
Ah, Halloween. The holiday where no one bats an eye when a man dresses up like a lady, and when ladies dress up like … well, prostitutes. I didn’t celebrate Halloween this year as I did in my slightly younger days (yes, believe it or not, I too skanked it out during some previous years as a hula girl, harem dancer, and x-rated cheerleader; go figure). No, this year I spent the time taking my three-year-old to various Halloween parties, in which the most risque thing I wore happened to be a cami underneath a grey, cable-knit grandpa sweater. Yup. Living dangerously these days. And if you count the low heels I wore to one of the events, boy, have I got those bases covered.
From head to toe. Completely.
Anyway, throughout my weekend of making baked treats for the neighborhood kids, ushering my Dora the Warrior Explorer (yes, we even put a ‘We Can Do It!’ spin on our Halloween costumes in this house) from powdered donut-covered party to powdered donut-covered party, I contemplated many of the women that I had spoken to in the …
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