I think we’ve got Halloween down by now. Not a lot of stress this year. I go out shopping for decorations with Benjamin (who maintains an attraction-repulsion to Halloween stores but will venture in as long as there isn’t anything electronic lunging out at him). Benj and I decorate the outside, and he gets all Creative Director on me, figuring out where the headless skeleton goes and how to drape the cobwebs and what if the giant wasp was eating the vulture! So proud. We make the Jello brain mold and Benj spatters it with raspberry blood. We don’t carve the pumpkins too soon (a few days before, tops) because any earlier in the hot Los Angeles sun and by Halloween they resemble all those Nazis in the climax of “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Doug was able to avoid the pumpkin carnage this year because he already had one ready to go. Benj had decorated a pumpkin for school to look like a hero of his choosing–and he picked Doug.
the Pumpkin Head,
and which is
the school project?
I don’t mind carving, actually. It’s one of the things, like lugging home the Christmas tree or tending the herb garden, that I like doing rather than having done. There aren’t many of those instances in our household; when anything breaks down that’s harder than changing a light bulb, Benj is apt to say, “We better call the man.” He know us too well. We’re not exactly handy.
Doug or Alexander Skarsgard? You decide.
“Of COURSE you can have a cut there!” Does he know who he’s talking to? We’re THEATRE FOLK!
“Okay, Ben, look here, we use pencil first to figure out where… okay, here’s some red for the wound… let’s get some of this yellow, just a touch, and then overlay some purple… hold still while I blend it in… doesn’t that look nice and bruised?… some more red, yes, sure you can have blood leaking… some powder to set it—how’s that?
And there you have it. We may not be able to show you how to build a bird house, Benj, or how to shoot a layup, or tell you what the difference is between the National and the American League, but if you wanna look like a 75-year-old man or a burn victim, WE’RE THERE.
Happy Halloween, all my little ghosties out there in the dark.