I Hate Halloween

I hate Halloween. There. I said it.

It has nothing to do with the evil of Satan or any other religious issues. Nope. Plain and simple: I'm far too rooted in reality to make-believe that I'm someone else.

Especially a sexy cat.

My childhood? There's no answers there. I grew up in the 70's, where the pretend industry hadn't quite taken off. Our prep involved going to Woolworth, checking out the assortment of plastic masks, packaged inside cellophaned boxes, and hope the slits doubling for eye and mouth holes, didn't cut our lips. Too much.

As an adult, things didn't fare much better. My costume ideas? Way too cerebral for my un-Martha Stewart like abilities. Like the time my cousin and I went as the pope and Sinead O'Connor, after the music star's 1990's Saturday Night Live appearance.

Before the party, I spent a whole lot of time searching for the perfect flesh-colored, latex, bald-headed, skull cap. I found it. But I failed to take into account the hair-matting gallons of sweat that would be streaming from my overheating body for the rest of the evening. Or the make-up that I should have invested in to blend everything together.

Not quite a smokin' nurse.

Another time, I needed a costume fast. (Or more realistically, someone needed a designated driver.) The only thing at my disposal? My dad's mechanic uniform, featuring size 38 pants and an XL shirt. I wear a 10. My, soon-to-be-drunk, friend helped accessorize me with a red Budweiser cap, worn backwards of course, and a bandana rag.

A temptress vampire I was not.

Actually, maybe it's not Halloween itself that truly irritates me, but this whole cultural movement by way too many females, who use the holiday as an excuse to try to bring sexy back. Especially when I'm the one dressed in greasy work boots.

I guess the bottom line is that we all use Halloween to be something that we're not.

So you do your sexy thing for one night only.

And I'll sport a mustache to hand out candy.

Forty is NOT the new twenty--Part I

Now hear this. Forty is NOT the new twenty.

It was my birthday sign, created by my husband (and resident artist) André that caught the woman's attention in the Today Show plaza.

"Well," she said, giving me a slightly sympathetic look, "Forty is the new twenty."

Um, do I look sad? A bit tired maybe, but I had been up since 2am.

I'm sure that she was trying to be kind, but I sort of felt bad for her. I mean, she was way past forty herself, and instead of saying, 'Amen girlfriend. It only gets better from here', she went the backhanded compliment route--along the same lines of telling the bride that rain on her wedding day means good luck.

The facts: I turned twenty on September 2, 1991.

That was literally half a lifetime ago. And I don't want to go back.

At twenty, I was a junior at the University of Rhode Island, living with my cousin Lynne in a beach cottage literally a block from the ocean and partying on weekends with my friend, the dollar Rolling Rock.

And life was hard. Seriously.

When I was twenty, I was trying to figure out who I was, what I stood for and who I wanted to be in this world, all while listening to, or opting not to, those voices of judgment that always think you're going about things all wrong. I was working to feel completely comfortable in my own skin. To recognize that I do know best, even though sometimes it's a lonely place to stand.

The truth is, if I were twenty, I wouldn't have even been here, in New York City, literally feet (and sometimes inches) away from rocker Lenny Kravitz, getting a birthday hug from Ann Curry, talking to Matt Lauer about Wes' Rib House or being interviewed on air by Al Roker, with these beautiful birthday signs, in the first place.

When I was twenty, I didn't talk to strangers. What good ever comes of that? You know who you know. Who else do you need to know?

When I was twenty, I would have never, ever butted into a conversation about H&M inside a bar overlooking Times Square, while André went to refill our drinks. (In fact, when I was twenty, I probably wouldn't have even been sitting alone in the first place.) When I was twenty, I would have never chatted up my New Orleans girl, fellow Virgo and kindred music spirit Kristine, who graciously invited André and I to come along on this most fabulous birthday adventure ever, after assessing our character over a couple of cosmos the year before.

Indeed. Forty is not the new twenty.

And please, please, please, don't tell me otherwise.

Hey Jill Scott. I forgive you.

Hey Jill Scott.

I forgive you.

Last week, you returned to the scene of the crime at the Bank of America Pavilion in Boston, for the first time since 2001. I think, anyway. I haven't really been keeping track of your travels lately. And honestly, things could have turned out so differently for us. I am a fiercely loyal fan.

More than a decade ago, I was wondering, along with the rest of the world Who Is Jill Scott, with your debut cd burning up my stereo. Audio perfection. R&B mixed with a bit of jazz and spoken word. This lady could sang! I was in love. If only we could have left it right there.

But there was a problem, your mind at least, because I'm also in love with a black man. http://www.essence.com/2010/03/26/commentary-jill-scott-talks-interracial.

Truthfully, I wish you'd been a bit more forthcoming with your message ten years earlier, so André and I had an inkling of what we were getting into. Instead, we were blindsided on that warm August night, as you riled the audience against the evils of our coupling and our romantic night out declined into a squirmfest in our seats. Unnecessarily uncomfortable? You bet, especially when the women behind us began saying over and over again, 'Mmmm-hmmm. Yeah, you know who you are.'

Wow. So much for my viewing of music as a positive unifying force.  

And the truth is, you know nothing about André and I. That we've been together for nearly twenty years and have an amazing partnership, filled with incredible love, respect, humor and growth. By the way, how you rackin' up in that department?

I actually wrote you a letter after the incident. Sent it to your record company. You didn't reply, but I don't think I was really expecting an answer. It was just therapy for me, like putting words on paper has always been. Sold your cd. Vowed to never go to another one of your shows. Ever.

But that anger? It remained.

Then the universe stepped in with one of those annoying life lessons. I  scored fifth row tickets at Madison Square Garden to see my musical love, Maxwell. The opening act? Mmmm-hmmm. Ms. Jilly from Philly. I considered going in after your set. But in the end, I decided that it was some sort of cosmic test. One that I would pass with grace--and a glass of wine or two.

So, I sat in the 5th row and grooved to your music. And at the end, I stood, with my strong, intelligent, handsome, compassionate, open-minded and, yes, black husband, André, and we applauded, not for your beliefs, but for your musical talent, 'cause I'll never deny you got that.

You could not have missed seeing me. Only this time, I didn't care what you saw. I feel really good about my life, my relationship, my convictions and where I am in this world. So, I forgive you, Jill Scott. And you didn't even know you did anything wrong.