Spooky Boo

I can’t remember how “spooky boo” entered our family lexicon, but I’m guessing it was through one of my grandmother Hazel’s seasonally themed answering machine messages. “Boo” alone is spooky enough, I think, unless one is using it in the sense of boyfriend/honeypot. As Halloween approaches, I should question whether or not I have limited myself to only one kind of Boo, when so many are possible. Glitter Boo. Spotted Boo. Nonstick Boo. Free Boo.

I caught a glimpse of these scary dudes
in Spookane's Garland district.

A couple of hours ago, my friend Jessie emailed me a picture of her new short short haircut that “just happened” as a response to some heavy feelings. She’s an upside down Samson, flexing her biceps and a liberating ‘do.

Shorn Boo.

I told my brother that sometimes I eat some of Dickens’ tuna from the can and it feels like we’re sharing a meal. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said.

Kitty Boo.

My brother also suggested I get a Neti pot for my sinus stoppage-uppage. We discussed how odd it was that there’s nary a neti among my hippie accoutrements. “I’m surprised you don’t have one with a sun on one side and a moon on the other,” he said.  “I think I should look for one shaped like a uterus, with fallopian-tube handles,” I replied.

Womb Boo.

Driving down Ash Street tonight, I saw a pink and white bra strapped across the wide parts, the hips if you will, of a crosswalk road sign. I thought of an exercise my writing students handed in a few weeks ago, in which they kept lists of specific things that pleased them and angered them (without explaining why). Crosswalk bra would go in "pleased" or (write-in candidate) WTF.

Secret Boo.

*Spoiler Alert* I bought my dad a(n unused, sealed in the package) mullet wig at Value Village last weekend, thinking he might add it to his Halloween headgear rotation. Dad, are you reading this? Did you get past "uterus"? Sorry.

Achy Breaky Boo.

I feel behind on my work (and my wee blog!), but Sara gave me free tickets to hear NPR superstar Howard Berkes at the Bing Crosby theater tomorrow night. I have season tickets (ahem, what’s that sound? Oh, that’s me walking through the door labeled “bourgeois fabulous”) to off-broadway South Pacific on Thursday night, and then I’m supposed to meet with a group of smart and kind professors on Friday to talk about some Martin Luther.

Busy Boo.