So here I am at my old post by the door, waiting to give out candy. I really hate Halloween. Seriously. Growing up it was stressful–“What will I be? What will I be?” in the days before the online Halloween costume stores was angst-inducing. My mom would end up throwing a sheet over me and calling it a day. And now? I find costumes annoying. I eat too many miniature Heath bars. My kids–like all kids–go door-to-door begging for candy that they’re not even going to be allowed to eat. (At least at our house, the Switch Witch still comes, so the kids get something for their chocolate-y bounty). It’s a freakin’ dumb holiday.
As Adam is forced to do the dirty work of following the kids around, I get to sit and relax and think about what I’m going to write about starting tomorrow, as my friend Brian has convinced me to Nano again, and I haven’t a single idea. Oh, what, I should finish my old novel? Yeah, that would be a good idea. But instead I’ll start something new (okay, the old novel is 98% finished and I need to get out my query letters, but let’s not go there now). Got an idea? Send it to me!
But now–oh wait, there’s the doorbell!. Okay, I’m back. Now, I’d like to discuss Rocky Horror with all of you. Glee this week was all Rocky Horror, as all you Glee-heads know. My husband–and this will come as no surprise to you–hates Glee. I mean with a passion. But for me, well I–and this will come as no surprise to you–love Glee. Love. Love, love, love. I aspire to be Sue Sylvester. Glee rocks on so many levels.
This week’s episode proved that once “Toucha Toucha Touch Me” is in your head, no amount of time will erase it. It just comes back. (You might find this shocking, as well, but Adam also doesn’t like Rocky Horror.) But what is really upsetting is when I realized it’s been thirty–yes, thirty!–years since I first saw the movie. It was a lovely fall night, much like tonight, that I went to see it, a young twelve-year-old “virgin” waiting to be introduced into the ways of Brad and Janet. We had a sleepover at Liz Newcomb’s house, and the whole troop of us went. To the midnight show. We walked there. The group of us. The group of twelve year olds. At midnight. Is anyone else getting this? All our parents sanctioned us walking to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror. Ah, 1980. Free wheelin’ fun.
The movie was amazing. Every little thing impressed me, from the flying toast to the dressed up folks lip-synching every word. Did I know what a transvestite was? I don’t think I did. Did I have any idea what Janet was singing about? Not a clue. But it was fabulous.
The thing is, Liz Newcomb, who was a year older than me, was a thirteen year old who looked about eighteen. And her boyfriend was about eighteen. His name was Rat. I kid you not. And Rat’s job was he was the manager of an arcade. Truly, truly. So after the movie, we all headed over to the arcade. Where Rat opened every single machine and flipped some little buttons so we had free games all night. Make that morning. Someone ran to the store and bought a huge box of donuts. And we ate. And played games. All freakin’ night. We were the coolest kids on the planet. This night was a defining night of cool for me.
Until we got back to Liz’s house. At 5 a.m. And all of our parents were there. Because apparently, while we were sanctioned to see the midnight show of Rocky Horror, we apparently were not sanctioned to disappear for three hours to God know’s where in the wee hours of the morning. (Note to any of my young cousins who might be reading this: We had no cell phones. I know! How did we function!) Parents were called, as were, I think, the police. Because apparently five 12 and 13 year old girls not coming home at 2:30 a.m. is cause for worry.
My parents weren’t pleased. I think I was grounded. But to their credit, they were curious enough about the whole thing that they came with me to a midnight show of Rocky Horror a few weeks later. And they came again, once or twice.
I’m over Rocky Horror, although the music still gets my hips a shakin’. And I’m not letting my kids out unsupervised in the middle of the night when they’re twelve.
But you know what? I can still kick your ass in Centipede. Thanks for that, Rat. Happy freakin’ Halloween.
