Fashion terror and other horror stories

In the spirit of Halloween I thought I would take a moment to share two of my favorite fashion horror stories with you. And don't say you don't know what I mean. I know there is a picture of you hidden deep in the recesses of your closet with an asymmetrical haircut or a neon pattern shirt or a fuzzy Christmas sweater. We've all got them, so why not enjoy sharing your story with the rest of the world. The interwebs are totally anonymous, right?

The first story begins when I was twelve. My parents sent me to etiquette classes to learn how to behave like a proper girl around boys (if you know my husband, you know how well that worked). It was 6 classes once a week culminating in a big dance party at a hotel where all the young ladies wore nice dresses and the boys wore ties. I was so excited about my dress. It was peach silk with a drop waist. There were ruffles and bows in various places. It was cotton candy and I was in heaven. These were the days of pantyhose, and I was armed with mine. After several glasses of punch - yes, wild streak at 12 - I left to use the bathroom. On reentering, I got about 10 yards back into the ballroom before a nice hostess came up and escorted me back out. She promptly pulled my dress out of the top of my panty hose. That's right. I had reentered the dance with my dress tucked in to my pantyhose and my bum hanging out. When I say reentered, I was already talking to some boys who couldn't see my behind until the lady whipped me around to take me out of the dance. Mortified! I think I started the trend against pantyhose. I still refuse to wear them to this day.

Horror story number two occurred more recently, but there is some back story. When I was younger, my mother had a cedar chest filled with the most beautiful costumes. She had danced ballet into her twenties and kept all the costumes my grandmother hand sewed. Each Halloween we opened the chest and picked out something fabulous. I always had the best halloween costumes without really trying and I loved it - gypsy, can can girl, pirate, you name it. Fast forward to my early twenties. I was already hanging out with my hubby, trying to impress him any chance I could get. It was Halloween and I think I went as Morticia from the Adams family. This consisted of wearing a tight black dress and maybe some long jewelry. No wig. Robert took me to a party in Capitol Hill where the gays showed up in full force. Now if you are an adult and you've never done Halloween in the gay neighborhood of your local village, you are really missing something. The gays do Halloween like Catholics do Christmas. I mean, its serious. So in walks four guys dressed as 1920's aristocrats - long, tight dresses, fitted with a kick; huge, sweeping hats; and mack up with prosthetic pointy noses that really elongated the whole look. They were stunning. Ok. The right thing to do in this situation is appreciate how fantastic they looked, not dwell on your own sad costume. But I was 20 and self absorbed so I dwelled. And dwelled. And dwelled. Its now more than a decade later and I have refused to celebrate Halloween since. I mean, if you can't be the best, why try? This is also why I quit running track. Party pooper.

Well this year I'm happy to report I have swallowed my pride (read: stupidity). My daughter is two and starting to understand the world around her and I'm not going to be the party pooper who stole Halloween from her childhood. That's right, the whole family is getting dressed as Wizard of Oz characters for Halloween and there will be pictures. Despite my neighbors best efforts for emailing me slutty Glinda outfits, I found a rather tame adult Glinda costume and tiara. There will be pictures and posts. And if you think my costume is lame, I don't care. This time I'm doing it for the kid.