Beware-y: Scary and Hairy

Who doesn't love Halloween? Well, me. I like it okay these days (don't tell my family), but about 20 years ago it was by far my favorite day of the year. I'd start thinking about my costume in August and pretty much obsess about it for the next 3 months. It's funny to think that Halloween started as a ritual to celebrate the harvest, but now has just become an excuse to dress like a complete idiot for a night. Please join me for an embarrassing walk down Mummery Lane (I can't believe I'm leaving that in).

It was 1990. My college friend, Amy, and I got invited to a party in Virginia -- one whole state away! I spent the day in the salon turning my hair temporarily red and getting it back-combed to high heaven. We drove an hour to meet up with 2 friends and 200 strangers. Incidentally, Amy went as Marge Simpson and we were swarmed by fans of the Fox network.

In 1992, Eddie and I were celebrating what would be the first of many memorable Halloweens. Our annual costume soiree located in the not-so swanky the Island Club Apartments party room would be the story of legends. At least to us. Prior to making this necklace, I'd only purchased those Styrofoam balls to represent Venus in an elementary school solar system wire hanger project.

Our favorite costume ideas would be ripped from the headlines or at least pop culture. Eddie as a slimy Long Island jackass pedophile mechanic and me as his underage murder-attempting girlfriend was just too much fun. His animal print sweatpants and my pink Suffolk County Jail jumpsuit still crack me up.

In the mid-90s, Pulp Fiction was the hottest movie around and I wasn't going to let this great costume opportunity pass me by. At least a dozen Fell's Point partiers asked to take a picture with me. And later in the night I couldn't have been more excited when I ran into strangers dressed as Vincent Vega and "the Gimp". It was the closest I've ever felt to being a celebrity. 

In 1997, we celebrated our first Halloween in our new digs -- San Francisco. We recruited friends and family to take a 3-hour tour, a 3-hour tour. Skipper's back fat was the talk of the town. I couldn't resist another go at being a redhead (and a movie star, no less) and dyed my head a coppery shade -- permanent this time. 

Flash forward a bunch of years, back in Maryland and pregnant with #3! I can't believe Eddie left the house dressed like this. I was so proud of him.

Taking this stroll down the haunted highway makes me realize I choose red heads 2 out of every 3 costumes. Next year: Carrot top? Ginger Spice? Prince Harry? Not a chance, because I also realize how much work a really excellent costume takes. But it sure was fun revisiting.

Please Lay Your Head on My 8-Way, Hand-Tied Sectional Sofa

I'm not sure how most people start their businesses, but I pretty much fell into mine. A painter, whom I hired, liked my color choices and asked if I'd ever thought about picking colors for a profession. I had thought about it, many times in fact, since I'd been helping my own friends for years. Long story short, I printed up some business cards and considered the shingle hung.

I figured I'd pop into a home, we'd chit chat about form and function and then the client would implement (or not) what we talked about. What I didn't see coming was how much of my job is similar to a therapist. Some seemed logical: getting someone to try a Ben Moore color a shade or two darker than her comfort zone allows. Or strongly suggesting (without insulting) to replace all brass lighting the builder installed 12 (!) years ago.

But other days I show up and get a pleasant surprise. I get to glimpse at how marriages are structured, who could be on the next installment of "Hoarders: Buried Alive" and who wants me to simply validate the (hideous) diaper brown paint chip they saw at a friend's house in Wichita.

I've had a number of clients slyly slip cash into my hand so their husbands won't see, and a woman who wanted ME to tell her spouse it was "necessary" for him to get rid of his 20-year-old college futon. Which I did.

One time, I had this woman who specifically told me she considered cleaning up before I arrived, but then decided I should see how she and her six cats really live. No one needed to see that.

Not my client, but she looks lovely. Call me.

I get to hear about why it's imperative for a woman to display her grown kids' soccer and ballet trophies or how much another client looks forward to accessorizing her foyer in holiday-specific Beanie Babies. Sometimes I have to know when to wave the white flag.

My favorite though, and it's not infrequent, is when the husbands are present but "not really there". They lurk one room away to "seem" interested. I try to engage them because I believe they should be able express an opinion; they in fact live there too. I'm pretty sure they don't chime in, however, because they know I'm paid by the hour.

I love my clients; quirks and all. I have no background in any type of psychology, but do feel that over the years, I've become quite skilled at tactfully, but truthfully discussing their beloved crap (cat and otherwise, although some of it's amazing) and helping to bring them into current day -- at least where decor is concerned. After all, they did ask me to come. And most even ask me to come back.

Yes, some days my inner sarcastic goddess faces extreme quelling challenges, but those days I just dig deep and think hmm....maybe I should get some formal mental health training.