Costume Drama

I was halfway between the feta cheese and the Lean Cuisines when I saw them. Fairy princesses. Grinning ghouls. Menacing vampires. No, not the cast of "Twilight", the Halloween costumes at the grocery store. For the next week or so, I can get cat food, granola bars and glow-in-the-dark fangs in one convenient stop. We never had store-bought costumes when I was a kid; my costumes were always homemade. Or, more accurately, cobbled together from bits of things we had in the house on or around October 29th, either because Mom was working nights or I kept changing my mind. I don't remember many of my costumes, and photo albums from my childhood don't appear to have a single picture of me in one. Unless I went as Dad's thumb a bunch of times. However, I know I went trick or treating every year, because I had the cavities to prove it.

One Halloween I do remember quite vividly was the year I went as a bat. Black leotards, black turtleneck, black felt wings with loops that went on my wrists so I could be all swoopy. Think I was about five. Granted, the effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that my mother, as usual, made me wear a winter jacket over everything. Oh how I wished for Halloween to be at a more temperate time of year, say, August. How many awesome costumes have been sabotaged by Mother Nature and goose down? Thankfully, I was allowed to take the jacket off at the end of each drive, so I did get my Batgirl on between the curb and the doorstep, at least.

Starting around age nine, I pretty much had the same request every year; I really wanted to go as an only child, but Mom insisted my little brother got to go, too. Like it wasn't already bad enough that our house didn't take seniority into account when it came to candy distribution. And I was always a bit miffed that my parents refused to drop us off at the huge subdivision a six minute drive away. They thought my eternal quest for a 5 pillowcase candy haul was a bit greedy. I'm still bitter. Do you know how many extra teeny tiny Wunderbars that would have meant?

There were more than a few years when I was some sort of gypsy/fortune- teller. Basically, this involved going into Mom's closet or Nanny's fabric bag, coming out dressed like Stevie Nicks, and then adding a bandanna. Stevie's a pretty versatile starting point, truth be told. Add an eyepatch and a plastic sword and you're a pirate. Add a pointy hat and a broom, you're a witch. Add giant sunglasses and lose half your body weight, you're Nicole Richie.

I probably stopped going door to door when I was about 12, but I did go to a few costume dances in high school. Not being the sort of girl with the sort of mother who would ever let me dress as something tarty, I once went as a bag of dill pickle potato chips. If you've ever found yourself thinking "These yoga pants are comfy, but I wonder what it'd be like to put on a turtleneck and tights and then add a burlap sack that's been covered with aluminum foil", I can save you some time. Imagine you're a baked potato. Now imagine you're a baked potato experiencing a fairly severe case of hives. While standing in a dimly-lit gym listening to Debbie Gibson and REO Speedwagon. My mom's tart-free plan wasn't perfect though, because I'm pretty sure some of the guys who came to the dance stoned were checking me out.

Halloween during my late teens and early 20s was a magical time, a time when mini chocolate bars were replaced by alcohol. Admittedly, there's a better than average chance that black lipstick, stripey tights and pointy hats were a semi-regular part of my university wardrobe all-year round. One awesome costume was the Bride of Frankenstein. Luckily, I hung out with actors, so theatrical makeup was easy to come by. Unluckily, greasepaint comes by its name honestly. Know why there are so many sad clowns? Because they have lard on their faces. Greasepaint lightning bolts in my hair wasn't the best idea I've ever had. They looked great, but it took a week, about 20 shampoos and some vinegar to get the stuff out. Grunge was big then, so I hope it seemed like a stylistic choice rather than witching hour stupidity.

I've never really had the type of relationship, or the type of personality, where you dress in "couples costumes". Tarzan and Jane, Sonny and Cher, Salt and Pepper. Or Salt 'n Pepa, for that matter. I do recall one party where I went as a suspicious girlfriend and the guy I was seeing went as a cheating jerk, but I don't think it was in October. I have, however, been part of a group costume, where we all dressed as different coloured crayons. I was the purple one. Pretty easy costume to make, but take heed if you're planning on attaching lettering to your crayon. "Hot-Glue-Gun-Blister Pink" is not a colour I ever hope to see in a Crayola 64 box. And it made it really hard to hold my beer.

This year, I'm going to a party. My costume will be comfortable, topical, and hopefully easy to assemble. I can't say what it is, but my mother will be happy to know it's about as far from slutty as I can get. And if I can't find everything I need, I'll just dig out the old Stevie Nicks gear. Everyone loves a good gypsy fortune-teller pirate witch.

Closet case

Just to be contrary, decided to buck the trend and go back into the closet last night. Or, rather, into the back of the closet. Fall showed up right on schedule, and I haven't seen my favourite sweater since April. I'm a bit fickle, so what I love today I may loathe next week. This applies to many things, but we'll limit the scope to the sartorial for now. Some of my fashion ambivalence I blame on my mixed feelings about my ass. We may have discussed this before. I have pretty awesome boobs; I'm like a particularly pneumatic Venus di Milo. But, like, with arms. My thighs, however, tend more toward the Venus of Willendorf. Luckily, none of me has the fashion sense of Venus Williams. That being said, there are some things that simply stand the test of time, thighs be damned.

My pink satin, cherry blossom embroidered, kimono style jacket. From the time I saw "Notting Hill", and Julia Roberts was wearing an Asian-inspired jacket and jeans in the dinner party scene, I wanted one. I'd like to think I was not influenced by my now shameful crush on her movie paramour Hugh Grant. I bought this in Chinatown in New York. It had to be shortened, since I'm not exactly statuesque. I love it. It makes me happy. Picks like a mother, though.

A wristful of silver bangles and cuff bracelets. These have been acquired over 20+ years. One I received from a friend a few years ago; another was a high school graduation gift; a few belonged to my grandmother. Every time I wear them, their gentle clink reminds me of the people who gave them to me. It also reminds the people around me that an armful of bracelets are noisy, so they usually end up on my desk before noon.

Red lace push-up special occasion bra. It's red. And lace. And cantilevered. Do I need to explain further? Moving on.

Brown pajamas with cupcakes on them. Well, a cupcake print, though they'll probably have actual cupcake on them by the end of the weekend. I bought these for myself as a birthday present last year. Not only do they combine two of my favourite things (flannel and baked goods), they're fantastically comfortable. Putting these on signals I am staying in. Not that I'm not usually staying in, but these make it seem like my number one choice out of many options.

A black chiffon, slightly flippy dress with illusion half-sleeves. I've had this dress for well over 15 years. I loved it from the moment I saw it. My grandfather gave me the money to buy it when I could barely afford rent. I later wore it to his funeral. I will never part with it.

I have quite a lot of evening bags, even though my evenings are pretty low-key these days (see cupcake pjs). My favourite? A small frame bag covered in cascades of black and white bugle beads that shimmer like an Art Deco waterfall. It's completely impractical, holding little more than a cellphone, a bank card and my hopes for a fantastic time. Whenever I carry it, I feel a bit like Daisy Buchanan, heading off to a party in West Egg.

A midnight blue linen tunic, with little pink chiffon flowers and embroidery around the v-neck and hem. Completely not my style, but I got caught up in the whole aging hippie, pottery making, poetry writing, ex-pat vibe of Positano during the best vacation ever. John Steinbeck famously wrote, "Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone." And every time I look at the tunic hanging in my closet, I know just what he means.

A pair of vertiginous black heels. Ankle strap, quite sexy. I practically need a sherpa to help me up them. They are two-hour shoes, and even then only if 1:50 of those two hours are spent sitting at a table, laughing coyly and sipping my drink in what I hope is a seductive manner. It's best if I don't attempt stairs in them, which may explain why I haven't worn them since I bought my house. They're very versatile, and go quite well with everything except sweatpants and more than three drinks.

It's a funny thing; I never know what's going to stay with me. I've had things I've happily worn for years that I've discarded without a second glance. And I have things like the old t-shirt I bought on vacation with an ex-boyfriend that I can't bear to part with (the shirt, not the boyfriend), even though the only thing I remember fondly about the relationship is the fact that I'm not in it anymore. I guess when it comes to my closet, sentimentality never goes out of style.

I wore what?

I came of age in the 80s. That should give you a small clue as to some of the closet catastrophes for which I was responsible.

I'm going to skip over the childhood ponchos, the Dorothy Hamill haircut, the sweater from the Sears catalogue that had leg o'mutton sleeves. If there is blame to be placed, I blame my mother.

One particularly shining moment happened in late grade 8 / early grade 9. Knickers were big. As were ruffle sleeved shirts. I'm sure my friends and I looked like a cut rate touring company of "The Pirates of Penzance."

My first really big fashion decision was what to wear to my grade 9 prom. Granted, it was only the junior prom, but still - I wanted to look nice. I ended up looking like the youngest member of the secretarial pool. It was this sort of shirtdress with stripes and a tie at the neck. I guess my mom didn't want the boys to get the wrong idea. They didn't.

Some would put my interpretation of the Madonna look on this list. Say what you will about Madonna, but her whole Holiday/ Desperately Seeking Susan look was young, fun and pretty accessible. The fingerless gloves, the leggings, the pile of black rubber bracelets. Parents may have hated it, but at least I wasn't whining because all my friends had a real Louis Vuitton bag and $250 jeans and so why couldn't I? I think the total bill for that trend was about $25, not $1250. And really, would you rather have your teenager wearing layers of cut up t-shirts and leggings like then, or a halter and jeans with the 2-inch gyno-rise like now?

Save for a few pairs of socks and maybe a belt or a bracelet, I didn’t jump on the neon bandwagon. One of my closest friends, however, not so discerning. Here, in her own words, is her story:

One lasting picture comes to mind. I had just finished shopping with my mom at Yorkdale mall. It was the year neon was big. And the picture that was captured at Mrs. A's (my mom's friend who lived just outside of Toronto) always causes a cringe. I was in her kitchen. I had a white sweatshirt on with a random florescent letter - the sweatshirt was
tucked into my jeans! I had florescent yellow suspenders on over the
sweatshirt. The socks I wore were green florescent ankle socks with lace trim, and there were big florescent objects dangling from my ears. The outfit was topped off with a string of florescent orange plastic pearls. I had braces and my hair was cut short on one side, longer on the other side. It was like the Flock of Seagulls vomited on me.

I didn’t know her then. Thank God. The fashion crimes for which we could have been held responsible would rival the The Nuremberg Trials.

My senior prom. My mom would only pay for the dress if I agreed not to wear black. I had wanted something fairly sleek, until I saw The Dress in a magazine advertisement. I didn't do drugs as a teenager, so I have no excuse for looking like the love child of Scarlett O'Hara and Little Bo Peep. I was an antibellum vision in pale blue. Rosettes and lace overlays and a sweetheart neckline, oh my! There was also baby's breath in my hair - a fashion faux pas de deux, if you will.

The late 80s/early 90s were a write off. Trying to pick the worst outfit would be like a sartorial Sophie's Choice - how could I choose just one? Though there was one particular ensemble during the grunge era that I adored at the time. Now, thoughts of it make me cringe. A long velvet dress with a black background and a large, though muted, all over floral pattern. I think they were cabbage roses. I paired this with either cowboy boots or purple Docs. There was also a chapeau. Bottle green velvet ( I had more velvet on me than an Edwardian settee). Front part of the brim turned up and adorned with three velvet flowers (one purple, one saffron, one deep red). Looking back, I must've looked like Laura Ingalls on her way to the rodeo, after a quick stop to roll Paddington Bear for his hat.


I'd like to think that I've managed to avoid too many out and out disasters in the last decade or so. For the most part. A few notable exceptions - stretch denim capris. I'm 5'3". Capri anything ain't good. A purple faux fur vest. I love it, but I look like Barney's wet dream.

However, fashion maturation has a downside. So does fashion masturbation, quite frankly. The downside is this: when you commit a fashion crime, there's a very good chance you have no one to blame but yourself. And possibly the salesgirl.