Do you know how to tell if you’re crafty?  Ask yourself one question.  Do I decide upon and intricately plan my Halloween costume weeks - or even months in advance?  If you answered ”yes”…you’re one hot, crafty momma (or poppa…everyone is welcome in the slick aisles of Hobby Lobby).

Although I’ve made a semi-legitimate profession out of writing, and may be considered by some to be a “creative” individual…I am as craft-challenged as they come.  Believe me when I tell you this.  Because I know it in my soul to be true…creativity does not always translate to crafty.  I am living proof of that.  But I don’t want to knock myself about too much.  I do come by this affliction honestly.  My mother is even less comfortable than I traversing the knick-knack laden, scrapbook-filled halls of Michaels.  In fact, years ago, in a sad moment of complete denial, we decided to attempt the seemingly simple and straightforward art of silk flower arrangements.  After several glasses of wine and no clear plan, we broke into gut-busting fits of laughter.  Because the atrocity before us can only be described as the devil’s garden.  Random cattails jutting at odd angles, pockets of nothingness next to packed flowers…and overall, no apparent rhyme or reason.  It was so awful that we decided to keep it as a reminder that we should never, under any circumstance, attempt such a project again.

The point is, I did not spend weeks or even days planning my Halloween costume.  In fact, it could more accurately be measured in hours.  Most of which were spent combing stores alongside other procrastinating, slightly testy, non-crafties. 

For my costume, I’d decided on the late 50’s / early 60’s era gal…based mainly on my obsession with the “Mad Men” TV series (if you haven’t seen it, check it out).  And, to be honest, it was a decision based also on my (inaccurate) assumption that a pencil skirt and sweater would be an easy find.  Twenty stores and two very sore feet later, I had what I felt would be a passable imitation of the outwardly sexy (yet inwardly downtrodden) ad-industry secretary.

Because the hype around Halloween is often on par with New Year’s Eve or Valentine’s Day (and therefore built-up expectations are often squashed by a squabbling couple or botched fireworks), our crew decided to play it safe and guarantee at least amazing people-watching.  In other words, we went to a locally famous gay bar where crafty costumes would be an understatement.  And it didn’t disappoint, people.  The costumes?  Unbelievable.  And to be honest, some were a little, well…let’s not go there.  Just use your imagination, and then double the “What the…” factor.  It was beautiful.  And highly entertaining.  Susan and I eventually moved on to other locations, to enjoy the company of men a bit more interested in slightly enhanced bosoms (courtesy of the old standby Charmin toilet paper).  But one of our earlier companions, Susan’s good friend and coworker, Lealon, later won a costume competition for his incredible Boy George get-up. If we can’t be crafty, at least we can hang with others who are.

Here are a few photos for your viewing pleasure (or for a good midday laugh).  And don’t forget to vote tomorrow.  It’s not just a right, it’s a privilege! (And you can legitimately attend that rockin’ “Results Viewing” party)

P.S. It appears the feature to upload pictures into blog posts is on the fritz.  In the meantime, I’ve posted some of the Halloween pics in my ‘Paparazzi’ (Flickr) section to the right.  Enjoy!

I’ve been having the same dream since I was a little girl.  The stress dream.  What I had to be stressed about at eight years old, I have no idea…maybe I was upset about not getting that Ms. Pacman game at Christmas, or broken up about the stolen strawberry scratch-and-sniff sticker. As I got older, the dream came to visit when I was contemplating a break-up, or suffering through my latest bout of writer’s block (looming deadlines will do that to a girl).  But it’s always the same.  I’m in a strange house.  In the middle of a sprawling field.  And in the distance is a massive, swirling tornado.  I’m panicked.  It’s headed straight for me, and the width of this twisting cyclone is enough to blow away a whole town, much less my meager shelter.  I stare out two large bay windows…heart pounding…ready to be sucked up in its vast blackness and thrown halfway across the continent.  But somehow, when I’m feet from death’s door, it dissipates…disappears.  Poof…just like that.  Miraculously, I’ve been saved.  I’ve escaped the monster.  I slowly lower myself onto the floor until my breathing returns to normal.  And then I look up, only to find a string of twenty more tornados headed my way.  Sometimes I narrowly survive several more.  Other times the dream ends after the first near miss.  But always I wake up with a silent scream, pop up into a sitting position, eyes searching the dark room for any sign of a green, forboding sky.  It’s only when I see a startled cat careen from the bed that I realize where I am…and that I’m safe.

So why all the talk about stress dreams and leaping felines?  Because tonight, as I prepared a dinner of sauceless spaghetti noodles (so sue me, I haven’t been to the grocery store in awhile) and leftover Ziggy’s take-out salad, I heard the dreaded high-pitched beeping noise on the TV.  It was a weather alert.  Tornado Warning.  Not a Tornado “Watch”…a Tornado “Warning”.  What’s the difference?  Put it this way…if a “Watch” is Tiny Tim, then a “Warning” is, well, a lot bigger than Tiny Tim…like Hulk Hogan or Yao Ming (that one’s for you, Momma).  This, as you might imagine, does not sit well with the woman with lifelong tornado stress dreams.

I look out the window.  Nothing.  No rain.  A few clouds in the distance, but they look fairly harmless.  So, I stroll back to the kitchen to tend to my flavorless meal, and soon sit down to the anti-entertainment of a Wednesday night TV lineup (clearly I don’t have HBO).  Then I hear something.  A slight rumble in the distance.  My first reaction is to not react.  Ignorance is bliss.  But you know me better than that, don’t you dear readers?  It’s there.  In the back of my mind.  Sumthin’s this way-a-comin’.  I feel a slight flutter in my belly. Pawly whips her head to the side and leaps off the couch and out of the room.

“That can’t be good,” I think.  “Don’t animals have a sixth sense?”

I look out the window again.  The clouds in the distance aren’t so distant now…and are they taking on a green hue?  Oh God.  And look at the birds!  I think they’re panicking!  Sixth sense.  Oh, sweet Jesus, this is gonna be the big one.  I call Carol, my downstairs landlord.

“Did you see the weather alert?” I cry.

“Yes, but I think it’ll just be alot of rain,” she replies.

“But the alert said Tornado Warning…not a Watch…a Warning!  And have you seen that wall of clouds outside…behind the AIG building?  I think I see a tail coming down out of one!”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” She’s laughing.

“But are you outside…do you see it???”

“I’m downstairs on the porch…right below you,” she says.  Why is she so calm?  We could be moments away from a close-encounter with an F5!

“It looks really green, and it’s so calm…the calm before the storm!”  I’ve lost all rational thinking.  Carol is feet from me, but we’re still talking via the phone.  And she’s still laughing at me.

“You’ll be fine,” she chuckles.  “And if something forms, just get in your bathtub.”  She’s starting to believe it could happen…that’s not a good sign!  I picture myself in the confines of my cast iron tub, a cat under each arm, a comforter over my head. Maybe knocking back a cold Bud Light.  Right before the floor caves in and my tub lands on top of Carol and Leslie, huddled in their own tub in the apartment below.  It could happen.

The rain has started.  The sky is black.  There is no sign of a swirling cloud, but my mind creates some gyration (what a great word) in the cloud now directly above us.

“If I’m pounding on your door in the pouring rain and howling 300-mile-per-hour winds, please let me and my two pet carriers inside,” I say to Carol as I walk toward my back door.  She snickers again and heads for cover.

I hear the beeping again. Another weather alert.  Just “small stream flood advisories” now…nothing about a tornado. I can’t be calmed.  At one point they predicted Ike wouldn’t even enter the Gulf.  And we all know how that turned out.  The rain is pouring down now.  I go back to the couch and my untouched meal, turn up the volume and slide back into ‘ignorance is bliss’ mode.  A loud thunder clap.  The cats have leapt to the floor and hunkered down.  I look out the window.  The wind is whipping.  This is it.  I call Susan to warn her about the impending doom and bid her farewell.  She doesn’t answer.  It’s clear the tornado has already ripped through her side of town.  I’m alone.  The dream has become reality.  I grab my comforter and head toward the bathroom, but wait, what is that?  Silence?  Has the giant tornado sucked all the air out of sky? I slither to the window, and…nothing. Just some drizzle and a moderately clear sky.

I call Carol back.

“You alright?” I ask.  “You were pretty freaked out down there.”

“Unlike yourself?” she mocks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…just a little rainstorm…nothing to be worried about.”

“Uh huh,” she replies.  “By the way, did you see that huge tree roach?”

“WHERE! WHERE IS IT, CAROL!”

And more giggling.  Bitch.

Well, it’s official.  I’m a girl who craves a happy ending.  Not that I ever really doubted it.  But, Sunday afternoon, as I was lounging on my red couch (that severely needs to be replaced), I switched over to the AMC channel.  A list of upcoming movies flashed on the screen.  It was a day of Paul Newman movies…a tribute to the recently lost - and incredibly handsome actor.  The next showing?  Hud.  One of my father’s favorite movies.  I’d never seen the classic, and in an attempt to dive into my father’s early adult head, I decided to continue my couch-lazing and take it all in.

The movie began.  Hud’s teenage nephew, Lonnie, disembarked from an ancient bus onto the streets of the small Texas town in which he lived.  He was on a quest to find his uncle, who had apparently left a path of destruction behind him after a night of partying in the tiny town outside his father’s ranch.  It was clear that Hud was a force to be reckoned with.  His well-deserved reputation seemed both revered and hated by the townspeople, and as his nephew tracked him down in the light of early morning - pulling on his boots as he exited the home of a local married woman - my stomach turned a flip, then a flop.  Because even in the poor lighting of an old black and white film, this man was breathtakingly beautiful.  With a cocky smile and crystal clear eyes, he expertly sidestepped the wrath of the just-arrived-home husband, blamed his presence on his unsuspecting nephew, and screeched off with the confused boy in tow.

Without the luxury of a commercial to take it all in (something meant to be a “plus” on this channel), I lay there wondering, what was it about this man, this character, that so captivated my father?  I suspect my father was, as a young man, much like he is today. Unrelentingly moral, balanced with just the right mix of bone dry humor and a hint of mischievousness.  Nothing like Hud really, who was anything but moral…but maybe that was the appeal.  There’s something about a man, any person really, who doesn’t give a damn how his actions affect the people and the world around him.  We witness their outlandish antics with judgment and sometimes disgust…but we watch, don’t we?  We give them power.  Because there’s something incredibly interesting about the train wreck.  We wonder how they got there…to this place where empathy and foresight are nonexistent.  Was it a tough childhood? In Hud’s case, he lost his mother at a young age.  He killed his brother in a car accident.  We have empathy, even though they may not.  Through our outward mask of disgust, we root for them to climb into the cacoon a slimy worm, and reemerge a beautiful butterfly.

“What is it about Hud that you liked so much?” I finally asked my father, tired of formulating my own baseless opinion.

“It was the setting.”

“Really?” I asked.  “What do you mean?”

“It was so much like where I grew up.  A small, sometimes lifeless town.  Not much going on.  The landscape not horrible, but somewhat barren and sad.  And the people…Hud’s father…a quiet moral man.  A farmer…rancher.  I knew a hundred men like that.  I still remember where I was when I saw that movie,” he said.

“Where?”

“In Lubbock, Texas, at a drive-in movie theatre.  It was 1963.”

“Who were you there with?” I asked, always digging for dirt.

“No one,” he said.  “I was by myself.  I wanted to see it…so I went.  I thought it was the most amazing movie I’d ever seen.  Still do.”

“Why?”

“It was so expertly cast.  You hated Hud, but Newman played him so perfectly…you wanted him to succeed…you wanted him to finally ‘get it’.”

“But he didn’t,” I said.  “I hated that ending.  I wanted him to get it.”

“But that’s life, kiddo.  Some folks never do.”

“I think you’re like Lonnie,” I said.  “He looked up to Hud in a way…he, like everyone else, was drawn to his ‘bad boy’ ways. He wanted to hang with him, thought he wanted to live that exciting life.  But in the end, he was more like his grandfather…a moral man, and he finally realized that Hud was just pathetic…not someone to be revered or to emulate.  Someone to pity.”

I thought of my dad watching that movie - alone at that Lubbock drive-in.  He must have been months, or possibly weeks away from marrying my mother.  He must’ve seen that movie as his past, and wondered what would happen as he looked toward the future - much like Lonnie did as he walked away from his old life, and Hud.  Just a young man, hoping to do better, scared that he may not be able to.  But with that youthful confidence we all wish we could regain.  The confidence which stems from inexperience…naivete.

If I think about where Lonnie’s life may have taken him…I see success.  Because he would likely take with him the best of all those from his past…even Hud.  Just a little bit of arrogance and that certain twinkle, but balanced by his grandfather’s goodness and hope and a responsibility to do right.  I think that’s why, in the end, I liked Lonnie so much.  He reminded me of my father.  And if I followed Lonnie’s life in my mind…one that may have taken a very similar path to my dad’s, I see a happy ending.  I get my happy ending.

“Can you be in love with an inanimate object?” I asked.

“In love with said object? Or just love it?” imaginary friend replied.

“In love. Like giddy. Lovesick. I miss them when I’m away.”

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, can you procreate with this thing?”

“God, I wish I could. We need more of them in the world.”

“Alright, enough of the elusive banter. What the hell is it?” (Even imaginary friends lose their patience).

And so I describe them. In all their full, beautiful glory. The perfect height…not too high, not too low. The way they hug (but not too tightly) my chicken calves. The soft, supple skin…the perfect shade of dark bronze. The subtle curves, dressy, but not too. Sexy, but in a naive, teasing manner. Engaging and alluring to men and women alike. They are, quite possibly, the most perfect pair of boots ever created. And they are mine. In brown suede…and black (I’m no dummy).

First, let me thank the Academy. And then Michael Kors for his expert design insight and ability to sell in bulk to DSW (so that I can afford said perfect foot ornamentation).

“I’m intrigued. Can I see them? I must see them,” imaginary friend coos.

“I can’t.”

“What?  Why?”

“I’m afraid you’ll go out and buy them. And I can’t have that.”

“Because…”

“Because last weekend…when I wore the boots with my new cute knit dress…”

“That is a cute dress. Where’d you get that?” she interrupts.

“Not telling. So, as I was saying…last weekend, when I wore the boots, I was told - by a married man…a respectable one…one who doesn’t cheat…”

“Does that exist?”

“Quit interrupting. Yes, they do exist. And he told me that I needed to walk away. That the combo of the knit dress and the amazing boots was ‘dangerous’.”

“Oooooh!”

“Uh huh.  Dangerous.  Because they’re so…well, perfect.  I saw people staring at them. A big guy…looked like an oafy football player - you know, the kind who wouldn’t know fashion from fiddle playing?”

“Yeah, I know him. I think I used to date him.”

“Well, he yelled across a patio full of people.”

“What’d he say? Did he wanna know the score of the Texas game?”

“No, this was Friday night.”

“Oh.”

“He said, ‘Hey - kick ass boots!’…and he was with a table of girls. And they started ogling them, too. There were high-pitched squeals involved.”

“And now you don’t want anyone else to have these magic boots…because you’re drunk on their power.”

“Yes.”

“You would be an awful monarch.”

“I know. I like the attention too much. I’d come to expect it. Maybe even demand it.”

“But you’re a kind person. You’re an amazing friend. You’ve always put others before yourself.”

“I’m not showing you the boots.”

“Bitch.”

“Yes.  Now, where did I put that damn crown?”

So I was watching Dancing With the Stars tonight, and because of a minor personality affliction of mine, I spent more time changing the channel than actually watching the full dances.  What is this affliction?  Well, the thing is, I hate to be embarrassed. I can’t even handle watching someone else’s embarrassing moment.  Case in point:  Rocco DiSpirito’s awkward movements and goofy grin (channel changed); Cloris Leachman freakishly spinning around on a cape on the floor (couldn’t handle it or the possibility that one wrong turn would snap one of her 83-year-old brittle bones - channel changed); and Lance Bass making out with his (female) partner at the end of their Paso Doble (now that’s acting…but still embarrassing - channel changed).

I can’t quite put my finger on the reason for my extreme discomfort when witnessing such moments.  Maybe it’s an overcharged empathy chip (I did grow up with a Psychotherapist mother), or some sort of weird transferrence thing (wait, I think that’s empathy, too)…or maybe it’s just that there are enough real-life uncomfortable moments, that I don’t need to be subjected to more when I sit down to lose myself in mindless entertainment.

With the explosion of reality TV, it’s near impossible to escape those channel changing moments (or at least a bury-your-head-in-the-couch-pillow moment). I’m surprised I don’t have calluses on the pads of my fingers…really.  Think about it. The girl singing opera to The Bachelor on the initial meet-and-greet night (it makes my stomach hurt - channel changed); the early episodes of American Idol…the William Hung moments (kill me before I die of embarrassment - or hand over the remote); and let’s get away from reality for a moment.  I saw a snippet tonight (because I quickly changed the channel) based on the premise of Meet the Fockers. To me, this is like the perfect storm. One hideously embarrassing moment after another. I lasted 45 seconds.

The odd thing is, I’m no wilting flower…don’t think I’ve ever been accused of that. I’m not afraid of public speaking, or defending a position I feel strongly about, learning a new skill, or dreaming up new ways to keep life from becoming stale or boring.  But if you force me to watch some horrible Fear Factor moment, or witness a star stumbling on the dancefloor, or watch someone get his “goods” stuck in a zipper…do that, and you’ll see a woman writhing in emotional agony. It’s on par with tossing a roach in my path, or putting a deadly virus on my computer (ok…maybe not that bad, but you get the point).

For those of you wondering - “How does this girl ever find anything to watch?” The truth is, I do change the channel…but I don’t stay away.  I allow a sufficient amount of time to pass (usually about 30 seconds - during which - in the specific case of Dancing With the Stars - the cringe-worthy dance has completed and the bad comments from judges have been doled out) and then I switch back - hoping the next dance will be inspiring and tear-worthy. But, oh no! Oh, God, it’s Cloris Leachman…where’s that damn remote!

This odd trait must be linked in some way to my inability to see anyone, or anything in pain. Historically, I’ve taken in the wounded birds (literally - and figuratively). Momma: remember the crippled blue jay that shit all over the chair in my bedroom? But I healed that mean little bastard and he flew away…that’s gotta count for something. Or the countless stray puppies and kittens.  A few “wounded” boyfriends as well.  The woman of steel with the mushy heart.

I fear I may soon be the butt of one of life’s ironic little jokes. Like I’ll meet Johnny Knoxville, we’ll fall in love, and I’ll be forced to witness his antics for years to come. A life full of stomach-churning, nail-biting moments. Or I’ll become a well-known author…well-known enough to be asked to be a contestant on DWTS. And then I’ll be personally living the weekly embarrassments.  Oh, well…at least the rigorous dance schedule will help me sculpt a great ass.