I’ve got a yucky confession. I don’t do Halloween. It’s taken years of forgetting, avoiding, and resisting coming up with a costume to realize that I’m a non-celebrator, and it’s certainly not something I’m proud of. I can’t deny it any longer, though.

I can barely dress myself on regular days. To come up with a costume, and a clever one at that, and to do it well is beyond what I can or will do. And because this is the season of parties with prerequisites, it means I stay home. Or maybe it means that I show up to parties where sexy kittens and sexy police officers and sexy Charlie Browns shriek “where’s your costume?!”, but when I know something like that is waiting for me, I mostly just leave ‘er hanging.

I don’t dislike Halloween, not even a bit! I’ve been oohing and aahing and giggling over Facebook all day. Good job, Facebook friends!

I’m just a Halloween spectator. I will cheer for your efforts, and I will never upstage you. Not today, at least.

Laziness aside, I may have my reasons. November starts with the letter M for a growing (ooh, see what I did there?) number of people, and my beloved Scott is one of them. Most Novembers, he participates in Movember while I tap away at Nanowrimo, and if all goes well he ends up with a moustache and a bucketload of donations for the cause, and I wind up with a 50,000 word novel that I vow never to show anyone.

This year, my beloved is stepping into my turf. Luckily, I don’t have the face-follicles to step into his. See, I don’t have time to be scraping off face-paint right now. I can’t spare a minute to comb out a silly wig, or return a rental. I have a novel to write!

I hate winter, but I secretly love November.


Winter is a jerk.

It’s barely even begun, and I’m ready to hibernate. Bears, you’ve got it good.

But I can’t complain either, even though I really, really want to.

I’m not one of those afflicted Vancouverites who suffers through the rain. I haven’t had to purchase a magical lightbox to get me through this part of the year. I like umbrellas, and I like using them, especially the plastic bubble umbrellas that fancy ladies (and I) prefer. When I can see the rain without having to physically endure the rain, it makes me feel like I’ve won. There’s no happier me than a me in a cozy little greenhouse in the midst of a downpour. Victory!

The rain is awesome, and the colder it gets, the fewer slimy buddies there are to avoid on the sidewalk. Oh, I look out for the snails. And the slugs, too, even though they don’t wear crunchy hats and are 97% less adorable. Nothing reaches out and slaps the smile off my Sunday like the inside-parts of one of those little dudes painted across a sidewalk square. Yuck and despair.

I won’t even begin to think about my feelings and how they’re incompatible with winter fashion. Mittens, I’m looking at you. Layers? BORING. If I’m covered in endless layers and I’m not in bed, someone lied to me. And to an extent, I’m lying to myself. I hate being cold. I hate water falling on my head. But I choose to live in Vancouver, and to live in a rainy city is to live under an endless blanket of droplets. So, fine then. I will zip up my ridiculous puffy white marshmallow coat, and I’ll open up my bubble umbrella, and I’ll force a grin until the sun comes out again.