The Wife Says: Halloween Blows

[Note:  In case you're late to the party, this is another in a series of occasional missives from my real-life long-suffering wife.  I put her in charge of Halloween because I cannot stand the idea of disguised extortionists threatening me from my own doorstep.

And parents sanction this kind of behaviour?  And they think it's cute when the little brats show up smeared with fake blog and an axe sticking out of their forehead?  Doesn't that strike anyone else as bizarre? - AC]

Stock up on candy for the kids. Eggs and toilet paper for the ne'r-do-wells. Halloween. Again.

This year? Pan Am stewardesses with their white gloves and faux lady hand gestures. The Walking Dead, easy to do for multi-tasking new moms who wonder if baby sucked out all the brain cells along with breast milk.

Then there’s Charlie Sheen with tiger blood and a maniacal stream of consciousness rant. How about Ashton? Bring mom, if she’s skinny.

Rock stars are tougher. Gaga’s Littlest Monsters can opt for meat, again. Old Madonna wannabes can dig out Baba’s rosaries.

Xtina? Shop at Sluts-r-Us and buy something two sizes too small.

You’ll need a baby bump for Beyonce.

Bono? Red-tinted glasses and knee pads to approximate the height.

Adele and Chris Martin each require a military-style jacket. Big fake lashes for her. Studied spontaneity for him. Both perfect for a gloomy, fallish day.

It used to be easy. Slap on the make-up, kill the ozone for hair height, add the platforms and voila! Instant Kiss.

The Beatles? Bowl hair cuts and skinny ties for the traditionalists. Granny glasses and ashram brochures for the later incarnation.

Elvis? Skinny with swirling hips before you dig into your candy. Scarves, sequin jumpsuits and a diabetes test stick after you overindulge. There are even canine Elvis costumes, complete with satin cape.

I’ll fess up. We dressed up The Sponge, our previous eager-to-please English Bull Terrier. Sponge won both contests-first as an aerodynamically-challenged bumble bee then as Little Red Riding Bull Terrier in a red hooded cape her grandma made. Yup. So sad.

No costumes for The Schmooze, the current reigning BT. Not if I don’t want to be picking bits of Chinese-made Walmart princess tiara out of poo in the back yard until the snow flies.