A post in which I talk about Phil's birthday, zombies, and I might mention pedophiles

It was Phil's birthday this weekend and we celebrated it like most people celebrate birthdays: with some tasty food, a luscious cake and a fake-blood-drenched zombie costume. The zombie costume took part in our birthday festivity as it was being prepared for the Halloween fun at Phil's studio on the following day, which had the theme 'rednecks and zombies'. Therefore, between our celebratory brunch and celebratory dinner, we spent a chunk of our afternoon at the Halloween Bootique looking for fake blood, decay-colored face paint, and whatever other accessories an average zombie would need on an average Monday. You didn't really think that we simply picked up a pre-manufactured generic zombie costume, did you? I mean, we are talking about Phil here, the king of minuscule detail, the only male I know who can instantly notice a haircut, or spot an eyebrow wax. On anybody, not just me. He would never show up in a less than perfect zombie costume anywhere, let alone at a place where perfectionists of his ilk congregate, so we even bought some fake nails at CVS that he painted brown and made all jagged. 

While Phil was exploring the Halloween bootique's zombie-making resources, I was wandering around the store with the Bean, wondering if I was a lousy mom for not intending to dress my child up in some cute costume and take her trick-or-treating. It's not that I have anything against Christinized pagan holidays, nor am I a member of the national dental association, thus my apprehensions were not ideological in sort, just purely pragmatic. I did, in fact, consider the pro's and con's of stuffing Izzy into some adorable Halloween outfit, but the pro's were outweighed by the distinct possibility that the Bean would hate the whole ordeal with an intense passion. Izzy detests it when I change her clothes and does everything in her power to make it as difficult for me as possible, presumably to discourage me from ever doing it again. I made several attempts at different holidays to dress her up in cute little outfits and make cute little pictures of her, but all my endeavors ended in miserable failures. Costumes are a pain in the buttocks to wear and they are uncomfortable for even the willing, ambulating, non-bionic adult, so they are especially unpleasant for someone who cannot sit, stand or walk. People only wear them because of the psychological or material pay-off, which Izzy wouldn't have. Since she doesn't care and she can't eat candy, she would be stuck with the uncomfortable bits of the ordeal, which would decidedly be a rip-off. 

I  have to admit though that I was a bit jealous of Phil's upcoming zombie/redneck party, especially when I spotted a cute princess Leia costume on display, between conservative Princess Leia and slightly slutty Princess Leia. It did cross my mind to get the white dress and the headphone-hair, and go trick or treating after all with my sidekick Izzy the Force. By the way, I wholeheartedly support women's rights, including the right to squeeze one's body into tiny, tight, revealing and unflattering outfits, and I realize that some women embrace Halloween as one's one and only chance of the year to unleash her inner vamp or tramp without fearing public judgement, even though I have never personally experienced such urge. However, what I don't understand is this: why would any halloween costume manufacturer think that a mom would want to buy some risqué ensemble for her teen or tween daughter. And who thinks it's cute to dress up pre-adolescent girls as slightly promiscuous miniature adults anyway, besides pedophiles and freaky pageant judges? Seriously, if I had a young teenage daughter, I would probably steer her towards costumes like a ghost or a CDC agent, or a bee-keeper. (Have I ever told you that when Phil and I were dating, we once went to this dress-up party as ghosts, but everybody mistook us for Ku Klux Klan members because our hoods were too pointy? But I digress.)

Anyway, Phil's zombie costume turned out fabulous, almost as fabulous as his birthday dinner and birthday cake (angelfood cake with strawberry sauce, fresh strawberries and whip cream, in case you wondered). Monday morning he scared the bejesus out of the maintenance guy on the way to work who yelled out "whatthehell" with a distinct spanish accent, but he still got smiles from Izzy. It's good to know that the Bean would still love him unconditionally, even if he fell prey to a zombie apocalypse. On the other hand, the Bean was not as generous with me: when I put on the long black wig that Phil ditched for its bangs claiming that zombies don't get haircuts, Izzy refused to look at me. As long as I was wearing the wig, no matter what I did or how close I got, she turned her head, rolled away or diverted her eyes. She hated it. Oh well, the ugly black wig elicited a small cry from our infant stim therapist when I opened the door in it, so it wasn't a waste after all.