"No, it's not a real mustache." That's what I had to tell the Chicago Tribune when they called to verify my contact details today. "Tell us about your worst costume," it started simple enough in the paper last week. The Trib is hoping to print laughably sad Halloween memories just in time for the weekend holiday. For some reason, perhaps its the journalism student in me, I obliged.
So I dug deep into the confines of repressed Halloweens of yesteryear. Do I share my "Pumpkin gets crushed by a Purple Grape and Tart" story, or "Blonde Cleopatra scares off her date" or "Beer Stein slugging trollop shows colleagues her jugs?" No, all too painful to recollect. Instead, here's what I settled on:
Apparently, my story and horrible pics may make front page of the paper this week. What have I done....
So I dug deep into the confines of repressed Halloweens of yesteryear. Do I share my "Pumpkin gets crushed by a Purple Grape and Tart" story, or "Blonde Cleopatra scares off her date" or "Beer Stein slugging trollop shows colleagues her jugs?" No, all too painful to recollect. Instead, here's what I settled on:
Dear Tribune Editorial Staff,
I thought I looked AWESOME as Frida Kahlo, but a panel of mostly Finance and Legal department Halloween costume contest judges at my office weren't so knowledgeable about art history, and simply thought I was making fun of Latina women with uni-brows. Needless to say, I didn't win the contest, but I did succeed in grossing out many of my colleagues with my new mustache (authenticity is important to me).
Artfully yours,
smc
Apparently, my story and horrible pics may make front page of the paper this week. What have I done....
