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Fire burn, cauldron bubble, etc, etc.

I have two confessions to make.

One. This post contains spoilers circa 1993.

Two. I am terrible with horror movies. This isn’t normal level oh God I’m so freaked out and I might jump a little while watching scared. This is I didn’t sleep for two days after I saw The Ring and was positive that bitch was hanging out outside my window waiting for me to let my guard down scared.

Even previews for horror movies freak me out. I’ve forced myself to watch movies after seeing the preview because I needed to know that these fictional characters that I’ve encountered for 1 minute and 12 seconds survived.


The best part about all of this intense fear of a genre is why I have said intense fear of a genre. And to understand that, we must travel back in time – to a simpler time, when Sarah Jessica Parker hadn’t had sex in a city yet, when Bette Middler was the wind beneath my wings, and when I had a crush on one Omri Katz.

Now, to put this into perspective, I was six when I first saw this movie. Actually, I was six when I saw most of this movie. And let’s be honest: Winifred Sanderson is pretty effing scary when you’re six years old. For whatever reason, I was watching Hocus Pocus, for the first time, by myself, at age six. My parents weren’t home. My older sister was not watching with me. And I don’t know if you know the premise of Hocus Pocus, but these crazy fucking witches come back from the dead and suck the life out of little children – which is exactly what I was at age six.

Suck. The Life. Out of Children.

So, I’m watching this terrible movie where these witches are coming after these kids to suck their life out, and completely missing great moments like the bus driver because I was too young to understand…

Photo courtesy of Buzzfeed

…and I am bat shit terrified. Like watching the movie with one eye terrified, because apparently that made it less scary, to only allow fifty percent of my vision to see the movie.

Well, I’m struggle-bussing my way through this movie, just about positive that the witches were going to lose, because it was a Disney movie, and everyone knew that Disney movies have to have a happy ending except for Bambi’s Mom because what a terrible movie.

Photo from Buzzfeed.

And then this amazing moment happened where the kids forced the witches into a giant oven and fried them to death. Take that, Bette Middler. Everything is fine! The kids are dancing in the yard because they win, and the world is safe from life sucking creatures and –

YEAH. Omri just cooked the witches and they did not die.

Well, being the brave six year old that I was, that was about as much as I could handle. The witches did not die after being cooked, and therefore were not going to die, which meant that the good guys lost, and the bad guys won, and I was sleeping in my sister’s bed that night.

Except my sister wouldn’t let me in her bed. I huddled in my parents bed until they came home, absolutely terrified that the Sanderson sisters were going to come after me since I had watched half of Hocus Pocus. When my dad moved me back to my bed, I was sure that the shadows behind my Little Tykes kitchen were Winifred, waiting for me to fall asleep. I was the next Emily Binx, and was bound to be until 1999.

Six years later, when my family upgraded to cable from bunny ears antennas, I finally saw the end of Hocus Pocus when it aired on the Disney Channel.

Hot damn, I realized. The witches lose after all.

And that, my friends, is why Laura doesn’t do horror.


the quintessential halloween post.

When I was in the seventh grade, my classmate Katie hosted a Halloween party. It was for the entire class (boy/girl/gasp), and I had the genius idea to go as a punk rocker. Mind you, I was a 12 year old Catholic School girl. This meant that my idea of a punk rocker was a crushed velvet orange dress, orange colored hair spray, and the highest heels I owned (which meant I borrowed my sister’s three inch silver shoes, similar to what Judy Jetson probably rocked on a good day).  I even tried to mohawk my hair with the colored hair spray, but it’s fine Asian quality wouldn’t have it, and I ended up looking like I had stuck a fork into an electrical outlet and then set off an exploding ink pack.

Halloween 1999

Halloween 1999 probably looked something like this.

Then I showed up to the party, in all my orange glory. Half the girls were dressed like Britney Spears’, ala the Hit me Baby, one more time era. The other half was dressed up like poodle skirt girls. It was like the prepubescent female version of West Side Story. And I was dressed like an angry orange punk rocker fox.

I’ve never cared much for Halloween after that.

11 months out of the year, I’ll be excited-ish for Halloween.

I can be a butterfly.

I can be Daria.

I can be a parallelogram.

I can be a sexy parallelogram.


I’ve even passed the great divide of I’m going to be a lush in short-shorts for Halloween because that’s what girls do into the I’m going to be as unique and original as I possibly can be for Halloween because Halloween is a giant Pinterest campaign.

But then October comes around, and then the day off comes around, and I’ve got all these ideas that I’ve never actually gotten around to executing because I’m so dead set that Halloween will probably not be that great anyway. THIS YEAR, GUYS. THIS YEAR, I’M GOING TO GO AS A CATCH-22.

Instagrammed to Perfection. Hello, Sailor! Thanks to @hey_itsjenna for suiting me up.

Halloween Last Year, my thighs and I went as a sailor, courtesy of the House of Poof.

Case in point – last year, I borrowed a costume from Poof because I just could not decide on anything. I headed to Bottom40 with Alto, and while I, as always, had a wonderful Bottom40-y time with her, there were some random females that for whatever reason (Probably because I officially was wearing no pants) did not care for me, and essentially knocked every drink I had out of my hands. A few went onto Alto. Most went on to me. 

Happy Halloween, bitches.

So, here we are. It’s Halloween. 

This year…I’m going to be a Pikachu.

Or maybe a little pony.

Or possibly Mulan.

The Little Mermaid.

Texts with GoldDust about I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO BE EVER.

Texts with GoldDust about I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO BE EVER.

I’m being a Pika-LittlePony-Snowflake. So far.

I’ll keep you posted. Happy Halloween, kids.

Oh, yeah. This happened once.

Oh, yeah. This happened once.

Excuses are like assholes, and why this post is just made up of conversations.

I was going to blog last week on Wednesday. I even started a post about how much I really hate Halloween because most girls dress up like whores, and whores are supposed to have long legs, not ginormous bike thighs.

I have ginormous bike thighs.

Conversation from last summer:

Dad: I’m so excited to go on this bike trip.

Me: I’m so excited to not be able to wear pants for two weeks.

Dad: You aren’t going to wear pants while biking?

Me: That’s creepy, Dad. I will be wearing spandex. But after biking, my thighs will be huge. I will not be able to wear my $200 dollar jeans for weeks and I will be depressed and thus eat, defeating all the calories I will burn during the bike trip.

Dad: Well, it’s obvious what the problem is.


Dad: No. You spent $200 dollars on jeans.

You know what’s hard to do when you’re depressed about your thighs? Blog. So I didn’t blog on Wednesday. But Friday, I ended up going out with my bike thighs and we all had a good time. Conversation from Friday night:

Me: I’m gonna dance all night!

Bike Thighs: You put us in heels, so fuck that!

Me: Here’s some alcohol!


Saturday, I woke up hangover free and feeling better about myself. The bike thighs and I got lots of compliments on being a sailor.

Instagrammed to Perfection. Hello, Sailor! Thanks to @hey_itsjenna for suiting me up.

Let’s be honest, compliments make everyone feel better. So, my raised self esteem and I were all set to blog, when I sat down with my father because the world series was on, and the Tigers really, really, really needed a win. Conversation during the game.

Dad: They’re not going to win.

Me: Optimism, father.

Dad: Realism, daughter.

Me: So why are you watching?

Dad: Because it’s on. This is a fly ball.

Me: Home Run.

Dad: I can’t believe that was a home run. Cabrera didn’t believe it was a home run.

Me: Faith, father.

Dad: Realism, daughter.

I had to put the game on pause at this point, because Boo needed a bath, and I figured, the Tigers were up, this was a good time to do that and put him to bed. I could blog with all my optimism afterwards. Plus, Boo was thrusting and cheering which is just freaking funny. Conversation with Boo:

Boo: Who got a home run?

Me: Miggy!

Boo: Mouse?! ALRIGHT!!

Created with Gifboom

Me: Not Mickey Mouse…Miguel Cabrera.

Boo: Oh.



So, Boo finished his bath, and I put him to bed, and I was going to blog, really. But then I started watching the game again, and it went into extra innings, and I was all stressed out and then we lost.

Dad: I told you.

Me: Go to bed, Dad.


Dad: At least the Lions won today.

Me: I’m still upset.

Dad: Well, blame the Giants.

And that’s why you don’t really have a new post this week.

Bike, bike, fashion, baby.

If you follow me on twitter…

if you don’t, WHY THE FECK NOT?!

…you may have noticed me and one @Beausaphine of the awesome waxing all sorts of philosophical about those damn Newsies.

Newsies is a great Disney movie that once starred Batman, AKA Christian Bale, who is probably really pissed now that he’d didn’t decide to be in the musical version. Newsies basically dance and sing and deliver papers in one giant package of awesome. Also, they’re in knickers the entire time. It’s pretty much team awesome.

Newsies, Knickers, and a whole lotta splits.

One Halloween, I actually dressed up as a Newsie, which basically meant I was a [sexy/skanky] Newsie, since that’s how Halloween works.

CoSi: What are you supposed to be?

L.A.: I’m a Newsie!

CoSi: Aren’t you supposed to be in knickers then?

L.A.: Yeah, but I’m a girl, so I’m a [sexy/skanky] Newsie.

Now is the time to seize the day, etc.

It was kind of disappointing then, that I wasn’t rocking the knickers. I was letting down all the Newsies. I proceeded to hope that knickers would make some kind of comeback, besides on a stage in NYC.

Then, this went down.

Kid in office: Hi, I’m [Kid in office] here for an appointment.

Long silence.

L.A.: …did you bike here?

Kid in office: …how’d you know?

L.A.: my dad does the same thing when he bikes.

Way to go, Dad.

Knickers. They’re baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.