Sex sells almost as well as fear.

Although I usually discuss my shopping experiences in my other blog, I decided that despite my deep love of wigs and face paint, Halloween stores are just full of crap.

My friends and I visited two Halloween Boutiques last weekend. At the first one, Closet Classics, we had no luck. When we complained about the lack of “plus sized” costumes (which in Halloween Costume terms is anything more than a size 8) the owner said, “I didn’t think anyone other than anorexics would want to wear something like that.” Because chicks with big butts and big tits don’t want to be whorish super heroes, too. Ugh.  Not liking that lady right now.

The next place, Halloween Express, was better.  It was large and well stocked, even though the floor was a gross grease-stained cement.

Now, most of the costumes I discovered could each yield a thesis worth of social commentary.  Like, a Halloween Store isn't complete without hooker boots...

And although I could let the photos speak for themselves, I am going to indulge my desire to categorize and comment.

Making the ordinary and everyday overtly sexual is nothing new to Halloween, but this year I discovered some newly whore-ified professions...

And public servants aren’t the only ones subjected to the sex worker makeover, apparently inanimate objects and fictional serial killers are also open to re-interpretation (read the brick house packaging carefully)...

Then there are the costumes that turn childhood memories into sex fantasies...

Some costumes are clearly intended to be pervert and pedophile bait...

Now, fear sells just as well as sex.  I found only one truly terrifying costume...

And we can’t forget the offensive costumes.  Some costumes are offensive because they aren't really costumes.  I mean, maybe your parents didn't have as many old hippy friends as my parents did, but this guy is a dead ringer to someone who was a guest at my parents' wedding.

But there's more than one way to be offensive, sometimes all it takes is a big ol' dose of misogynystic sexism...

And then there's the method of being offensive by creating grotesque caricatures of beloved public figures.  Is it just me or does that mask on the right look like a demonic Barack Obama?

And just so I don't come off like a dissapproving curmudgeon, here are some things I'd actually buy if I had the money... 

I miss the days when my uncle ran a haunted house and I'd get this stuff at wholesale prices.  Then again my hat collection is probably big enough.

A woman in a man's store.

I wanted to post this as a follow up to my entry on “glamping” from my other blog.

Last night Mike and I went on a date: thrift stores, dinner, and a movie. In between Goodwill and Salvation Army Mike noticed the massive sign of Gander Mountain glowing in the night.

In attempt to win some girl friend points, I volunteered to go in with him. After stepping two feet into the bright fluorescent man’s world, and discovering a pile of small bottles containing lady deer piss, I realized I was a little out of my element.

I live in Wisconsin, and many of my aunts and cousins cross “gender boundaries” and engage in the male typified activities of hunting, fishing, and camping. I myself always did enjoy camping, but I failed archery in gym class and never wore blaze orange.

So I decided to spend my time photographing my discoveries.

There were actually as many women in the store as there were men. A lot of the merchandise had transformed its violent purpose with a bright shade of “breast cancer awareness” pink.

Pink wasn’t the only woman-targeted marketing ploy.

There were times when the merchandise seemed a bit subversive, and once or twice it seemed as though I was in some kind of sex shop. I was like, is that a camouflaged gimp suit?

And of course the whole time I was thinking, I totally need to blog about this.  But as a warning to everyone else out there: taking pictures with a bright pink i-Phone while clunking around in high heeled cowboy boots and shimmery lipstick is a really great way to get noticed in a store like Gander Mountain.

That's life...

I earned five straight years of A's in college english courses and all I got was this lousy blog.

Excited over sucky things.

Today I read the Wikipedia entry for Ehler-Danlos Syndrome and got excited. I e-mailed my mom right away. She’d heard of it too, agreed the similarities were plentiful. She was as eager to hear the geneticist’s test results as I was. If I had it, then I probably inherited it from her.

They say that no news is good news, but they are pretty much wrong. People often cannot fathom why I seem eager to be told that I have Multiple Sclerosis or Parkinson’s disease. They’ve heard about the symptoms and they cringe at the possibility. Who’d want tremors and numbness? Who’d want to carry that label around for the rest of their life?

The thing is, I’m already sick. I’ve already got a grab bag of horrible symptoms like ordinary evil itchy welts, good ol' fashioned fecal incontinence, and hallucinations induced by migraines instead of recreational drugs. Now, I would like to know why.

For a while my doctors and I were pretty sure I had MS. Having Multiple Sclerosis would not have been the worst thing in the world. It’s rarely fatal, and it’s got more than one organization dedicated to improving the lives of its’ sufferers. My wonderfully sensitive and compassionate doctor consoled me when the test results came back negative. “I’m sorry, I know that you want answers.” She knew I didn’t want Multiple Sclerosis; I just wanted an effing explanation.

In the best of cases, a diagnosis can even mean a cure. And although I’ve long since given up on the idea of a magic pill or a miraculous therapy (pain killers and massage will have to do), I know that the details of successful treatment are better crafted by doctors who understand why your symptoms are happening. The ointment to treat one kind of rash makes another kind of rash worse. And sadly the diagnostic procedure in many cases is to give the patient the medication for the suspected illness, and if the patient improves, then the doctors assume their assumption is right. If that sounds iffy to you, imagine being the guinea pig given medicated cream for ringworm when you really have eczema. The itching was so awful I cried.

So now, I’m trying not to fall into the trap of self-diagnosis. Many “perfect fit” diagnoses have come and gone, and this particular disorder would be no cakewalk. Although Ehlers-Danlos is rarely fatal it can have potentially life threatening complications. It’s not as straightforward as their depression theory but not as terrifying as their multiple heart attacks theory.

But this disorder could explain why I was a contortionist for the circus in college. It could explain why my skin is so translucent that you can see delicate blue veins crisscrossing my chest. It could explain the fistful of skin that can be stretched off of my belly. And it could explain all the pain. And if I can’t have a cure, I would love an explanation.

Glamping in Milan

I posted a miniature memoir to my fashion & style blog.
Although I didn't want to repost it in its entirety, I thought I should still share it with these readers.

I explain my personal relationship with the "low culture" of the midwest, and how it is being appropriated by the "high culture" of the world's thriving fashion metropolises.

I talk about mullets and hunting and haute couture.

Enjoy!

I kind of miss getting crap faced.

Do you want to know why teen-agers are always the most sullen, awkward people at family gatherings? Because they’re too old to be intoxicated by the bright shiny lights and presents, and too young to get drunk. There’s this growing up moment when you realize it’s 11:00 am, and someone is passing out hot buttered rums.  They casually ask if you want one. Now, finally, you understand why this is fun for the adults. They had to stay up until four in the morning wrapping gifts (far more expensive than the ones their parents gave them), and the reward is getting kind of lit in the A.M.  You get kind of buzzed and eat all this great food.  Suddenly you are noticing how delightfully kitschy your overly opinionated uncle’s moustache is.  It’s Christmas and you actually have fun for the first time since you grew boobs and started worrying about being cool.

Yeah, I am from Wisconsin, and I have a lot of relatives. My family tree has so many roots and branches it looks like a bucket of fishing bait wearing a giant clown wig. (That is not be a metaphor for the quality of my genetics, I just couldn’t think of any other image with as many twisting, growing lines.)  Every year I have a minimum of 5 distinct Family Christmas Celebrations, one of which requires the use of a Days Inn Convention Center. The older women get drunk, talk loudly, and bask in the feast their working hands have wrought.

The first time I got drunk, I was sipping good whiskey around a bonfire in the unused field of a cemetery. Me and the other Academic Decathlon team members and a few yearbook staff. The nerdiest kids at East High felt as cool as a group of misfits out of a John Hughes film. Then there was college, and I became a connoisseur of heavy beers and fine silver tequilas. I got A’s in all my English courses, because really what do you think English majors do? We have long conversations and even longer parties. My early twenties was spent being brilliant, feeling brilliant.

And then I got sick, and a little bit older. I quit drinking.  I got a little boring.

Now, make no mistake: I understand alcoholism. One of the most painful experiences of my adult life involved a “break up” with my closest friend, whose alcoholism had made him a greater burden than a new puppy. New puppies are a lot of fun, but god they are exhausting. And I was the one cleaning up after the puppy, while everyone else just rubbed its ears. Yeah, clearly I’ve been there. But a lot of people aren’t alcoholics; they work hard and enjoy a good hot buttered rum before noon on Christmas.

And god, do I miss that. I had a few glasses of champagne on my Birthday, and I danced around for hours on a cloud. But for two days afterward my blood was replaced with lead. I was not the same invincible college student, taking shots of tequila with her dad after her grandfather’s funeral.

Alcohol isn’t necessary. Neither is whip cream on your pie, but it can be nice. It makes things feel special. And come on, for many responsible and healthy adults, it’s fun. It has transformed many otherwise uninteresting situations into the best of parties, the best of youth.

Now I eat ice cream and go to bed early. Lately I’ve been slowly walking across the bottom of the public pool of life. I can’t help but be nostalgic for times that were never simpler, but always lively. Maybe diving into the pool got me here, but it was a lot more fun than dipping my toe.

It's what all the best poets do, when they are young.