Halloween in a Foreign Country

This post is the child of my sudden realization that I will be missing Halloween, the most revered of all holidays that are not Christmas and Thanksgiving, in the United States. You know, I wouldn't be as upset about missing Halloween had I been able to make the biggest zombie walk in all of Europe that was held in the city where I currently reside. My father happened to be visiting that weekend and I didn't think it too kind to tell him I'd rather be with the rest of the freaks in this town walking like a god damn zombie for a mile. But honestly... missing the biggest zombie walk in Europe? Cut me a break, baby Jesus.

Reasons Halloween in the United States is superior:

1. It's expected of me to have at least two to three costumes because Halloween is not one night. It's like a three day thing. Let us celebrate multiple personality disorder and cos-play.

I'm talkin' blood-lusting zombie to smooth-as-velvet greaser to fucking Jack Sparrow. I once was Edward Scissor Hands and wore a leather coat. my mother's leather coat. backwards. get at me.

My chameleon status.

Note how zombie me fails to have feet.. clearly, I ate them myself. Also, I refuse to draw hands. That's why zombie me's left arm looks like a skinny penis and Jack.. has uncircumcised penis arms. I'm actually just noticed Jack's arms. I'm appalled. Greaser me is fly as fuck, however. Can we talk about those purple shades? I may or may not have those in real life and I may or may not wear them regularly.

2. In the United States, it's only mildly frowned upon to go from house to house past, like, 9th grade in high school. I continued to go until, well, now. I was never shunned or spat upon but I feel like here in France (where apparently it's considered inappropriate to smile at people on the street) I would be seriously judged. In french. I also don't know how to say "trick or treat" outside of my mother tongue and I feel like stumbling my way through the closest thing to it: "give me all of your candy," would seem like a threat.

Here is Audecdote and I. Clearly, she is Bellatrix Lestrange and I am supposed to be an asylum escapee, however, I look more like Ozzy Osbourne post bat-devouring. We were in our senior year, I believe.

3. In America, we have a wonderful love of scaring the shit out of ourselves! Hence all of the seasonal, murderous hayrides, haunted houses, disturbing porch displays with motion-activated screaming mummies, the Halloween movies on constant repeat on television, our use of black cats as a scapegoat for our shitty luck, and the obesity in a cup that is Pumpkin Spice Lattes from Starbucks (oh, how I long to suckle at your teat). Contrastingly, in France.. I have yet to see a pumpkin, much less a god damn gourd with those horrific warts!

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Sweet fuckery, that gourd's mother HATED him! Can I ask how that is even evolutionarily advantageous?? Yes, let me look like exposed body fat, terminal acne and a Hagrid's scrotum all at once, that'll keep me on top. However.. I miss them.

The only reason Halloween might be better in Europe is for the ladies. In the States, Halloween is your one chance to dress like a complete slut and be only semi-judged for it. In Europe, apparently they dress like sluts on the reg:

That's "slutwalk" if you didn't catch it.

 I'm going to miss being in the limousine of death, driven by a middle-aged man with red eyes and a mullet and his female (?) cohort. Then there was being dragged out of said limo by chainsaw-wielding clowns. sigh.. it's just not the same.

That Time I Got Trapped In The Women's Bathroom

I'll preface this with: I am a male. This is important to the story, as indicated by the title of this post.

So, I'm just strolling through JCPenny's, which is nobody's ideal shopping paradise, when I realize that I should probably find a bathroom before I make this place even more of a nightmare by projectile shatting all over a mannequin. I look up and see a sign that has this picture on it, more or less:

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Ah. A woman, a man, a child, and Professor X - everyone can use this bathroom, even mutants.

I follow the ceiling signs and finally find the bathroom. Now, mind you, I have been doing this brisk walk for fear of an early bomb toss, so I really just plow right into the bathroom without a care and head for a stall.

I sit down in peace and let the good times roll. Everything is peachy. Someone enters the stall next to mine, she has some nicely painted toenails and is most definitely Asian by the look of those toes. To the left of me another person enters the stall. She also has some lovely painted toenails and is most definitely a chubbier, white mom with short spiky blond hair - I can just tell. (If you have never tried guessing at someone's appearance simply based on their feet, give it a go; you may surprise yourself.)

Wow, a lot of women and only women have been coming in and out of this family/mutant friendly bathroom. I start to get nervous and shift around a bit, noticing how ugly my boat shoes must look to all of the pretty, painted toenails around me. I even drop my shorts lower to cover up my hairy legs. All of the sudden, paranoia sets in. I break into a gentle sweat and realize that I should not be here.

I imagine the look of pure disgust and shame that spiky-haired mother would give me as she wraps a protective arm around her young daughter while I exit the incriminating stall. What a sick mother fucker, is all she would think while she shook her head in slow motion. The daughter would be crying, of course, with nothing but pure fear in her eyes as she looked at me. At this point, I'm convinced I'm a terrible person.

Some girl has this horribly loud walkie-talkie and it sounds like she is getting paged by the store. Naturally, I assume she has been sent to find me for violating women's rights or something. But she, too, sits in a stall. Then, who I assume to be her grandmother, also sits in a stall and takes an obscene amount of toilet paper, wipes once and leaves. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE.

Finally, I have waited for about 15 minutes... the coast has just cleared after walkie-talkie granddaughter taught grandmother how to dry her hands with an air dryer. I whip my shorts up, don't take the time to flush and book it out of there, only to be greeted by my friend, whom I was with, and some sales employee he had enlisted in the search for me. Apparently, I had been paged throughout the entire JCPenny's, while I was trapped in a women's bathroom, surrounded by glossy toenails.

To end, I glanced at the bathroom door. It said WOMEN'S BATHROOM. So clearly, JCPenny's needs some ceiling signs that match what's on the actual door for God's sake.