honeydunce

I recently told the story about being a “punk rocker” for Halloween one year. I think I was 7 years old. My grandparents
belonged to a CB club and every year they had a costume contest for the kids. Various age groups. That year, my sister dressed
up as Minnie Mouse and, if I remember correctly, won her age bracket. I did not win. I wore a striped skirt with a polka dot
top with equally loud tights and little shoes. I had glow-in-the-dark clip on earrings that pinched my lobes(oh those things
hurt like hell) and my eyes were itchy from the make up(I have this vivid, oh-so clear as day memory of standing in line for the
contest, rubbing my eyes violently while my grandmother leaned over to tap my arm and said, “Quit rubbin’ em!”).

The best part about this memory, however, involves my (ex)stepfather Jeff. He insisted on helping me do my punk rock make
up. He made me close my eyes and I couldn’t look until he was finished. Jeff never picked on me really, but he was a big practical
jokester, he he was happy to make me the target of these practical jokes on more than one occasion(case in point: the
time he put a rotten banana in my bookbag without telling me, and then sent me to school, where the banana proceeded
to stink up the entire classroom). So instead of doing my make up in any sort of fancy and/or “punk rock” way, he
simply drew all over my face. Some color here, some scribbles there, some sort of pentagram-like thing on the forehead.
And then he said, “okay, open your eyes,” and I did. And I yelled “JEFF!” But too late–we had to go. No time to wash it off.

Happy Halloween.