Halloween

DIY Halloween series (coming soon)

I love October. It’s got baseball playoffs, the World Series, loved ones’ birthdays, and at the end we dress up and celebrate Halloween.

In case you don’t know, I’ve always loved Halloween. I’m pretty sure it’s genetic, as my parents dressed up in some crazy/silly get-ups in their youth. (There’s a photo floating around of my dad in drag. No, I won’t post it.)

As a kid, my mom would ask what I wanted to be. I’d pick something and she’d proceed to make the costume. (Mom also used her sewing talents to make some of our clothes.)

One year, I embraced gender duality and told my mom I wanted to be the bride/groom I’d seen in Big Top Pee Wee. She proceeded to cut up the dress I wore as a flower girl in my tía Nellie’s wedding and at my First Communion (we were into recycling before it was trendy). She got an old suit that belonged to my cousin Danny and pieced together my greatest costume ever.

I won first prize for that costume.

***

October is also the time when I post the series on low-cost, DIY and culturally-relevant costumes. You can find costume ideas from 2008 and 2007 here. I’ll be back with more for 2009.

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Corriendo

Pages and miles

“You have knee pain?” asked the young dermatologist who had just come in to the exam room.

“Yeah,” I replied. “But it’s only after I run.”

She nodded, still looking over my intake survey.

“So it’s exercise induced?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, so you’re a runner.”

I half-nodded, feeling a bit like a fraud. Being called a runner was like being called a writer.

Me? Really? Sure you’re not mistaking me with someone who is serious about running/writing? Someone like Haruki Murakami*? Okay, maybe not Murakami. I shouldn’t compare myself to a novelist who runs marathons annually.

I write and I run. I enjoy both and know I can improve, but right now I’m not dedicated enough to feel comfortable when someone calls me a writer/runner.

I’m going to change that and earn both titles. It’s going to take a lot miles and pages.

No problem, I have plenty of time.

Thanks to Oso recommending Murakami’s memoir What I talk about when I talk about running. It was a good read.

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Cambios, Cuentos

Identification

On my first night in New York, I joined my host, Jenny, and a few of her friends for a night of salsa dancing.

I changed and put on some black flats, the closest I had to dancing shoes. Jenny and I took the train a few stops where we met up with G and her friend J.

Half an hour, a few trains and two blocks later, we were at our destination. G, who had brought along a special pair of dance shoes, gave her ID to the bouncer. He nodded, gave it back to her and she went through the door. J, the token guy in the group, did the same thing.

Once J and G had entered, I stepped up and handed the bouncer my recently renewed driver’s license. I turned my head and looked down the street, but turned when I heard the bouncer.

“That’s not you. I’m not letting you in,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What? That’s me.”

The first two stopped and turned around, curious about the commotion.

“No, that’s her,” he said and pointed and Jenny.

Jenny held up her own driver’s license and protested, “No, this is me.”

The bouncer shook his head.

I tried arguing. It’s a new picture, only a year old (by the way, I actually like my photo). That’s me in that picture, I repeated in hopes that if I just stated the truth he would believe me. I offered to be quizzed on the information on the card. I could easily recite my address, birth date, height, weight, eye color, and driver’s license number. I didn’t mention what I was thinking: come on, I haven’t lost that much weight that a stranger does not believe September 2009 me is not August 2008 me.

It didn’t work. The bouncer gave me back my card and once again told me I was not getting in.

Jenny, J, G and I huddled outside the club, trying to figure out plan b. A few minutes later, we hailed a cab and were off to try and salvage the night.

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