Tag Archives: costume


2 Nov


I got in a physical fight this weekend.

Just kidding. But I did get punched.

Still kidding. My roommate, Megan, got punched. I just got shoved. And slightly punched.

Getting shoved while dressed like Cruella de Vil was actually on my bucket list, so things are going incredibly well for me.

There are some situations you can’t imagine happening until they actually happen. Like winning an Oscar. Or winning the World Series. Or being on Leonardo DiCaprio’s yacht. (That was fucking awesome, by the way.)

Getting punched by a girl who’s dressed as a devil is one of those experiences.

Let’s back up.

It was a dark and stormy Hallow’s eve. (It wasn’t stormy but I had been drinking a Dark and Stormy.)

We were innocently minding our business and wandering the streets. I was dressed as a Disney villain who tries to kill dogs, and Megan as Harley Quinn, from Suicide Squad.

And that’s when the Devil emerged and said the insult to top all insults: “Wow, Harley Quinn, real original.”

Did we know this girl? No. Were we wearing signs that said, “Please, questions and comments are welcome! Critiques encouraged”? No. Mine had fallen off on the dance floor. I hadn’t fastened it very well.

So, what possessed her to say this about Megan? It’s unclear.

Maybe we look like fighters? I’ve always wondered if I give off a “pit-bull” kind of vibe…and I don’t mean Pitbull the rapper, because obviously I give off a Pitbull the rapper vibe. (Bald and rapping about thongs. That’s me.) I mean pit bulls, like the dogs that belong to big-bellied men who have yellow stains on their white tank tops. (OK back off, I get it – this is a stereotype.)

But that’s not the point.

The point is that we got punched.

I’m not going to lie to you and say we heard that comment and then skipped away like a couple of dainty Julie Andrews impersonators…These are a few of my favorite things! No. We did not do that. Because that is a Christmas song (for some reason) and that shit doesn’t start until after Thanksgiving.

We may have turned around and given a glare. We may have said, “Yeah, because a devil is so original.”

If life were a movie, and if I were a star, this is the part where I’d pause the action and talk directly to the camera. I’d say something cute and mysterious, like, “Now, here’s where things got crazy,” and you’d think you were watching a fun romantic comedy, and you’d probably be like, “OMG, I didn’t know Kate Hudson died her hair brown! She looks awesome!” And then the action would resume and you’d ever so briefly think you were watching the all-female remake of Ghost Busters…only to realize that you were actually watching the all-female remake of Fight Club.

In this version, Megan was Brad Pitt and I was the little insomniac man who just wanted to be included.

My experience with physical combat is minimal, at best. Growing up in a household of girls, we used to slap each other with bras and fight with our words. Not in a cutesy, “let’s have a pillow fight” way (so all you pervs can stop thinking that). Girls can be vicious. But that was really the extent of the viciousness. (Except for that one time I dared my sister to lick dog pee and she did it.)

Besides this, everything I know about violence came from my drivers education course.

In drivers ed class, they tell you not to have road rage – not because it’s unnecessary, or bad for your health, but because some people might carry crossbows in their vehicles and this might not end well for you. Again, crossbows. This was an actual lesson, taught to me by an actual teacher.

No one ever prepares you to defend your choice of Halloween costume because some young women carry emotional crossbows and might come after you in a very real and very physical way.

These girls came at us. It was fast and it was furious. But it was also all in slow motion.

Devil #1 lunged at Megan like a puma, as I watched in horror, while noting her quick footwork and wondering if she was a dancer. In the time it took for me to register what was happening, she’d already thrown a punch.

Megan is an athlete and she is tall…and she could have really Cross Fitted her way out of this situation, let me tell you. But, she is also rational and intelligent, which really boded well for us in this situation. Because if – God forbid – the cops had shown up, whose alibis were they going to believe? The alibis of a Suicide Squad character who’s known for wielding a baseball bat and an evil, dog-killing woman with half a head of grey hair? Or, the girls wearing black dresses and petit, red devil ears?

Things were escalating rapidly. Suddenly, the Devil had company. Five other devils, actually, which really threw into question this girl’s argument about a Harley Quinn costume…

She had five friends, and I was carrying a stuffed Dalmatian and a plastic cigarette holder…

Some of the Devils were ganging up on Megan, so I decided it would be a really good idea to put all of my fight club training to good use.


I ran into the ring and tried to pry the Devil’s hands off of Megan. It was all very Exorcist-esque. Except I don’t recall a devilish Snooki being in the Exorcist, nor do I recall her shoving and hitting people on Halloween. But then again, I watched most of that movie with my eyes closed, and she’s a mom now, so we can just live and let live.

The Devil karate chopped my arm and my Kate Spade bangle smacked against my wrist bone.

Let me repeat. MY KATE SPADE BANGLE BRUISED MY ARM DURING A PHYSICAL ALTERCATION. If there has ever been a less cool way to procure a bruise, I would really like to know because honestly, I am one step away from being a Stepford wife.

I bounced back from the blunt force trauma. At which point, a cab driver pulled up and asked if we needed a lift.

I have never been so happy to hop in a cab. Actually, it was a Prius and I’m not sure if he was really a cab driver. (We later had to jump out, when we were told it would be a fixed-rate, cash only ride. But it was exciting to make a getaway.)

So that’s that. I was bruised from my own bracelet and Megan had a few bruises but (luckily) no major injuries.

I probably shouldn’t be joking about this. Street fights are not good.

But I will say this: I could never make it on a reality show. I bruise way too easy.




Hula at Your Own Risk

6 Nov

You know those mornings when you wake up wearing a coconut bra, surrounded by remnants of a fake grass skirt?

As with any great Halloween story, that’s how mine ends.

The origins of my story date back to August, when I made the very conscious decision to purchase an artisanal coconut bra, a giant grass skirt, and some floral accessories to wear for Halloween.

The genius of this costume was in its dual nature: “Supporter of Local Artisans,” in the event that I scored an invite to an alternative hipster party…(which I did not score)…or “Basic Hula Girl With a Splash of Authenticity,” in the event of all other scenarios.

In case you’ve never had the good fortune to wear wooden coconuts and a grass skirt, let me let you in on a little secret: that shit will change your psyche. The minute you realize that your chest is protected from accidental jabs, spilled drinks, and nip slips, something inside of you clicks and you become a warrior. (Now I know why knights wore armor: for courage and nip slip protection.)

As for the grass skirt – well, that’s just fun and breezy! Like a loincloth or ass-less chaps…I’d imagine…

I think that some people would be able to handle the combination of Halloween, warrior breasts, and a grass skirt. I, however, responded to these stimuli in the same way Gwyneth Paltrow’s children would respond to eating cake for breakfast: with fits of excitement and borderline unhinged behavior.

The majority of the week leading up to Halloweekend consisted of me consulting with multiple people multiple times about which night should be dedicated to which costume.

After settling on a Night Three hula girl, I opted not to open and try on my costume until one hour before my Night Three party…at which point, it became painfully obvious that the local artisan who’d strung together the grass skirt had designed it for IZ (R.I.P.) and not for a female.

Thus began the classic string of “SOS my grass skirt won’t fasten” panic texts…typical of most Halloweekend, Hempfest, or really intense gardening club correspondence.

Luckily, my roommate, Laura, had a giant paperclip that managed to do the trick.

Costumes ready, my friends – a cheerleader, a seventies disco dancer, and a jazzercise instructor – and I headed out.

Lucky for me, I’d chosen just the costume to wear in the monsoon conditions that characterized Night Three. But nothing could deter me from ending Halloweekend with a bang!

And end with a bang we did!

Some highlights of wearing hula attire to parties:

  1. Sneak attacks: Let me tell you, there are few joys more satisfying than sneaking up to someone and swatting them with a giant wad of grass. It’s a playful maneuver, and incites really effective conversation-starting questions like, “why is she here?” and “could someone please lock her away?”
  2. Visible attacks: Grass skirts make the best gentle weapons. Someone took the last of the jungle juice? WHAP. Someone accused you of “lacking all the necessary skills to play any drinking game”? WHAP. People actually dared to eat the candy you brought and “offered” to the general public in an attempt to seem outgoing and friendly? WHAP.
  3. Noise-making entrances: You can put your “for parties only” maracas away because a grass skirt is all you need to make you presence known! Every time you move, that baby will rustle and heads will turn.
  4. Noise-making entrances II: banging on your own coconuts – or asking people to bang on them – is a great way to engage a group in a common activity, while simultaneously shining the spotlight on yourself. (Bet Martha Stewart never thought of that party tactic.)
  5. General comfort: hula attire offers the same comfort as nudity, but with the visibility of half nudityYou don’t have to forego morals to keep it comfy. (The slogan for my new line of Au-Pair specific lingerie, coming to a Victoriana’s Secret near you.)
  6. Armor: like I said, you can feel free to walk into walls because wearing coconuts means you’ll ricochet like one of those magnetic balls from a desk top toy. Demonstrations of walking into walls are also another great way to engage party guests (see Highlight #4).

Despite all these hula highlights, I feel I need to issue a PSA with regard to one aspect of hula attire.

Warning: hula attire may cause insanity.

As I said earlier, hula attire was to blame (and was the only reason) for any displays of *erratic behavior*.

Some other highlights from the night?

  1. Me inviting my friends Selby, George and Deven to the costume party, but telling them costumes were “totally optional” and that not that many people were even dressed up. (Apparently, I don’t consider fifteen Spidermen suits and three giant hot dog suits to be adequate costumes.)


  1. Me Snapchatting everyone to have ever existed. Sorry.
  2. Me finding this mustache and making mustache pun(s): “I mustache you a question!” IMG_9307

(Okay, so one pun, said multiple times over the course of a few minutes.)

  1. Me walking to my friends’ apartment – definitely uninvited – and breaking out into random combinations of running, sprinting, skipping, and “Irish heel clicking,” like a kid who came into some money and decided to get coked up on an entire convenience store’s worth of Reese’s and soda pop.
  2. Me robbing trees of their leaves so I could point them at people and say witty things like, “I’m a Wizard! BOOOOO!”
  3. Me devouring someone’s pasta that I found on the counter and then asking when the pizza was coming. (We hadn’t ordered pizza.)
  4. Me falling asleep on a couch, coconuts down, and sleeping like a blissful angel.

When I woke up on Sunday, I was still in my costume. Everything seemed to be in tact, except for the grass skirt, whose grass had thinned faster than an 80-year-old man’s hair.

As I scurried around trying to pick up all of the long strings of skirt grass from the floor, new strands kept falling and staring up at me in mockery.

Finally, I decided to give up and borrow a pair of Selby’s pants.

Picture this: a young woman walking down Comm Ave wearing Adidas athletic pants, heeled booties, a coconut bra, and a bright pink raincoat, and carrying a giant grass skirt…

Now, imagine that it’s windy and snowing and the grass skirt becomes tangled in the young woman’s coat and loses several more strands to the ferocious monsoon conditions.

Now, look at this picture and see if it’s what you imagined:

monsoon skirt

Long story short? I took off my pants and out tumbled an entire turf field.

The happiest of Halloweens to you all.

Halloween Tales from the Other Side of the Rainbow

1 Nov


Halloween is a stressful time for me. It’s stressful because I STILL am not used to the idea that I am “too old” to go trick-or-treating.

Who the eff decided that a person can be too old to approach another person’s door and beg for candy? No one ever tells those Green Peace people that they are “too old” to come to my door and beg for money! Old people don’t respond to them with “sage life advice,” in lieu of Milky Ways and Snickers. What’s with all the hypocrisy? Free love, free sugar, let’s all hug and sing Cumbayá and feed each other chocolate yadda yadda…

Besides the fact that I’m a suppressed sugar hippie trying to exist in a world of dream crushers, Halloween is stressful because of the costumes. I am SO BAD at thinking of costumes in the abstract.

If you asked me, “Sophie, what should I be for Halloween?” I would respond with something either a.) Boring as heck, such as “a kitty cat!” or “a pumpkin!”; or b.) Bizarre and sure to repel people, such as “a donkey who has wings and a passion for chemistry and who carries around a bleaker full of donkey kibble”; or c.) Totally cliché and store-bought and involving several trips to iParty and a second (or third) mortgage…

Which of these options do I usually choose for myself?

Nope, not the donkey one. Although maybe next year…

If you said C, you know me well enough to know that I always take the most difficult, time-consuming, poorly thought out method of doing ANYTHING. This Halloween was no exception.

Yesterday afternoon (THE afternoon of Halloween,) I decided it was probably time to get a costume together. I had a mere three hours; three hours to walk a mile to the store, find a costume, walk a mile home, change, eat dinner, finish 40 pages of reading for French class, buy candy, and still make it to a cappella rehearsal on-time? Yeah, that should be fine.

When I walked into Party City in Brookline, several things struck me: first, I noticed that my inclination was to shop in the kids’ section…that was alarming.

Second, I noticed that they no longer sell my size in the kids’ section…that was even more alarming. (NO, I DID NOT JUST “GROW OUT” OF THE KIDS’ SECTION. THE KIDS’ SECTION JUST CHANGED.) And third, I saw that all of the costumes for women had a certain…je ne sais quoi.

Take this flapper costume, for instance:


This costume – with the va va voom boa and the short, “I’m cool enough to sport a trendy bob and not look like a soccer mom” hairdo and the fishnets – was the NUN costume of women’s costumes. Seriously though, if you ever think about dressing up as a nun for Halloween, just go as a flapper because it will have the same effect.

All of the other costumes looked big enough to cover a portion of my thigh and maybe some of my pelvic bone (if I stretched the one of costumes out on one of those medieval stretching machines and THEN wore it).

I guess I just don’t understand why I should pay $70 to be a “Sexy School Teacher.” Isn’t it illegal to dress sexy for students? Or, a “Sexy Nurse” – WHAT’S WRONG WITH SCRUBS?? Or what about a “Sexy Tin Woman” from the Wizard of Oz? Yessss because tin is the sexiest metal and not having a heart is the sexiest trait a woman can possess (according to a new poll from Cosmopolitan Magazine).

What’s next? Sexy Supreme Court Judge? Sexy French Diplomat? Sexy Cartographer?


This was the internal rant I was having in my head while I stood in the store. Ten minutes gone, just like that.

With time quickly running out, I decided the best, most efficient way to approach this shopping situation was to stand in the middle of the store, stare at every costume I saw, get in the way of multiple shoppers, and then end up more confused and less decided than ever before.

Shockingly, this approach yielded zero results. So, I resorted to texting everyone I know in the neediest, whiniest of ways and trying to get costume advice. This yielded multiple “I’m in class!” and “NO ONE CARES” results.

That’s when I looked to my left and found the flapper costume hanging on the 50% off wall – slightly more fabric and 50% off. I’m no businesswoman, but isn’t that the opposite of how a sale is supposed to work?

All things were pointing to flapper; it was easy, it was cheap, and it was…SO UNORIGINAL. Sounds like my kind of costume, I mused.

And that’s when my dear, kind, understanding friend Emalie responded to my needy texts with the wisest of advice:

“Flappers are kinda unoriginal. I think I’m just gonna throw something together at home and hope for the best lol.”

GENIUS. Just like that, I knew that the answer to my costume question did not lie in the assembled costume section, but in the accessories section.

With 40 minutes of dazed and confused shopping under my belt, I rushed to the accessories section. And right there, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, was…A TINY PLASTIC PIPE.

(If you don’t automatically associate tiny plastic pipes with leprechauns, then there might be some holes in my writing. So, here’s a hint: I DECIDED TO DRESS AS A LEPRECHAUN.)

I grabbed the pipe, a tiny plastic mug of beer, a gold bowtie, some four-leaf clover stockings, green suspenders, and a tiny top hat. And just like that, a leprechaun was born:


This ended up being the PERFECT Halloween costume for me. Mostly because I love to pretend to smoke an Old Man Pipe. And I’m 3/8 Irish, so I didn’t even need to “method act” to prepare for the part! (Although I did practice smoking the plastic pipe in a “realistic yet humorous” way.)

This was also a great costume because I have a tendency to jump in the air and click my heels together…which is totally normal (some might even say, cool) behavior when you’re dressed in a leprechaun outfit.

In case you’re wondering, I managed to do all of the chores on my list within the three hour period.

And, later that night, I even managed get my friends to hold candy out to me while I said “trick-or-treat” and showed off my costume.

Yeah, I have good friends. As well as a solid sugar high.

I guess you could say it’s the Luck of the Irish.

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