“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

That’s a tough question. One that’s filled with possibility and wonder. It brings out your passion, creativity, and joy as you brainstorm; and you’re so young, there is no right answer. You can be anything you want.

“What do you want to be for Halloween?”.

Not such a tough question. But, it evokes the same butterfly frenzy of excitement & awe doesn’t it?

Passion, joy, creativity, brainstorming…the mountain of the possibilities!

“What do you want to be for Halloween; well anything you want little lady.”

MY choice?!?……..That power was a rush.




Well, that’s what I was told from other kids anyway….my childhood went slightly different…

It was Halloween 19ehbehmehmeh….I was 4 years old. (I’m about to share an embarrassing story with the worldwide web, I’ll be damned if I’m going to date myself on top of it…the year isn’t important.)

My big sister was a wicked witch that year. Bulbous red wart, big nose, black hat & dress, wig, green face…scary as sh!t. My mom did the make-up. She was always pretty awesome at creating the illusion.

Now you have to keep in mind, this is from the eyes of a four-year-old; and the four-year-old is me, so things may appear a bit skewed & exaggerated. (Shocking, I know.) From what my memory recalls, this is what she looked like…






Ok, so maybe she looked more like this…



But I was still all like…




I was FOUR.


After coming down from the initial shock, I decided I wanted to be a witch too; but I wasn’t into the whole looking scary or ugly for Halloween. I wanted to be a good witch.

Not like Glinda. Gawd help me she annoys the $@%# outta me.


Stop baking it up with the munchkins & you might have a few brain cells left to deduce that one on your own Sherlock.

“Meh meh always been able to go home. (I just wanted you to run your ass all over OZ & do all this extra work & clean up a few things that bug me like my evil sister & that lying POS guy that has the balls to call himself a wizard. Yea he needs to go.)”





And Dorothy, has a dog.



What; she can’t get her good witch hands dirty?! Come on it’s not that difficult. The Wicked Witch can be defeated by water, & not even evil water…a simple turn of the hose or a spring rain will do.

When the Wicked Witch was monologuing to the munchkins & Dorothy, Glinda should’ve been all:






Just saying.

And as far as the wannabe wizard…do I even have to come up with a scenario? He has no magic.


Ok back to my story. Clearly I’m taking my childhood frustrations out on the Land of OZ….Am I no better than the Wicked Witch?!That’s a deeper discussion to be had at a later date….possibly on a green couch.

Anywho, I wanted to be a good witch for Halloween. I said specifically…& I still remember clearly to this day

“Do my makeup like a good witch, I don’t want a green face. I want to be a good witch.” I felt confident in my request as the art of communication I felt I had mastered.

However, my Mom saw this, instead, as an opportunity to exercise her “creative license”.










She took a moment; that’s never good.




Dammit she pulled an adult word on me; I don’t know what primer is….

I feel the smearing of that creamy toothpaste-like Halloween makeup (in those white tubes) all over my face. Those stupid, cheap sponge wedges they come with; are leaving tiny fibers on my cheeks. I can feel them dancing. Taunting.

They’re causing me the tickle itch. You know, that feeling you get when a tiny hair is on your face after applying foundation or lotion, but it’s so tiny you can’t locate it to remove it from your face.

The hair is like a ninja. It’s everywhere & nowhere. You try to pin point it but you can’t.

You opt for being delicate; using the one-fingernail-scratch ever so slightly around the offending area. The least invasive. You still have control at this point.



That power move provided temporary relief; but the tickle itch comes back with a vengeance. Next move; you push in with your finger, the-pressure-scratch; a personal favorite.


Still the tickle itch remains. The urge has not been satisfied. It demands to be dealt with. It’s unnerving. You can’t deny it though you try.

Scaring the cat & putting him to your face comes to mind.





That belt sander in your Dad’s tool shed starts to sound pretty appealing.



No. No you mustn’t. Your makeup will be jacked!

You try to take your mind off of it…

What’s for dinner…how about cake…cake & fries…now I’m making myself hungry…who sings that song…I never noticed how many spots are on my mirror…someone should clean it……if I were a fruit fly….



You’re only saving grace is to say the hell with it, screw this, & release your nails on to your face with extreme prejudice.




Ah but I didn’t get a screw this moment. NO. No attacked was launched. My mom wouldn’t let me itch the tickle itch, I’ll ruin my makeup. FML.

FINALLY I get to look in the mirror…




My four-year-old brain, unable to digest what just happened, dealt with it by using the only coping mechanism always readily available…RAGE!


My Mom tried to reassure me. She said I looked SO PRETTY. But it didn’t work.

My head was screaming: Does she NOT know the stereotypical characteristics for a good witch? Pretty sure green face didn’t make the list.

My face was green. I was an abomination. Trick or treating was upon us. Nothing could be done. I resolved myself to inner anger while administering the silent treatment. (An oldie but a goodie.)

I wish I had the picture to show you that my Mom took of us before we went trick or treating; but I’ll recreate it. Here:



After that I was ready for some treats because I was already tricked!

(I may still be holding onto some unresolved anger.)

Oh, and as you can see from the sketch above…I didn’t have a costumenope…I was just a kid with a green face.














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