Midnight at the Garden of Eden

Halloween weekend. Good god. Can a girl get some recovery sleep? All the sinning culminated at the Garden of Eden party in Hollywood last Saturday night were two boys who looked all of 15 and dressed as the Gotti brothers in their matching white bandanas, over-sized cubic zirconia crosses and tight black t-shirts harassed my friends on the dancefloor. Can a girl get some personal space? When the clock struck midnight this Cinderella Blackheart did indeed turn into a grimy handmaid, and by 2am my pumpkin cab was ready to roll me and my mice friends away. Did I leave a glass slipper? No, indeed. But I did leave behind a great deal of hard earned cash, a tube of cheap lipstick, my sobriety and a bit of self respect.

When I was young, Halloween was my favorite holiday. My stepbrother, who was a dj and amateur carpenter at the time, used to transform our humble home into a den of horror. My friends and I would take turns leading kids through our haunted house and jumping out at unsuspecting victims through smoke machine clouds. His dj lights would spin rhythmically, hypnotizing me as I allowed myself to freefall into a sugar induced coma. We even got in the newspaper once, our home becoming a dot on the historical print landscape. Those were the good old days. Gone are the days of guarding my Reeses cups from my mother. (One time I sniffed the mix of chocolate and peanut butter goodness on her breath and found wrappers in her bed, stuffed under her sheets. Busted.) Gone are the days of someone else sewing a Snow White or bee costume for you. And gone are the days of begging my dad to let me watch just one more horror film with my stepbrother, then regretting it as I ran from killer clowns in my nightmares.

Next year I'm going old school. I'm watching horror films in my bed with a giant pumpkin bucket on my lap full of candy. I may even mail my mom a Reeses cup for old times sake... or maybe just the wrapper. Ah, who am I kidding? I'll probably end up half-naked taking shots of Pitron at some totally pretentious LA party and loving every damn minute of it. That is, at least until I wake up in the morning with a hangover and somebody named Zorro's number on a cocktail napkin in my clutch. Can a girl get some aspirin?