, it was inevitable that I’d one day spend a Halloween as Carmen Miranda.

I bought yards of a gold lame fabric covered with lots of wild, colorful squiggles. I wrapped it around me in a sarong style. This was the late 1980s, before the era of the thong, so I went commando. I used a strip of the fabric for my headwrap, to which I fastened plastic fruit — apples, bananas, grapes, an orange. I bought some cloth heels, coated them in gold glitter (I love glitter) and topped the shoes with more fruit. I was a vision in Del Monte.

The headwrap and the sarong cloth; isn’t that fabric so 1988?

We hit several parties that evening, ending up at a friend of a college friend’s party. By the time we got there, college pal Reifenberger was seven sheets to the wind — still damn funny, talking a mile a minute, but a bit oblivious to the world outside his drunken state (in other words, Reifenberger’s normal party state). We were talking and laughing in the kitchen when a very inebriated chick stumbled our way.

“Gweat costume,” she slurred. “Are you a boy or a girl?”

“I’m a girl,” I sniffed, resuming my conversation with Reifenberger.

“I dunno,” she said. “You could be a guy. Looks like something a guy would wear.”

“I promise you, I’m a girl.”

“Lessee …” and Drunk Girl lifted the hem of the sarong to the top of my head, sharing my tricks and treats with everyone in the kitchen. “Huh. You are a girl.”

And Reifenberger? He just kept on jabbering and never caught the show.

Great Concept — Poor Execution

I had a great idea, one that would play off my dramatic coloring of black hair and pale skin: go as a photonegative of myself.

I coated my hair and eyelashes in white temporary hair color. I painted my face, hands, arms, and legs black — with, of course, little white freckles sprinkled all over my face and arms. I wore a white T-shirt and shorts (sometimes in Atlanta you can wear shorts at Halloween), with a black bra and panties over that.

Cute idea, right? Problem is … my hair is so dark, the color came out gray, not white, and the color faded (well, flicked off like flocking on a dying Christmas tree) every hour. So … I didn’t look like a photonegative of myself … I looked like … oh, God … a badly executed racial slur. As we walked into parties, my friends would shout, “That’s so cool; you’re a photonegative of yourself!” so that the other partygoers would get it. It was so off the mark that when we waltzed into the Majestic (our longstanding dive of a diner) at 2 a.m., everyone stopped for a couple of beats, looked at me quizzically, realized I wasn’t a racial slur, just a bad idea, and went back to their eggs and grits.

*sigh*

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The Unpunctuated Traveler

First in my San Francisco travelogue series

After the DC debacle, I was anxious about missing my flight to San Francisco. Add to that the new, more stringent screening process, and … well, we got to the airport about three hours before our flight. Check-in was a breeze. Getting through security? When one of your party has a knee replacement, you get to go to the front of the line. We passed the liquid test. Almost. I had forgotten to pull a tube of Neosporin from my baubles case, and it was tossed.

My regular readers know I’m a bit accident-prone, so it should come as no surprise that I have tubes of Neosporin stashed everywhere. In both medicine cabinets. My coffee table drawer and bedside table. The kitchen knife drawer. My makeup kit. In my car, at my desk, in every purse. There’s even a new travel pack I found in DC. That’s just how I roll.

I thought our carry-on bags would be searched again before we boarded the plane, but they weren’t. I could have smuggled Dasani and a new tube of Neosporin, dammit.

The plane was packed, and it was one of those three-across crafts. That meant someone would be sitting with us. Ugh. I’m a friendly person. I enjoy talking to new people, chatting up strangers. Except on planes. I’m not wild about flying, so I prefer to zone out and spend the flight in my fantasy world. Or laptop the hours away. Read, nap, listen to music. Anything to distract me from turbulence. Chatting with strangers does not distract me.

So I’m praying for a business traveler. A fellow flying hermit. Is that the neighbor I got? Of course not. I got stuck sitting next to a chatterbox, one excitedly headed to a Shaklee convention. But it gets worse, folks: She. Spoke. Without. Punctuation. A typical exchange:

How are you are you going to San Francisco too I’m going to the Shaklee convention are you it’s going to be chilly out there I brought a jacket your jacket is cute it gets cold there at night have you been there before I was there with my brother a few years ago we forgot our jackets ha-ha and had to go buy one it gets cold at night you know have you been to Alcatraz it’s really neat but its cold out there so be sure to take your jacket so have you been to San Francisco before ha-ha I’m going for the Shaklee convention they always have conventions at great places next year it’s going to be at a beach somewhere they’re teasing us with posters and will announce it at the banquet I’m really looking forward to the banquet the food is always good …

Behind my fake mannered grin I’m screaming, “Please, dear God, throw me a punctuation bone. A comma splice. Ellipses or a colon. Something to cause her pause so that I can break eye contact and slip into a numbing nap."

Always watching out for her firstborn, my mom caught wind of my hell (she, of course, was safely seated by the window) and started asking me lots of questions so that I could turn away. Unpunctuated conversation came and went. We got a reprieve during the in-flight movie. The unpunctuated one chose to watch RV (destined to be a comedy classic, I'm sure), while Mama and I instead played with the cute baby in front of us, read, napped, enjoyed the semi-silence.

Semi-silence? Yes, because Shaklee Sal had to talk to the screen. At full volume. Lots of “oh, no!” and “oh, dear” and “that’s so funny,” punctuated by loud, fake, attention-hoping laughter. Because Robin Williams movies are just that damn funny. As the credits rolled, I thanked God for letting me sleep just one hour the night before as I slid into a deep nap.

But as I faded into that nap, I couldn’t help but wonder if some consider me an unpunctuated chatterer …

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Oh, No You Didn’t

It was, after all, Thursday night. Your favorite cocktail night. A birthday celebration and Texas margaritas at the hip new taqueria. Giggles, gossip, and crush confessions fed your undernourished mood while fish tacos fed your overnourished belly.

You went home. The buzz fit you like a favorite sweater, the most comfortable you’ve been in days. So you kept it alive with a glass of white wine. Relaxed on the porch. Answered the thirtysomething e-mails that came in after you left the office. (Damn, that Mary makes you laugh out loud every time.) Another glass of wine as you returned calls. You remember gliding toward the boudoir, thinking you looked like Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8, when you probably looked more like Liz after a weekend bender. And then it gets fuzzy. But you got some sleep for once.

The alarm clock welcomes you back to Soberville. You’re running late (of course; one should always run late on Mondays and Fridays, darling), so you dash to the shower, the makeup mirror, the closet, the baubles drawer, Starbucks — all in 37 minutes.

After that second sip of latte, the brain clouds open up and last night’s dreamscapes float through your brain. Or did you actually …?

Panic sets in. You grab the cell phone. Check the dialed numbers. Oh, sh*t. View the call info. Cringe when you see that this call you can’t recall lasted 43 minutes. F-bombs fill the car as you bruise the heel of your hand on the steering wheel. Did you Mel Gibson yourself last night?

And you’re afraid to check your e-mail sent folder, just in case you …

Must. Stop. At. Two. Margaritas.

You know that contraption habitual DUIers get, the one you must blow into before the steering wheel unlocks to make sure you’re sober enough to drive? You need one for your cell phone. One more round of tipsy telephoning and you’ll have to move to Toledo.

UPDATE: My beloved French to the rescue.

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Note to Self

No matter how scintillating the conversation ... no matter how cute the waiter's Argentinian accent ... no matter how long it's been since you had a great girl's night out (and, dammit, you deserve one) ... do not, please God, do not say yes to a fifth margarita swirl.

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Who do I think I am — Beth Cox Chambers?

As you’ve heard me whine ad nauseam for the last few months, I’ve been working ridiculous, stressful, overloaded hours. Much of it is my own fault; great creative ideas + never having learned to say “no” = more work for me. But I’m tired. Drained. I haven’t been taking care of myself. I feel frumpy, mopey, sleepy, grumpy — all seven drawfs rolled into one worn-out body. So what’s a girl to do? I go deep and spiritual: I make an appointment to get a cute spring ‘do.

I wake up, ready for a morning at the salon. I’m going to wear my new skirt with that fabulous necklace I just got in Athens, play the girlie card today. I hop in the shower — no water (what complex shuts off the water for plumbing repairs on Saturday morning???). A cute spring skirt doesn’t go with unwashed skin, so I throw on jeans, a cami, an old beau’s workshirt, no makeup — not even earrings (which in my world means nearly naked). I dash to my salon — an upscale, yet surprisingly affordable, shop where the stylists dress in black couture — looking a bit like I’ve given up, or that I’m dating Amy Ray. And sitting in front of that huge mirror, with all that light shining on me while my shorn curls drift to the floor, I get more and more disgusted with myself.

Nena does a great job with my hair, and I feel better — but not quite cute enough. So I stop to chat with the salon’s makeup artist. Suni’s great. She has her own line, and I’ve worn her makeup for several months. I tell her I need some eye shadow, so we start playing with colors. She loves my dramatic coloring and the new cut, so we keep playing — lipsticks, bronzers, creams, brushes, the whole shebang. I’m having fun … I feel cute … the girlie genes wake up … I just got my bonus and two freelance checks … so I buy it all. A girl needs to splurge, right?

And then I hit the counter. When I heard the total, I OMIGODed at yelp level. I’m too embarrassed to tell you how much I spent (I confessed to Karen, and that’s it) … but let’s just say those funds could have bought that antique rocker. I’m standing there, looking great with my mouth agape, actually praying that my credit card says NO WAY! — but, sadly, Capital One is happy to see me looking so good. Where are those annoying Vikings when you need them?

I’ve spent the last couple of hours justifying the two bags of makeup I bought this morning. I need a girlie splurge every once in a while, right? I’ll wear all this makeup for ages, and I won’t need to hit the Walgreen’s aisle until Christmas. I want him to think I look adorable, as cute as I was 20 years ago. The lotions and creams will make me look healthy, happy, relaxed, younger. It’s fun to feel rich for a day.

But I could have bought a sofa.

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