I tried. I really did.
Every year, it's the same damn thing. Halloween approaches, and I'm left standing in front of the linen closet looking for an old sheet that can become a ghost costume on a moment's notice. If there were a real live man in this house (as opposed to the fantasy Jeffrey Dean Morgan), I could raid his closet for an old sports jacket, a hat, and a belt and whip up a "hobo" in two seconds flat. Alas, neither are to be this year.
Stewey is supremely miffed at Mommie Dearest (yet again) that I did not get my inner Martha on and concoct him a Halloween costume of epic proportions. He threw out the usual suggestions...Lady GaGa, the Gulf Coast Oil Spill, a Chilean Miner, and Monica Lewinski...(?)....(!)...but I didn't hear a word of any of it. Instead I said "Uh-huh. Don't worry. I'll get to it as soon as I finish this" and then, before my very eyes, the big event was upon us.
What can I say? Mo-ther of the year I'm not.
I had visions of dressing my little bundle of joy up each year, and along with the dressing up would come fabulous pictures for his scrapbook that I would produce with glee when it came time for his prom date to meet the 'rent. I had plans to scour the costume shops and the old Martha magazines gathering dust up in the studio for that one perfect look that all of the other kids in the neighborhood would talk about for months into the New Year. I would bake and decorate and sew and stitch and gather and harvest and give thanks for everything that came my way during the Autumnal Wonder, and I would stand out in the front yard and gasp at the sheer brilliance of the changing colours around me.
So today I'm planting my big fat white hairy butt in the Happy Chair and doing nothing. I'm not going to fret over the lack of festivity around here and I'm certainly not going to cave into a spoiled little brat of a five year old Jack Russell terrier who feels compelled to share with the world my failings as a mom. Screw 'im. He can damn well fend for himself this year.
(She stands with hands on hips and defiantly cocks her head upward, as if to say (in the words of her own dear departed mo-ther) "Eye's dee boss and hees dee boss-ee", while attempting to look somehow "final" in her decision.)
(This lasts eight and half seconds)
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go brainstorm over a pile of grocery bags, some left over felt, and the remnants of seventeen years worth of abandoned craft projects to come up with SOMETHING that will get the damn dog out from under the bed.
Oh, and I've got drapes to wash.