attack of the Nine foot snot ball!

So every year that I take sonny-boy out to the trick or treating, there's always sickness afoot to follow us down those dimly lit streets of mask and marshmallow goodness. Usually it's the little one with the sniffles, where at least the right sleeve of whatever costume he happens to be wearing(or not). This year however, I have been blessed with the mass sniffles, the snargles, the loogies, lung butter, quantum nose explosions, whatever you want to call it. It's okay though. I was searching for my winter coats earlier this week, and I came across at least three twelve packs of mini-kleenex, so I apparently had a little pre-cog in the realm of this 'holiday' and decided maybe I should stock up on the nose fluff for future fun with the holidays. yay for me.
Or, as I should put it more accurately, agghhaayy for Bhee.
However, My mind seems to be working properly, at least for the time being, or maybe this is all a big snot induced dream and I'm going stark raving, but I have a story for you. well, more like a tutorial. It's called, How to Wear Face Paint. or more importantly, How to Look like a Tool While Wearing Face Paint.(even though you're not even in school yet.)
This is a tradition that's passed down from generation to generation, mostly through sibling to sibling, then sibling's child then child's sibling, and so on.
Now I have vague recollections of Aunty Awesome wearing Face Paint at some point in my young life , although I'm not sure it was for Halloween, (it was the 80's after all.) But obviously, I thought it looked super-cool, and one year, either my 4th or 5th (or my 3rd or 6th, can't remember, I know I was young, and It's therefore one of my first memories) and on a particularly chilly halloween I decided I wanted to be a witch. I'm sure I wasn't really particular about what kind of witch, but I was dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West, with a lovely costume one of my Kin/clan/brood had made for me, might have even been my mother, she was a whiz with the needle. (in the most respective way!. idiots.) My memory wants me to say that my aunt was there, and that we were getting ready in her apartment, so I will. Also, I believe that it may have been my aunt smearing me with the green paint, and therefore mebbe my theory of sibling-child-sibling contact has been debunked, Mebbe I'm confused, what ever, but all in all what I really, really remember, is the texture. Now if you've ever had your face painted before, you'll know the texture I'm talking about. you might even like it. Me, however, not so much. I gag at even the sight of unnkown snot, drool, unverified liquid, let alone having it rubbed into my face and letting it dry. Not to mention the chalky/acrylic smell of a Face Paint Stick.

side note: I wasnt' even sure they made the Face Paint Sticks any more, as all I've seen are those newfangled Crayons, or pots of paint. These Sticks are basically Tongue depressors that have been dipped in the nasty non-toxic goo that then gets dried Onto the stick and packaged in a variety of Five colours for your convenience.also, the only picture I could find without actually searching was a link to a link, so whatever you do, don't press close window, cuz you'll lose the story. if you pressed it already and the window closed on you, you're a tard. just sayin. kay. back to the story.

So Here I am, in my Black dress-over-snowsuit and my cape, hat and broom, and My aunt is getting up close and personal with my face and this Glow in the dark green paint stick, and all I can do is sit quiet and not complain, because I'm sure at the time there was no reason. Now let me ask something else. Has anyone tried to give themselves a home facial? you know the Face mask that's supposed to peel off that top layer of skin and all that icky dirt in your pores? That gel-ley one that you're supposed to leave on for ten to fifteen so it can dry and then you peel off and feel refreshed? remember that feeling. That's what the paint stick feels like once it has dried. For all those that have never had a home facial before, sneeze in the crook of your elbow, let the snot dry, then try moving your arm. That's what it feels like. bleagh.
I spent quite a while outside covered from hairline to chin in that stuff, completely oblivious to the fact that it wasn't coming off very easy, not even when my face was getting sweaty from all the running and the high from the sugar-adrenaline mix. after that night, I vowed I would never, ever, EVER cover my face in that stuff again. Then I realized I was only five or six, and so probably promptly forgot about it and went back to arguing with my dad over the nibs/licorice. I remember, a few years later, My sister wanting to be a devil for hallow's eve (myself having moved on to gypsies and fairies, smart choice), and she was bedecked out in the hidious stuff, in the colour of red. I also remember her face after about half an hour and thinking, gee they don't make that stuff like they used to, as her face had either disintigrated, or bled onto her mitts and coat collar. Now, this year, My sonny-boy is going as Scooby-doo, something he is very adamant about, and I'm contemplating passing on the curse to him, but I just can't find a paint stick in even a close colour to the baby-shit-orange his costume is. Somehow I don't even think I'll be able to take him outside after I paint him. I'll be too busy rolling around on the floor, peeing my self with tears in my eyes.

Creatures of Habits

I love crazy magazine lovin wierdos. I Really do.
Like the guys who match their coats and hats to the cover of their stealth-hunter magazines, or the little old british ladies who think they're part of the royal family just because they buy, well, Royalty magazines. But I sincerly want to put out a big HELLY-O and a thank-you to my favorite bunch: The Overbearing, man-panties-in-a-bunch, Tight-uncomfortable shoe wearing Businessman.
These Gentlemen, or, as some of them prefer to be called, Phat Cats, are true chameleons in the realm of the 'zine. They Can flit back and forth from Rap Mags, Porn rags, and Quilted fags like nobody's biz. ( sorry, I just had to find another ryhme-y word for that last one. Not to mention, it's true.) Now, the normal time of day to spot the P.C's (for those of you who are slow, that means Phat cats) is either 11ish in the am, or just after one in the pm. Basically anytime around the lunch period, but not quite, so they don't have to answer any uneasy questions to any associate/collegue who might also have a penchant for perusing the papers over lunch. You can tell a P.C apart from a normal business-person by the long black high-end looking dusters they prefer to wear no matter how tall or not they are, their tommy-curl hair that looks thoroughly shellacked, and the smell of Geriatric spice or Cowboy-CAN'T YOU TELL I AM A MAN- perfume Emanating from every pore on their person. These such people always elude me when they come in, sometimes, I think, just from the pendulum effect their coats have on me, and then I'm completely oblivious to the fact that there's a sub-human being under all that pizzaz. These P.C.'s always walk with a purpose, though they usually take 5-10 minutes( or whenever all the other customers have left) to purposefully stride to their glossy destination. Which is almost always one of the three sections I have mentioned earlier. However the Typical P.C. is careful not to let on that they are purchasing anything suspicious, so before making their final stop at the counter, they swish over to the News aisle and pick up whatever Market paper is available, ie. Barrons, Newyork times, wall street journal, western investor, etc. Then these crafty buggers hide their true purchase in the folds of a paper and return to the cash register looking lofty and pristine. I've learned to look in all papers that a business-person is carrying now just to make sure there isn't a hidden glossy somewhere, as most times they, as do all other customers, think that we retail personnel are experienced mind-readers and shouldn't need to be told that they are hiding dirty, dirty smut somewhere between the Housing and Stocks section. and hey, to give credit to them, it's not always smut. Sometimes a Real Man just has to loop a coupla Circle Shell Stitches to unwind, ya know?

-manly AND Complicated!

Anyway, they almost always pay with some form of Mastercard super-multi-platinum-double-gold-fingered card, just to let you know that they still are an imposing figure when it comes to using other peoples cash, and it' really surprises me that they don't use, you know, cash, cuz that would just make it impossible to trace, and so, not letting the entire banking world know that they bought a 'no-no'. I dunno. just thinkin aloud. through my fingers.

N-E-yways, after which, they throw a smoke bomb down on the floor, and with a swish of their coats, disappear into the smoke laced interior to the external life without leaving a trace! exept for, well, the door chime thingy going off as they make their escape. ;)