MOve Over MOvember

Skinny Pig, looking oddly like my friend,
every month except MOvember.

It's the 30th of November, now known as MOvember, and I couldn't be happier. It's the day that all those little pervy moustaches get shaved off the men about town and they can return to their hairless, happy lives.

Oh, don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like facial hair. I have a friend who, overnight, can go from hairless to a complete, Grizzly Adams beard.  MOvember was made for this guy. He can shave the whole damn month and pull it out for the win in like, 4 days.  Granted, the guy must have to shave twice a day, normally, to be so hairless every other month, but still.

My problem is that the MOvember moustaches-- those pubic hair-esque moustaches that grow in three whiskers at a time-- are disgusting; they bring out the inner pervert in all guys.  Mild mannered men go from being perfectly harmless and generally nice guys, to the guys your Mama warned you never, ever to talk to at the playground.

And, let's also remember that every time you see one of those disgusting little rat-whisker moustaches, you're supposed to be thinking about that guy's testicles.

Think about that. It's like when someone says the phrase "the N word" instead of saying the actual word. You and I both know the word gets put into our heads and WE end up saying it (mentally anyway). If you ask me, that is cheating since I didn't want to think about that word in the first place, and the person that didn't say IT gets a total freebie of both not having said it but also having put the exact word in our minds.  Frickin' nice.  For the record, that's why,when I swear, I actually do it. Everyone knows what the swear word is, and frankly, I like to take responsibility for my words and actions. So ... Frick You.

Anyway, back to the perv-staches.  Those things, which are for prostate cancer research (hence our invited and required thinking of each guy's testes when you see his pervy, pubic hair moustache), were invented for guys to start talking about their junk and getting word out there for screenings and research.  Good work, Cancer Society of Earth-- guys have jumped on this bandwagon like no other. Mo other. Whatever.

However, what it does, as a side effect if you will, is make sure that no prostates (or anything in their general area) are used during the month of MOvember. Viagra sales must be down this month-- who wants to get close to those randomly itchy, just-long-enough-to-hurt facial hairs for a kiss?  Not me.

Again, if you or someone you love normally wears a beard, moustache or any sort of facial hair in the months outside of MOvember, I'm NOT talkin' to you.  You and I both know that facial hair, when grown out for several months, or years even, can be quite silky and nice. It's those testicle-thinking-research-supporting bits of facial hair that are closer to porcupine quills, not your luscious locks of love.

Look how cute I look when I jump! 

So, in an effort to join in on the hot MOvember action, I stopped shaving my legs. I figure if he's got porcupine quills on his face, I might as well have a hidden defence system of my own.  I even raised money for prostate research, although, I took bids to wear pants instead of mini-skirts. It was slow going that first week of November, but once my leg hair was long enough to resemble legwarmers, the money started pouring in. Here's an actual picture of my (bare) legs today.

Jealous? I thought so.

Somewhere Left of Ghandi

I am staging a sit-in.
Don't worry, Yoko, Husband and I will be fully clothed.

I'm reviving Husband's He-Man costume and adding some Man Bits to the front for the photo op-- that's what got Lennon and Ono the publicity, right? It was their nudity during the bed-in to protest the Vietnam war that got them the press coverage. I mean, nobody know who Yoko and John were before then, right?
Oh.

Well, it's hard to grab attention these days, and we need all the help we can get if the sit-in is going to be successful, so I'm willing to let Husband pretend to be nude if it will help our cause. Just like John and Yoko.

They weren't nude?  Next you're gonna say that Rosa Parks wasn't in trouble for sitting in the wrong section of that bus.

...

What do you mean she wasn't? She was seated in the "Blacks Only" area? Then what was the problem? Oh. Some white lady wanted Rosa's spot because the white section was already full? Dang Rosa. I wouldn't've moved either.

But where was I? Ah yes, Man Bits. The Man Bits will be attached to the fur undies from the costume, since men are usually furry around that area anyway. I've already committed to the idea of a nude sit-in, so we're gonna run with it.

Why the civil disobedience? Well, there's a little boy in Kiddo #1's class. He's been very aggressive (am I the only one that spells out that cheerleading thing every time I spell aggressive? "Be-Aggressive, b-e-aggressive, b-e-a-g-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e! Go Spartans!").

Where was I? Ah yes. He's been very a-g-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e since school started. I've been in contact with the teacher-- who is amazing, by the way-- but this kid seems to be getting worse as the months go on. Little Johnny (which is my generic name for a little jerk kids, male or female) has pushed Kiddo #1 down and had generally been pretty ugly with his words since school began.

I'm trying to teach her to not be a victim, so I told her to tell Little Johnny, "No!" and to leave where he is. That worked a couple of times until one of his jerk cronies called Kiddo #1 "a baby" for crying after he said something really mean and pushed her. So, then I told her to say either Stop! or No! and to find an adult.

In the meantime, I also told her to talk to Teacher about what's going on. Again, trying to teach her self-advocacy, I wanted her to deal with this situation head-on. (Secretly I wrote a couple of notes to the teacher to ask that she check-in with Kiddo #1 about this (and subsequent) situation just in case Kiddo #1 forgot.  Self-advocacy is good, but I wanted Teacher to know that I knew what was going on, too.)

So, yesterday, when I got a phone call from the school saying they were "on top of the situation, but Little Johnny slapped/hit Kiddo #1 in the face," I was stunned.  Mostly, I was shocked because Kiddo #1 hadn't said anything about it when she got off the bus and she was taking her pre-dance nap (see: Rage Is Cray) so I had no way to find out any information from her.

When she awoke and we chatted about the incident, she became very agitated and upset; it is heartbreaking to see your baby being hurt by someone. She's had a "sore tummy" for about a month now and in the last two weeks, my wee love hasn't wanted to go to school-- somewhere she adores being!  This has been awful to watch, as I'm sure you know if you've ever had a child affected by a bully.

This was so heartbreaking, in fact, that I said something I never, ever in my life, thought I would say.

I said, "You know, next time Little Johnny pushes you around like that, after you've said No and Stop, if he keeps going, you can push him away from you."

What? How did that fall out of my mouth? Where did that even come from? As soon as I'd said it I regretted it. Why? Well, as we all know, it's never the bully that gets in trouble for laying hands on the kid, it's the kid that's finally had enough and goes crazy that gets into trouble.

So, I quickly back pedaled and reiterated the whole "No! Stop! Find a Teacher!" (and made it into a catchy song with lame choreography for us to practice) because I felt so ashamed of myself.

Don't worry, we're working on the situation at school. But in the meantime, I'm staging a sit-in.  It's gonna take place outside the house of the kiddo. (note to self: find out Little Johnny's last name and/or address)  Husband is going to put on his altered He-Man costume. And me?

Well, I've switched from store-bought deodorant to using some crazy crystal rock thing made of mineral salts. I'm on Day Two of my new 'natural' deodorizing solution, and I'm not sure there's much deodorizing going on here. Either that or I need to put some orange peels and cinnamon sticks on the stove to simmer because my house has become an onion processing plant. In fact, now that I think about it, maybe it isn't my deodorant-- everywhere I go today smells like onion. There appears to be an onion epidemic in my fair city.

Don't roll your eyes at my delusion. It's mine and I like it.

Anyway, with my new found... scent... either Husband and I will achieve our goal of getting Little Johnny in a better (less-restrictive) environment (since his behaviours are escalating) or I'll just run a couple of miles with my rock deodorant on and stand in front of an industrial fan with my arms up. No one wants to live in an onion. Not even Shrek.

Rage Is Cray

If I could put into words the rage I feel when my daughter refuses to go to dance, this would write itself. I tried to do an interpretive dance to the music I made while feeling rageful. The dance kinda looked like this:

Angry Dance Moves (clearly stolen from me)

I wish I could describe it better. It's making me do a Sad Dance that "Flight Of the Conchords" got my Angry Dance so right. So sad that, in fact, I'm back doing the Angry Dance. Damn you, "Flight of the Conchords," for being so accurate!  Also, anyone else wish they'd ever watched that show? It looks hilarious.

At any rate, I'm not sure why I get such a visceral reaction when Kiddo #1 pitches a fit about dance, but here are 4 reasons I keep signing her up for dance class despite the attitude.

Why I Know Kiddo #1 Really Does Love Dance
1) She sings about loving dance all day and night.
2) She dances around the house to any and all music.
3) She loves showing me her latest ballet moves.
4) She loves Miss Brittney (the dance coach). LOVES her.
5) This isn't an 'always' reaction, this is a 'sometimes' reaction.

Ha. I just re-watched that video. Ha.

Ok. So anyway, I get rageful. But it's that crazy, quiet rage that I try and swallow and swallow hoping no one else can feel my blood pressure going up, up, up while my 4-year old sits solidly on the chair saying, "I'm not going to dance" in an equally calm voice.

Oh, I know we're both teetering on the edge of a full on hurricane-meets-tsunami-in-a-whirlpool-in-the-ocean-that-goes-all-the-way-to-the-centre-of-the-earth sorta way. And, I know her father, my saint of a husband, knows this clash of titans is on the verge of becoming real, yet I am completely powerless to let this go.

It begs me to question WHY? Why does this send me over the edge? Why does her quiet refusal make me want to pick up our house and launch it down the block when I'm normally a pretty level-headed let-it-go type lady?

Well, I think part of it is that I know she loves dance. Loves it.  It makes no sense to me that she wouldn't want to do something she loves, unless she wanted to deliberately cause me to have a complete stroke at my tender, young age.  Since the act of deliberately causing me rage is something so outside her character that it's laughable, I can count that reason off the list of possible ones.

I think part of it is that her refusal to go is some sort of crazy reflection of my abilities as a parent.

Yikes. Writing that made me realize how ridiculous that really is. But don't we all sit and think (at least sometimes) "What will so-and-so think of me?" when your kids do something silly? I mean, sure, I judge everyone all the time, but that doesn't mean everyone judges me, right? Ha. I'm just kidding.

I really don't judge everyone. Not since I had kids anyway. I find the fastest way for someone to be less critical of others is to give that judger a kid. Seriously. No parent sits and says "Ugh! My kids never, ever do something silly in front of others, so I can fully judge you as a suck-tacular parent.  You. Over there. You SUCK!"

So, then, WHY do I get so rageful?

I was mulling this idea over with my ever-level-headed sister, Sister, when she, ever calmly, said, "Well, then, what is Kiddo #1 really trying to tell you?"
Me: Huh?
Sister: What is your daughter really trying to tell you when she says, "I don't want to go to dance?"
Me: Uh. ... Ummmm.
Sister: If she loves to dance, like you said, and she loves to go to  dance, like you said, then her saying she doesn't want to dance indicates something else, right? She's only four. Sometimes she won't be able to say what she means simply because she's four and doesn't have the vocabulary. Or the emotional maturity.
Me: I like cats.
Sister: Right. So, is it possible that she's saying this because she's actually too tired to dance?
Me: My cat's breath smells like farts.
Sister: Maybe you should have her take a nap after school and see if that helps.
Me: I think that's cray.
Sister: Cray? What? What is that?
Me: That's "Kanye" for 'crazy' and I'm trying to use it to sound cool.
Sister: Ya. That's cray. Try the nap and see what happens.
Me: Fo Sho.
Sister: I'm glad I spent my 20 minute break talking to you. It was really great. Really.

I'm pretty sure she did the Angry Dance after that phone call, but you get the idea.

So, today after school I said, "Kiddo #1, you're gonna take a wee, short nap before dance."  And she, in turn, said, "Ok."

And, after her DaVinci nap (which is to say, I had her sleep 45 minutes exactly so that she had 20 minutes of quality sleep sandwiched between 15 minutes of falling asleep and 10 minutes of that time before you fall into the deep sleep that you never want to wake up from because it's too delicious) she got up, ate dinner, and happily pliéd off to dance class! To dance class, I said! Happily!

She was herself in the class, too. She had a great lesson, danced very well and was smiley and a good listener the entire time. In short, her DaVinci nap made her back into my child again. Whodathunkit? And, she went to bed easily tonight, too. Seriously, DaVinci Nap Junior, where have you been all my life?

And now, I'm off to bed before I turn cray. Apparently lack of sleep and going crazy runs in our family. Darn Husband's genes. ha. I just pictured him doing that Angry Dance. Ha.




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Motherhood is like Mono. No, Really.

Remember when you brought home that newborn, smushy bean and how you loved your brand new baby so much that it didn't matter that s/he didn't sleep, because even while the baby slept, you stood over the baby and stared at the sleeping angel thinking glorious loving thoughts of love and glory?

And then, a week later, when partner went back to work and you decided you'd just take all the night shifts because s/he "had to function all day without access to a nap, and [you] could grab one whenever the baby slept," but instead you vacuumed and did laundry and had a shower or cried in the kitchen or whatever?  Remember when your eyes would burn and slam shut against your will?  Good times. 

And then, a month later, from severe sleep deprivation because you're Super Mom and don't need sleep, you crashed into a blissful coma one night because Jr finally decided to get her/his act together and sleep six hours in a row.  Then you wake up, heart-racing and sweaty because clearly the child has expired or why wouldn't s/he be awake and crying for your help? And you race in, still panic-stricken, to find the angel sleeping, arms out like a, wee, fat, lowercase t.  

Life gets better, right? I mean, about the time you have your (at least) fourth postpartum breakdown, crying on the floor of the baby's room while s/he cries and you don't know why and you don't know how to fix it and partner doesn't get home for another hour and why didn't you just stick with dogs as children, a light clicks on. It's partner-- s/he picks you up, walks you to your bed, lays you down (no funny business, promise!) turns around, turns off the light and shuts the door.  

Then things get awesome-- you're sleeping at night again! 

The baby is getting to smile and looks just like you (no matter what the in-laws insist!) and you no longer silently refer to your partner as ... well whatever creative pet name you came up with that usually ends with expletives.  Life is great. Heck, you've even lost that baby weight from all the exercise you have time to do now! And speaking of body changes, either the boobs are huge from breastfeeding or they're back to normal from not, and either way it's a good thing!

But, like, remember before you had the baby? Not really? 

Well, I hate to do this to you, but here goes:

Before kids I used to:  

                                   a) sleep in as late as I want, especially after a night that ended at 5am.

                                   b) have nights that ended at 5am.

                                   c) wake up refreshed from having a good night's sleep

                                   d) making plans to have dinner with friends and actually doing it, same day

                                   d) have food and drinks at their perfect temperature, not room temperature

                                   e) I'm sure there are other things. I have no recollection. Sigh. 

Anyway, why am I reminding you about this? Ahh yes. 

See how both Motherhood and Mono have the same symptoms? Well, it seems I have had both afflictions for the past few months and didn't even know it. I was walking around (slowly, with no energy) with mono. I lost some weight, had some awesome night sweats (thought I had The Diabetes, but no), my lymph nodes even got big enough to name (Felix) and biopsy (negative). And, after all the tests, poking, prodding, x-raying, and ct scanning, it was mother-f-ing mono. MONO. 

So.  What I learned from this experience was this: if you haven't got children but would like them; or if you  you have a child now and are thinking maybe you should have another one; or perhaps your deal is just you've got a bunch of kids and you're so tired you'd like to know if anyone else has ever felt this way-- take heart and know that having mono and functioning as though you are not sick in the slightest is precisely like being a mother. 

Precisely.  

I'll Take Kittens For $500, Alex.

It's just that I miss having a cat around. I miss the purring, the lounging in the sun while it streams through a window, the stink of a tootsie roll left for our dog in the litter box.  

I miss sitting at the computer, hearing the cat's feet pad over to me, pause a second and leap onto my desk at which point, kitty lays directly on top of the keyboard to let me know he's ready to be loved. I miss petting him twice and moving him to the opposite side floor, only to have him cross behind the chair and jump up again. And again. And again. And again. Ok, I don't miss that part as much because I find I get a lot more Facebook stalking done without the mobius strip that is the kitty-keyboard dance.

However, I miss having a cat around. 

I asked Husband whether we could get another cat, which was probably not the best route to go if I really do want a cat. Husband is not a cat person to begin with; we only got the cats we had when we were dating and he was still willing to do things "for love" including have cats around and fold socks. Don't worry, since we wed, there are plenty of things I no longer feel the need to do, too. Wink wink-- do you get me ladies? 

Ahh. So where was I? Yes, so I asked Husband if we could get another kitty and the echo of "NO!" still rings in my ears a week later.  

And it's not that Husband is a father figure and I had to ask him permission to get a cat. It's more like we're partners and if something is going to impact our family for a substantial period of time, we discuss doing it.  Whatever, right? Anyway, so I said, "Honey, could our family possibly get another cat?" and Husband shouted his negative response before I'd even mentioned the type of animal I was thinking about. Really, if I'd been smarter I would've changed "cat" for "Porsche sports car" and laughed heartily at his haste. 

But I really want a cat. And Kiddo #1 wants a cat. So, sneakily, the next day, I suggested she talk to her father about her cat needs.  He shot her down, too, which was both expected (why would HER request be honoured more than mine, when I've got WAY more seniority) and unexpected (her long eyelashes and gorgeous smile could make Scrooge sign away pay cheques to the poor.). Really. No huh?

The problem is that when I want something, I don't just kinda, sorta figure it'd be cool to have. I want it. Need it. Got to have it, and with his desire NOT to get a cat, my desire catapulted (ha) from an 9/10 to 90/10. It was all I could do to keep myself from getting one of those "My Husband said either the cat goes, or I do.  I'm gonna miss him." bumper stickers.

So I started plotting and planning-- how could I get a cat without Husband knowing, and keep the cat without Husband being wise?  Well, for starters our cat would have to be an indoor cat, which means I couldn't just build it some cat house (not one of those cat houses, but like a dog house, but for cats) and feed it spaghetti every morning like they do in Rome. So, just keeping it outside wasn't going to work. And we all know how difficult it is to make a cat do what you want -- so keeping it confined to my sewing room (an area that Husband never ventures) would be a fool's quest.

And then I realized that I could get the cat from either a friend or a pet store (but use cash so as to not arouse suspicion when "Cat Vendor" showed up on our Internet banking list) and just pretend someone dropped it over our chain link fence in the back yard!  Ingenious! Husband would never suspect that. 

Yes, oh yes, he would. He knows I would totally do something like that and he'd confront me and, since I'm the WORST LIAR ON THE PLANET (worse than Spongebob, I assure you) I'd confess everything.  

Ok, but, then I realized that in order for him not to suspect anything, I had to make the scenario more real. More plausible.

So, when I went to the humane society yesterday, I picked up 5 kittens! Oh yes! He'd never suspect I was behind this, if I found a whole litter of cats in the backyard!  He would assume that someone really did it -- our house backs to a walking path, so it's totally possible someone would drop off a whole litter of unwanted kittens into our 4 foot chain link fence. Why not? 

I brought the mewling kittens into the house, gave them tons of love and posted my ad on craigslist and kijiji (which is Canada's craigslist).  Then I, hastily, made some signs to post around the neighbourhood.  

In retrospect, there were a few things that made Husband question my credibility:

Four Things That Made It Obvious That I Purchased The Litter Of Kittens

1) The phone number on the flyer was 555-5555, which (in case you're thinking of trying it) isn't my phone number, so anyone looking for the cats wouldn't be able to reach us/me.

2) The kittens were all spayed or neutered. I got them from the shelter, remember? It's kinda one of their requirements. So when Husband picked one up and found its stitches, he asked what kind of surgery I'd been performing on the kittens.  I said, "None. They came spayed or neutered."  

3) Clenching my eyes shut like you do when you stub your toe in the middle of the night after I said, "None. They came spayed or neutered." was another giveaway.

4) The kittens weren't from the same litter and therefore were vastly different sizes. And varieties. 

Frick. 

Yeah.  And, like all my plans that have been thwarted to date, Husband realized the jig was up and looked me in the eyes and asked, "Wifey, did you have anything to do with these kittens finding their way to our house?"  

And, like every other time Husband has looked me in the eyes, catching me in some trivial untruth, I faked deaf and pretended I could neither hear him nor could I read his lips. I then started shouting craziness, as though I'd been struck deaf at that very instant (kinda like that movie where that guy is pretend blind and then his sight comes back just as the Indian guy is gonna tomahawk his face to prove he wasn't blind, but the guy didn't flinch because even though he could see, he couldn't blow his cover. What movie was that? Kevin Costner movie? I dunno.).  

I kinda wish I was Kevin Costner though, because Husband saw right through my rants and shouts of instant deafness and said, "Wifey, did you get these kittens?" and I couldn't do anything but sob, "Yes! Yes! I'm a liar and I'm not even deaf, either!"  

Sobbing, sobbing on the floor. Really, it was the stuff of a 15-year old girl after her best friend stole her boyfriend. Oscar worthy, but not kitten-worthy. Boo. 

Note to self: stop using "Dr Evil's Guide To Diabolical Plan Making."  However, if you do want a kitten, I've got five that I'll let go for ... 1 billion dollars. Muah. Muah ha ha. Muah ha ha ha-- frick. Husband says we'll sell 'em for free, just get them outta the house. 

Anybody want a cat? Or five?

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Hallo-Winner or Hallo-Weiner?

It's the most wonderful time of the year: Halloween!

I awoke this morning with a song in my heart and vampire teeth in my mouth. Doing the dance moves to "Thriller" I sashayed my way into the kitchen to start breakfast. This proved to take significantly longer than expected (turns out the Zombies don't move a whole lot in the forward-motion); but the kids and I just ate breakfast while doing the dance moves. And don't picture what children look like doing the pelvic thrust that the zombies do. It ain't pretty. But it IS hilarious.

Kiddo #1 was to wear Black and Orange with a side order of "wacky hair" to school today, instead of her costume, which was no problem for this lady!  I plugged in my crimper and crimped until her hair was like the rays of the sun at high noon. Then I sprayed it all high and crimpy, added some plastic spiders and voila: wacky hair.

Into her black outfit she slunk like a mini-Morticia Addams, um, but blonde and with glitter and sequins (she is my daughter, you remember).  We got her to the bus with the other black and orange children and lickity-split, our Halloween adventure was afoot.

Kiddo #2 and I, then, raced back to the house to get him into costume, too. We were meeting up with GG (Great-Grandma) for breakfast but, after seeing what I could do with his big sister's hair, Kiddo #2 wanted some spicy Halloween digs, too.

No sweat, I said. 

I got the baby into his Rambo costume -- I made him some baby muscles and a bullet thingy that you wear (pretend I used the right term there) in the X over your back and chest.  Then I put him in come camouflaged pants, painted his face in camo and voila: Killer assassin. Done.

But me? What was I planning on doing? Oh my gentle reader, Halloween is my time to shine. I had four costumes for today.  Why four? Well, because I figured 5 was overkill, frankly.  I'm the Cher of Halloween costume changes, and this year, I really feel I outdid myself.  

For the hours of 9 to noon, I started small: I recreated Lady Gaga's meat dress. Rather, I contacted the person responsible for preserving the meat dress, greased the palm, and voila: I had not only her meat dress (which is now closer to jerky) but I also had breakfast!  GG was thrilled to know I brought the bacon!

(Yeah, so in preserving the dress, a great deal of salt was used. This was handy for future generations that might want to see the actual dress, but not so great for me. Also, Lady Gaga is only about 4 foot 11. I'm 5 foot 11 3/4. This would have probably looked crazy on me even if it hadn't been jerky. But whatever. I rocked it.)

At noon, I sped home and changed into my second costume: The Disco Zombie from Plants Vs. Zombies. I didn't want to be the boy zombie, though, so I changed it up and was a girl one. This picture really doesn't do it justice though because it doesn't show the gold lamé dress properly. Or the crimped hair. But I did my best. It was more work than I anticipated, though, making lesions on my skin. 

I think next year, I'll pre-make the lesions and freeze them for quicker applications. See, I had to have the sores or I would've just looked like a disco version of Elphaba from Wicked.  Although, maybe that would be ok-- "I think I"ll try, defyiiiiiiing diiiiiiisco."  Yeah ... not as good.  

Anyway, I put Kiddo #2 down for his nap while I put on my zombie make-up, which gave me more time than I thought I'd have. And, although you'd think this would be good, it actually backfired because once I'd finally finished the costume, there wasn't much time left in the 4-hour window I'd made for each costume. Boo! 

So, once Rambo awoke and I re-dressed him (you can't sleep with ammo on your chest, I found out), we quickly went to the supermarket to show off my second costume to anyone around.  

Let this be a lesson to you: if you make your lesions particularly realistic by using the leftover jerky from your meat dress, don't wear said lesions to the supermarket. There were a couple of clean-ups needed on aisles 3 and 7, and again between bananas and broccoli in produce.  But, really, if you have a weak stomach, why would you go to the supermarket on Halloween?  And also, thanks, random puker, for making me the reason there was a clean-up on aisle 5. You made far too much noise on aisle 3 in response to my awesome make-up job thus sending me into a zombie disco wretch fest.  Gross. 

Anyway, once that mess what cleaned up, it was already time for costume #3!  We raced home so I could get dressed before Kiddo #1 returned from school and also needed a costume change. Phew! 

Removing the zombie welts, but leaving the green skin and flattening the hair, the third costume should be very obvious to you, fair reader: I was Fiona from Shrek The Fourth. Or whatever the fourth one is called.  Anyway, I looked so much like her, that I don't even need to include my 'actual' picture, since it's precisely, without any difference, the same as the one below. 

Let me tell you, if you happen to have some unresolved issues with someone, and you show up looking like Fiona: Warrior Princess with your 1 year-old son looking like Rambo, people want to make those problems go away.  

For example, when Rambo and I arrived to pick up Kiddo #1 off the bus looking like this, the bus driver decided (after months of negotiations that went no-where) to change the location of our bus stop, and I even managed to get it put at the end of our driveway WITH a two-honk warning every day before the bus leaves it in the morning (if we're not already out there, that is!).  This costume (and my crazy assassin-looking son's costume) changed my mornings in one fell swoop.

At any rate, Kiddo #1, now home, did her homework (who assigns homework on Halloween? Not I, said the little green hen.) and I got her dressed in her costume, which (obviously?) was Rapunzel from the movie Tangled.

 

I spritzed her hair to get the crimping out and commenced to braiding.  We got her dressed and looking sweet (instead of morbid and pale from her school day) and I decided that Rambo needed a costume change, too. So, I scrubbed the camo off and put on a wee black nose and the most deliciously cute Ewok costume ever invented. Seriously, where has this costume been all my life? 

And, with two sweet kids ready to trick-or-treat, we set out (with Husband dressed as the Red Angry Bird. Sigh, I loves me some nerd!).  As it turns out, Fiona's warrior princess costume was a touch drafty considering it's CANADA and almost NOVEMBER.  So, after about 4 houses, I was ready to get into my fourth and final (and warmer) costume.  Plus, I wore it to hand out the candy to our 300 kids that stopped by. Seriously? 300? Yep. It would've been cheaper to invite all those kids over for dinner than buy all that candy. BUT, at least all that candy is not in my house waiting for me to consume it. Small mercies, right?

You might wonder what on earth would be the topper to being Lady Gaga, Disco Zombie and Fiona? It's a good question, that's for sure.  But, it just made sense, if you ask me.  

For my final costume change, I decided to go as Glinda, the good witch from the Wizard of Oz. 

I just put the crown on Fiona's wind-swept hair to push it down.  By then, most of the green had worn off my body anyway, so I finished the job with a white (now green) towel. Then, I reapplied lipstick, added sugar to my voice and glitter to my face and voila!  I then slipped into the giant, bubblegum pink dress (not to be confused with Gaga's bubble dress) and my final transformation was complete. I mean, seriously folks, Halloween is my jam and all, but even if you're not a big fan, you can do any of these costumes pretty effortlessly. 

Trust me. 

And if you can't trust me, then I happen to have some red, sparkly shoes you can borrow; I guarantee they'll transform who you are in just three clicks. 

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