Witchy Woman

Growing up, my mother taught me that certain things were not appropriate that others find odd. For example, I was taught never to eat in front of someone who isn't eating, because for all you know they are hungry and don't have the money to eat and are too polite to say so. I was taught that when you spend the night at a friend's house, it looks bad if you are still asleep when everyone else in the house has woken up. I was taught to never, ever take second helpings even if there is plenty of food and seconds have been offered to you, lest someone think you are selfish or a pig. I was taught that since Thanksgiving is a holiday reserved for turkey, Christmas should be celebrated with a large ham.

Now, most of these things I agree with and still adhere to unless around very, very close friends. But there is one thing my mother tried to instill in my head that I still can't wrap around. "Halloween is about horror," Mom would say. "Costumes should be scary."

I tried in vein to be a princess, a ballerina, an Indian, a cheerleader. Halloween, I argued, was about fantasy and being anything you want. But no.

"What about a wearwolf?" I would try.

Mom would scrunch up her nose before saying tentatively, "That's more of a boy's costume. You're a girl."

And how many macabre costumes are there for little girls? Well, little girls whose parents live on fixed incomes in the 1990s? Or even better, how about little girls whose parents had very little imagination and were on fixed incomes in the 1990s? I will sum it up for you very simply.

When I was five, I was a witch. When I was six, seven, and eight, I was a witch. When I was nine, I used the same black costume and bought plastic fangs and was a vampiress. When I was ten, I was a witch. When I was eleven, I was a vampiress again. When I was twelve, I refused to go trick-or-treating, insisting I was too old.

This year, I decided to buy a costume. I found a Little Red Riding Hood costume I adore (especially since it's a pun on my name). There's a miniskirt and a corset involved. I showed the picture to my mom.

"It's awfully... slutty," Mom said.

I patiently explained to her that I was comfortable in my body enough to really wear something a little revealing, and as I was 21, I felt it was fine. She paused, taking that in. Then she looked at me, and in her classic whine stated, "But it's not scary."

No, Mom, it's not.

Maybe its the actor that's deep down inside me, but I still feel Halloween is about fantasy. And this year, I'm living out the fantasy for the little girl inside me who wanted to be Cinderella so bad she couldn't stand it.

The Holy Trinity of Coco, Louis, and Tiffany

"Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination." -Oscar Wilde

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"Oh, my Lord, isn't that beautiful!" I cooed to Corey as we peered into the glass case at Tiffany & Co.

Corey looked at me and murmered a guessed price. Having looked at the same ring weeks prior, I murmered back. "You're close. Give or take a grand." We shared knowing smiles and walked on.

When my Corey come to town, we occasionally trip to Green Hills Mall, which in a town of malls (seriously, Nashville has like twenty malls) is the elite of the elite. Green Hills boasts a Tiffany's, a Louis Vuitton, and a Burberry, just to name a few. In a mall where money and status symbols reign, Corey and I love to just soak it in and pretend we belong there. (Ignoring the fact that two liberal wannabe hipsters probably will never belong in the Blue Blood Society, of course.)

"It's really not bad, considering that's like, what, a 2 carat diamond?" Corey asked. I nodded, Starbucks straw still in my mouth.

"You know, I pointed that ring out to John last time I was here," I commented. "Do you know what he said?"

Corey looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

"He said," I paused for emphasis, "that there was no way a ring should cost the same amount of money as the down payment on a home."

Corey gave me a look. Not meant for me, but for my poor boyfriend. The Look was the same Look the prom queen gives the valet. The Look said it simply: How could he possibly be so simple?

"Wow," Corey said. "He didn't Get It. It's Tiffany's."

"Exactly," I said, glad someone shared my shock, and personal sense of offense that someone could possibly accuse Tiffany's of being over priced. It was simply worth it, wasn't it?

"Well, when you and John are married, and I have a fabulous boyfriend, we will have to go shopping together and leave those nagging wives at home," Corey declared. With a rich Southern drawl, he added, "And when we are rich, we shall buy you two of those rings, dahling; one shall be in platinum and one in yellow gold so that you can tickle your fancy however the day carries you."

I grinned, happily. We walked around further, commenting on this or that, including the $895 pea coat and Burberry that Corey tried on and had to be persuaded to take off, commenting, "That price is very doable." We argued over what was made for a more prestigious and impressive pair of sunglasses, the Burberry or Louis Vuitton logo, who made a better men's wallet: Coach or Chanel, and bemoaned the lack of a Dolce and Gabbanna in town.

Later that night, I came home to my beat up car that I can't drive over 30 miles an hour, the empty refrigerator, and my too-small bed.

Yes, John is the dreamer in our relationship. Yes, most of the time he has to tell me to quit being so practical, when he talks about things to do and see and experience in our lives together and I ask how to arrange it around our jobs and responsibilities. But that day, I realized I'm more of a dreamer than I knew. It's just a different type of dream.