The Obligatory Halloween Post

I tend to write a lot about Halloween. It’s one of my favorite holidays. My mother says I’ve always been this way about Halloween, and I can only assume that I never saw the downside to elaborate costuming and free candy.

I used to spend hours trick or treating, always hoping to stumble on the one cool house that gave out full-sized candy bars. One year, I found that house, and the candy bars were Snickers (my favorite). It was a true triumph. I vowed that when I grew up, I would be that person on the street, but we don’t get trick or treaters, and those full-size candy bars are expensive, so basically, I’d be spending a lot of money to gain five to ten pounds.

When I was younger, I also tended to bounce back and forth between choosing ordinary costumes and those that were incredibly difficult for my mother to make and made no sense to the neighbors.

When I was a witch (normal, yes?), I also had to have a wig, face paint and fake nails. The year I decided to be a ghost, I freaked out the moment I found myself covered from head to toe in a sheet and insisted on wearing my tutu instead. All in all though, I think we can still classify “witch,” “ghost” and “ballerina” as pretty standard.

Then, I decided I needed to be Jem from Jem and the Holograms. Apart from tearing one of my mother’s workout shirts and putting glitter on my face, there wasn’t a lot of room to work with that one.

The same thing happened the year I decided to be Jessica Rabbit. I mean, really, how is a kid in elementary school going to pull that one off? But I took one of my mother’s long red skirts, wore it as a dress and told people that I was Jessica Rabbit. I’m sure my mom feared what the other mothers thought of her allowing her daughter to dress as a cartoon sex symbol, but I was, and always have been, a determined gal.

(Between my love of Jessica Rabbit and Ginger from Gilligan’s Island, I can only assume that apart from an actress and lawyer, I also aspired to be a busty redhead as an adult. Lord only knows what I would have chosen for costumes if Kristina Hendricks had been around then.)

Despite my much-discussed love of the slutty costumes, I’m still a fan of the offbeat, too.

One year, I dressed up as a washed-up country singer because I happened to have a hideous and cheap red wig as well as a Western-style shirt from Old Navy. (Wigs inspire much of my dressing up -- it’s the only reason I was ever Elvira – but if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.)

Fortunately or unfortunately, the year I dressed up as a washed-up country singer also happened to be the year I discovered the voice memo feature on my cell phone. I woke up to a lot of song ideas in the style of “note to self” dictations at various levels of slurring, like:

“Why Did You Have To Ruin My Credit While You Ruined My Virtue?” (the one I apparently shared with everyone all night)

“You Robbed Me Blind While I Was Blinded by Love”

and “You Took Everything But My Tears.”

Considering I have never lent a boyfriend money (what would there be to give?), so-signed an ex’s loan or even shared a utility bill with a man, I have no idea why I was fixated on lost love and financial ruin that night, but there you have it.

This year, I didn’t have quite the same zeal for Halloween costumes. Not even my pumpkin carving was at its finest. I’m not sure if the dampened enthusiasm began when my first costume arrived in the mail damaged, and I had to send it back, or if it’s just that I acted like a normal person for once, but there you have it.

Either way, I ended up at the thrift story on the morning of the one much-anticipated Halloween party I was attending with few ideas. I came home with a housecoat and an ugly dress (‘80s career woman came to mind).

I told a friend about my purchases, and she said, “If you’ve come up with a valid reason to wear a housecoat around all night, go for it. Think of how comfortable you’ll be.”

 That night, I put on my housecoat, some blue eye shadow, the ugliest earrings I could find and a shower cap. When anyone asked what was up, I said, “Oh, I’m not a guest. I’m just a neighbor from across the street who came to complain about the noise.”

Cat Update

For anyone still keeping track of the cat's name changes, here are the latest developments in Kitty Cat Jones' life.

1. We started calling Kitty Cat Jones by his initials, so we've been calling him KKJ for a few months now. Then, one day, while yelling "KKJ" across the yard, we realized some of the neighbors might think we're racists if they misheard us or didn't listen too carefully.

2. I was asking a friend of mine whether or not she thought our neighbors might think we were extremely prejudiced when she paused.

"You know that Kitty Cat Jones' initials would actually be KCJ, right?"

So, not only might we be considered the white supremacists in the neighborhood, but we can't spell either.

3. I went home and told the SO about our mistake, and he responded, "No, that cat is KKJ. End of story. I don't care what his actual initials are."

4. Despite Coco, Cocoa, Toonces, Kitty Cat Jones, KKJ and KCJ, we've actually just been referring to the fluffy little dude as "the stationary cat" because he does not move from the spot in the picture for days. And I mean days. Other than raising his head occasionally, I don't think he leaves the dog's bed for hours (in the multiples of 24 variety) on end.

5. Meet the stationary cat! (Sure to be TSC or some other bizarre incarnation by Spring.)

The Crazy Cat Lady

In the list of stereotypes that I try to avoid, "crazy cat lady" is near the top of the list. (Not that there's anything wrong with that for my cat-loving friends; I'm definitely a crazy dog lady.) However, when you're Southern, 30, single and a often a bridesmaid, you'd be amazed how many people suggest your home life is full of stuffed animals, multiple cats and repeated references to Sex and the City.

For the record, I don't have stuffed animals. I didn't like Sex and the City. (Why do people judge you if Miranda's your favorite character? Wouldn't you be that dark if you spent all of your time with those three other crazies? Brunch chatter alone would be enough to push me over the homicidal edge.) And until recently, I didn't have a cat. 

I am so paranoid about people thinking I might be slinking towards "crazy cat lady" territory  that I won't buy cat food without buying dog food, too. Should I find myself in need of cat items alone, I will announce to the cashier and anyone within earshot that "I also have a dog." You know, just in case.

But, a few days ago, I found myself at a place called Cat Haven, and there really was no sense in pretending anymore.

Over Labor Day weekend, I decided to board Kitty Cat Jones since we all know how well he behaves when I go out of town, and hence the entry of Cat Haven into my life.

Now, having both a dog and a cat, I'm used to a vet's office that's pretty evenly divided between dog and cat paraphernalia. So, I wasn't quite prepared for the experience that was Cat Haven -- cat tunnels, cat calendars and about seven lounging cats to greet me as I arrived. (Also, though, complete with friendly staff and very reasonable prices.)

"Are you a first-time patient?"

"Yes," I said, putting Kitty Cat Jones on the counter in his carrier once I had adequately shut the door to prevent escaping cats -- as warned by the sign on the front door.

"We just have a few forms for you to fill out."

I provided all of the info about the cat's vaccination, etc. and handed the forms back to the lovely receptionist a few moments later.

"So, the cat's name is?" she said, eyeing the rather odd slash on my form.

"Well," I said, "he was Toonces, but them my boyfriend started calling him Kitty Cat Jones, so he kind of goes by that now.  But, a lot of his medical records are under Toonces, so I thought I'd just put them both on there."

"I see."

"Yeah," I said. "He really will answer to either." It was kind of awkward.

"Well, I'm sure he'll be just fine here," the receptionist said. "Have a great Labor Day weekend."

"You, too," I said. "Thanks so much, and I'll see y'all on Tuesday."

 I shook off my minor feelings of crazy, made sure no cats had tried to escape with me on my way out and went about the rest of my day.

About an hour later (bank deposit and Chik-fil-A run included), I noticed a missed call and voice mail on my phone. It was Cat Haven.

My first fear was that Kitty Cat Jones might have already made some enemies at Cat Haven, and I seriously considered ignoring the message and pretending I didn't receive it until after our vacation was over. I didn't have a back-up plan for Cat Haven expulsion two hours from departure time, and it's always better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

Whether it was curiosity or self-sabotage, I listened to the message anyway and followed the directions to call Cat Haven back.

"Ms. Mills," the receptionist said, "we tried to confirm Toonces' vaccines and spaying with the Alabama Spay & Neuter clinic, but they seemed to have trouble locating his records."

Knowing I was about to sound even crazier, I attempted to apologize in advance, but the bottom line came down to this: "Oh, that's because his name was Cocoa back then. You'd have to look under Cocoa Mills for those records."

"I see."

The real lesson I learned this past weekend? My sanity/behavior has little to do with circumstance or pet choice. Cat or no, I'm just crazy, and I do appreciate the staff at Cat Haven for drawing as little attention to my off-beat behavior as possible.

But, should I decide a shopping cart is the best way to transport my belongings around the neighborhood or to the office, I want an intervention ASAP. Even I have limits.