Making Halloween, husband-head style | PostIndependent.com
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Making Halloween, husband-head style

“Do you want to join me or am I going to have to do it solo again?” husband-head badgered me the other evening.I wasn’t sure.”It’s more fun if we do it together,” husband-head urged. “C’mon, be a sport.”Oh, all right …With that, husband-head went out to his work shop and proceeded to lay out all his tools and materials to make our Halloween costumes.”Making Halloween, Halloween, Halloween!” he sang gleefully.It’s one of husband-head’s favorite holidays – right up there with St. Patrick’s Day, Groundhog Day and, of course, the Super Bowl.The week before, he’d decorated the front of the house with his oversized, blow-up pumpkin, the plastic glow-in-the-dark skeleton and a ghost head that shrieks whenever someone walks by.Husband-head had even made two large graves, complete with headstones – one with overgrown grass and bones scattered around and the other covered with fresh dirt.”I’m going to lie in the dirt and pop out when the kids and their parents come by,” husband-head informed me.”I don’t think the idea is to give people a heart attack,” I said doubtfully. “Why can’t you just sit at the front door and hand out candy like other people?””That’s boring,” he replied.Yes, it’s no fun unless we make someone cry …But husband-head’s costumes are never dull. Over the years, he’s come up with a variety of outfits that are not sold in your local Wal-Mart store.The first year we were dating, he showed up at my apartment to go to a Halloween party wearing a white sweat suit underneath a large garbage can, with the lid for a hat and bits of crumpled paper glued on to the can.”I’m white trash,” he explained simply, when I answered the door and raised an eyebrow.As a couple, we once dressed us as Calvin and Hobbes, with big paper maché heads. He pulled me around as I sat tucked into a little red wagon. It was fun, except that my legs had completely fallen asleep when I tried to get up. That and I couldn’t breathe, much less eat or drink, with the head on.Another year, we went as Mr. and Mrs. Bubble, again with big, round paper maché heads on and zillions of pink and white balloons pinned all over us, which, of course, everyone had to pop with their cigarettes.Then I had to be the salt shaker for “a salt and battery” …After a few years, I was no longer included in the costumes.”You’re no fun,” husband-head complained. “You never keep your head on.”His solo ventures have included a cereal killer, with a box for the body and bandoleers strapped across it; a self portrait, in which his head poked out the middle of a canvas and picture frame while he stood against the wall and simply moved his eyes back and forth; and the Bogie Man, with golf tees glued all over a bloody rubber mask.I couldn’t figure out what he was when he positioned an end table over his head with an alarm clock glued to the top.”I’m a one night stand,” he laughed.The kids adored his life-sized Spongebob costume and he was later asked to wear it in a parade …”So, are you in or out this year?” husband-head asked as he worked on his costume.”That depends – what are we going to be?” I said cautiously.Husband-head slapped down the local newspaper in front of me.”I’m going as a traffic-calming device,” he smiled. “I’m going to be a cement planter.”I laughed because the ten planters the city had recently put smack in the middle of a busy roadway were all the talk of the town over the past few weeks – especially because a couple of them had already been destroyed in two separate accidents.Husband-head had found the whole issue immensely amusing”What am I going to be?” I asked curiously. “A bloody city council member?””Nope. You’re going to be a car and keep smacking into me,” he laughed.With that, he showed me a sign he’d made to put on the front of his planter.It was a large bulls-eye target with a sentence underneath.”Two down – eight more to go.”The costume didn’t sound comfortable, so I suggested he go solo again this year …Heidi Rice is a Rifle correspondent for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.


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