We celebrated Halloween a little bit earlier in the week. Saturday night we went to a party at our friends Carolyn and George's home. The invite instructed we come as dead rock stars. After weeks of pondering the possibilities and four trips to the thrift store, we ended up as Mama Cass and a white Jimi Hendrix.
When I found that dress, I had to have it. I didn't have an immediate idea for who I could become while wearing it. I snapped some shots on the iPhone and uploaded them to Flickr. My sister Jen helped me formulate the rest of the ensemble. She took one look at the dress and knew what to do with it! Right away she spouted, "Mama Cass! Tie something around your head, get some daisies, a ham sandwich and go barefoot!"
Plus Jen found this photo of Mama Cass knitting! Hooray!
The dress fit pretty well and I didn't think I would be able to put a pillow under the dress to make me look fat. Thomas was dead set on fattening me up for the costume. He made me shove every throw pillow in the house under my dress and finally he was satisfied with a green square one. Thrilled with his decision, he scampered off to the garage to get the duct tape. A word to the wise, don't ever let your husband convince you that duct taping something directly to your skin is a good idea. Ever. Learn it now. This is what happens at the end of the evening, and it stays that way with a mild burning sensation for the next four days.
Thomas on the other hand was a bit more challenging. Do we send him as Kurt Cobain, a young Jerri Garcia? Nothing seemed to work right. Then I found a photo of Jimi Hendrix in a black shirt and a white jacket with tight jeans. He owns a white jacket. That was a good start. I found a classy polyester double-knit navy blue button-down shirt with white triangles. To add to my excitement, the shirt was not only his neck size but cut long in the torso. Perfect!
We found a scarf for his head, and frizzed up his hair.
The only hurdle left was pants. I didn't find anything appropriate at the thrift store. Thomas doesn't own jeans, he considers them too average, too expected, too common. I was racking my brain to figure something out. His business khakis certainly wouldn't work. Scanning the dirty laundry piles in the bedroom, I spotted the perfect item. I convinced him to wear my skinny jeans.
Thomas. Skinny. Jeans.
He complained that they were crushingly painful. He couldn't reach his feet to put on his socks or tie his shoes. But damn, they looked good!