Happy Halloween. Skeletons in the Closet and Halloween Costumes

Let me make something clear, very clear…I do not dress up for Halloween…because I am an adult. I would feel like a fool. If I had told Gracie that “mommy was dressing up for Halloween too” she would have run away from home. However, if other adults choose to dress up for Halloween, I won’t judge them (yes, I will). I will say though, out of full disclosure, I look forward to my 46-year-old arrested development cousin’s Halloween costumes every year because she’s funny. She usually wins every Halloween costume competition. One year, when we were in our 20s, she dressed up like Esther Williams, the swimmer. My cousin made the entire costume by hand and even had a nose plug. Her Halloween date stood her up and she was devastated and cried her eyes out ruining her makeup but we still went to the Halloween party anyway but now she was a raccoon eyed Esther Williams. Another year I remember she went as a Newport Beach real estate agent. We don’t speak anymore because her Malibu ogre boyfriend punched my husband in the back. I’ll save that story for the book.

Gracie’s Halloween costume of choice is usually a witch. A darling little witch. And, she will kill me that I’m telling you this, but when Gracie was in the third grade she dressed up like Britney Spears. Gracie was obsessed with Britney Spears. On a side note, one year Gracie’s friend, Madison, invited us to the Britney Spears concert…Front row. When Britney Spears came onto the stage, the look on Gracie’s face was as if she had seen the second coming of Christ. The following year, the same friend of Gracie’s, invited Gracie over to her house mansion because Britney Spears was shooting a video there. Gracie and her friend Madison spent the entire day with their faces pressed up against the windows watching Britney Spears but were too shy to say hello to her. You might want to watch the video HERE because this is the same house that we were robbed at gunpoint at. I’ll save that story for the book.
 

But anyway, back to costumes. I love children’s Halloween costumes. Clever ones. Not tacky, drugstore costumes. The more homemade, the better. But remember those 1970s plastic Halloween facemasks? I loved those even if your face got all sweaty inside and the plastic cut your lips. My little brother was the cutest Casper the ghost. He’s dead now, but I’ll save that story for the book. Wow, you are certainly learning a lot about my family in this blog today. Maybe I should just shut up and show you some cute Halloween costumes…
 

For more clever and chic homemade Halloween costumes for children check out my Pinterest board HERE.

Not that I condone adults dressing up for Halloween…but there are a few costumes that I think are rather chic. Take a look…

 

 

 *Something you don’t know about me? My friend Tom told me yesterday that in order to cheer yourself up, you should find somebody who is worse off than you. So if any of you are depressed… I am going to make your day because my day yesterday could not get any worse. No matter what happened in your life yesterday… I’m pretty sure mine was worse. I’ll tell you what happened. I lost my dignity. It’s gone and I don’t know if it will ever come back. So, as you know, with ALS, I’m totally paralyzed from the shoulders down. But guess what? Apparently, I still have to take a bath. This is always a traumatic experience because my retarded caregivers (is that rude?) either burn me with hot water, get soap in my eyes, nearly drown me or I’m freezing. So needless to say, taking a bath is not my favorite sport. But, when in Rome…I have been “doing as the French do” by masking the situation with perfume. Much to my chagrin, this isn’t working so my husband has hired a professional team to come over five times a week to give me a bath. Finally, I thought, I’m going to be clean and smell like a flower, and it might be relaxing. Not so fast, Ellie. The “team” shows up yesterday and basically violates every orifice on my body. I think technically I was raped. Or at the very least, highly molested. My husband explained to the team that I am “American and a prude.” French people are very comfortable just letting everything hang out. I told my husband that I wasn’t a “prude” and that it is called being a “lady.”

 

 I was stripped of all of my pajamas at once, and given a sponge bath head to toe. And then, I was rolled onto my side still completely naked and the “team” got down at eye level and inspected my bottom.… For at least a three minutes. I wasn’t sure of the appropriate protocol for conversation so I just closed my eyes, held my breath and pretended I was in the Bahamas. It gets worse. The team concluded that my bottom was “rouge” and that it needed “crème.” Will someone please just shoot me? Yet again, I was violated as someone was buttering my bottom like a Thanksgiving turkey with some French cream that I’m pretty sure is used for diaper rash. As you know, I am overly polite, even in sticky situations and all I could think to say when they were finished assaulting me was, “Merci.”

No, no, no… It’s not over… It gets worse. The team consisted of two people… A regular French lady and… The world’s biggest French hottie. Total babe. Dropdead gorgeous. Model material. Gorgeous twentysomething year old version of Oliver Martinez, Halle Berry’s baby daddy. Here I was, completely vulnerable, buck naked with my delicate nether regions splayed out on the bed in front of this guy. Dignity gone. However, because I am a psychopath, the only thing I could think of was…“Did I forget to shave my legs? Do I need a bikini wax? Do my boobs look good? Do I look fat? Does he think I’m cute?” My husband looked at me and burst out laughing because he knew, he knew what I was thinking. So today, when the team arrived for my second bath, they rang the doorbell and my husband opened the door and yelled, “Ellie, your boyfriend is here.”

So whatever day you had… Your Range Rover broke down, your kid got kicked out of his private school, your husband cheated on you with the yoga instructor, you got fired from your reality show gig, you contracted ebola, your breast implants ruptured, your Tinder date was fat, your favorite hotel in Florence was booked, ISIS moved into your neighborhood… Whatever it is, whatever day you had, consider yourself lucky, because nothing, nothing is worse than losing your dignity and living one day with ALS. Did that cheer you up? You’re welcome. :-)