As I have written time and time again, I oft enjoy indulging in self-pity where the proverbial costuming monkey on my back is concerned. True, it's fun to be the Zooey Deschanel "New Girl" of most gatherings, minus the frequent outbursts of song. Hallowe'en, however, is its own beast. I don't mind being the overdressed dork in the Greta Garbo hat at Trader Joe's; I do mind being alone in my cosplay efforts on Hallowe'en night. It's a milder rerun of the high school horror wherein I'm the only one dressed up, except it's worse when six full-grown adults gaze upon you as though they've shared a tub of yoghurt well past its expiration date.
Last year, my Viking declared it unfair for me to be deprived of such fantastic needs and whisked me away to a land where not only will I never be the only one dressed, I just may be the most under-dressed. I knew I was in the right place when three other Bacchants argued over whether or not the spell I was invoking, as my character Bellatrix Lestrange of Harry Potter notoriety, was being pronounced accurately. Fear not, it was resolved: Crucio! the Cruciatus Curse which brings extreme pain and torture. Duh.
For one such as myself, I'm thrilled if someone just knows who I am supposed to be, vaguely. 
Watching Invader Zim, a tavern wench and a Steampunk vixen debate not the spell itself but the final syllable thereof ... well, it's rare I feel so at home whilst wielding a wand and bodice dirk. I only wish I could use my wand, and dirk for that matter, daily. The wand has an illuminated tip which lights on and off as one swishes it through the air, importuning spells, of course. The dirk is just v cool.
Where is this land o' plenty o' dorks, you wonder? Northern California, of course. Wine country, in fact, and home to the only other costuming freaks I know: my brother-in-law, a.k.a. Captain Maurice Bloodstone or, for last Hallowe'en, Ellis Harwood, Victorian undertaker; and my sister-in-law, a.k.a. , Dr. Lucy Devereaux, cohort of Hannah Hart, ghostdame of the Hotel del Coronado.
These are Faire people, as in Renaissance Faire players. Whilst it has been some years since I've attended Faire, like a Montessori education or LSD (so I've read), once you get a little it sticks with you, embeds in your fat cells and you are forever "Faire people". Napa Hallowe'en 2K11, I was surrounded by my own kind and like a guest panda in an established habitat, they shared their bamboo and sake with me and we lolled and rolled around happily until the wee hours of the morning until the zookeepers sent me back to my home base.
As I gleefully snapped shots all night, especially of the two Viking brothers, I kept saying, "Boy, did your mother do a number on you two!", anxious to send her said-photos as we like 
to give her a hearty laugh, entreat a quizzical glance and a head scratch as often as possible.
Now, in excited anticipation of 2013 Hallowe'en activities, I begin the annual, autumnal obsession of What to Wear? I need two costumes this year: one for a family trip to Salem, MA and a stay at the famed Hawthorne Hotel; one for another Wine Country bash. Bellatrix might work nicely for Salem: pretty apropos and family-friendly. Yet, for Napa? IDK. I'm toying with Eva, the Indian-captive prostitute-turned-prairie wife from AMC's "Hell on Wheels". After all, I do have my very own Mr. Swede. I'm open to suggestions, too.
As I go through last year's Gallery of Magick Reflections, I think to myself, "Magnolia, boy did your mother do numbers on you!".
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