For the record, I have survived yet another atrocious Feast Day. Having recycled last year's costumes, I squeezed one more use out of them. The only faux pas came in the eyes of my six-year old son, Hudson. It involved face paint.
I have the artistic skills of Al Gore; I can barely draw stick people, let alone intricate cave drawings on human cheeks. But I make do. My speciality is arrows and stripes. After just finishing an exciting series of dots, suns and dashes, Hudson steps up and requests...meat.
I sit there with my row of brightly colored paints and a little paint brush in my hand, staring at this strange child with the stranger request. What do you mean?
"Meat. On this cheek."
"What do you mean, like a T-bone or a hamburger patty?" Seriously, where did this kid come from?
So I attempt to draw some sort of meat gathering. It looks like Frankensteins spleen.
He looks in the mirror and disapproves. "That looks like a bridge."
I found myself apologizing for my lack of carnivorous painting skills, but promise to practice for next year. After some smooth talking on my part, he was good with the bridge, this year.
Right now, my cousin Holland is cringing with embarrassment, probably wondering how the genetic "Martha Stewart" gene completely skipped me. This Halloween she posted pics of her girls dressed in their cotton pickin' HOMEMADE, handwoven costumes. Holly Hobbie, Raggedy Ann and some sort of princess taffeta thing I can't remember because I was so dazed by the craftsmanship of the first two. I'm sure if her kids asked for meat on their face, she's whip up some highly detailed fillet mignon wrapped in bacon with a side of veal.
Note to Holland: next year the girls should be savage Indians. Then ship those
costumes to me.
A mother who is proud of her work would take lots of pictures and post them on her blog. Which is why you'll see none here.