BY REV. JEN MILLER | A lot of people think that, because I wear costumes and elf ears, I must love Halloween. Truth be told, I hate it. My father ruined the holiday for the whole family when he died the night before Halloween six years ago. In fact, I hate October entirely, given almost everyone I’ve ever loved who passed away did so IN OCTOBER. My sister and I are both terrified of turning the calendar page come October 1st. I suggested we make little advent calendars counting down to November with a Xanax or a nip of vodka in each window.
Amazingly, October now has a new rival for worst month ever: July, which has always been my favorite month. First, my birthday is July 24th, which according to “The Book of Birthdays” is “The Day of Exciting Instability.” Apt, when you consider the fact that Zelda Fitzgerald, J-Lo, Amelia Earhart and Ruth Buzzi were all born on July 24th. Like all good Leos, I like sun, surf, hair products, attention and excitement. But sometimes there’s too much excitement, too much instability — and it breaks you even if you’re a fierce lioness.
There are only two “C” words I hate: the first is continuity, the second, cancer. Hearing the second produces a lump in your throat and a heartache that lasts for months. On July 12, while visiting his sister in Boston, my fiancé, Joe (who you might remember from previous columns as the light of my life and the fire of my loins) suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, and it was discovered he had a brain tumor, which I am told resembled a large flan. Luckily, Mass General (rated the #1 hospital in the nation) is in Boston, and as they continue to radiate him, I know he’s in great hands. Plus, even though he no longer has long, blond Viking locks, he’s got Viking blood, which goes a long way.
Obviously, the secondary tragedy here is that I’ve had to go to Boston several times. If I seem weird in New York, everyone in Boston thinks I’m two cans short of a six-pack. There is no room for eccentricity in Boston. Just wearing a Yankees cap there is considered rebellion. Hence, I’ve been sneaking off to Cape Cod and staying with friends’ parents.
Even though I am the least preppy person alive and Cape Cod is swarming with whale pants and polo shirts, it’s peaceful there. Rarely do I need nature (I prefer industrial waste), but the ocean and stars are there to remind us that we’re part of a bigger picture, oneness and love. Sometimes, in NYC, we get so caught up in trying to “make it” here that we forget how important love is.
Apparently my boss forgot about love and kindness — or she is actually a reptile, which I suspected all along — because she fired me for taking (unpaid) leave to visit Joe. See everyone back in Housing Court! Looking for work — but in the meantime, hedging my bets on scratch-off tickets, a dollar and a dream.
My birthday came and went without a party, a piñata or a pizza (though a random fan sent me a Cookie Puss). Though all I really wanted was Joe, his touch, his laughter and his willingness to take out the garbage and refill the ice trays.
Having recently been called a “chronic complainer” by an employed person whose fiancé doesn’t have brain cancer, I hesitate to even elaborate on more woes, but it would be dishonest were I not to share the icing on the cake. While on one of my various trips to Boston, I got a bladder infection! I’m guessing it’s either from the velour of the $15 bus, or being so miserable that I forgot to bathe. Off to Bellevue I went, where they gave me an unfamiliar antibiotic.
Next thing I knew, my body broke out in a neck-to-toe red rash and I developed a 104-degree fever! While I am always dishonest with potential employers, I am honest with medical professionals, given they can save your ass from death. I told them that, yes, I am a heavy drinker and yes, if you ask me how many partners I’ve had, the answer will be, “I have no clue.” This was a bad idea, as they simply forgot about what was obviously an allergic reaction to medication and focused solely on my depraved lifestyle.
What followed were three days in Bellevue lockdown. Have you ever stayed in Bellevue? It’s crazy! If I were to write a Yelp review for Bellevue, it would say, “like a crack house without the benefit of crack.” First, no one in Bellevue is allowed to sleep. I was in a ward with four 90-somethings who screamed all night and day for no reason other than to torture me. If you do manage a second of shut-eye, an orderly invariably appears to either jab you with needles or serve you food that looks like a rat ate and then puked it up.
But as the antibiotic left my system, I returned like a phoenix from the ashes and was released. There are plenty of good doctors and nurses at Bellevue but the best thing about the joint is leaving it and feeling the sun on your skin. Maybe this column, which I didn’t want to be full of rants and complaints, but is, can end on a high note.
How to end on a high note when things are whack? Here are my suggestions for recapturing joie de vivre in the face of adversity, thus making autumn “spooktacular.”
PUT ABSOLUTELY NO EFFORT INTO YOUR HALLOWEEN COSTUME
Because I’ve been doing shows for over 20 years, I have a million costumes. So often, on Halloween, I invite friends over and all we do is put on costumes and take pictures. Sometimes I discover rations of getups I wasn’t even aware of. For instance, who knew I had three “Wizard of Oz” Dorothy dresses, including one for a Chihuahua? Not me! But they looked great on Faceboy, Reverend Jen Junior and me, and they required no effort! I’m also a fan of the plastic costumes sold at Woolworths in the ’70s. If you have two safety pins, you can still wear them by just pinning them to the outside of your clothes. I recently acquired both a “Barbie Princess” and an “Alf” costume on eBay. The great thing about these costumes is that if you are a Barbie Princess, no one will mistake you for anything else because it says “Barbie Princess” directly on the costume.
HAVE A PUMPKIN-CARVING PARTY
Because there are so many new “pumpkin spice” products on the market, we often forget the sheer joy of carving these festive members of the genus Cucurbita family and trashing one’s home in the process. Recently, I threw a party where guests turned pumpkin-carving into an art form.
I made a “Trumpkin,” simply by gluing a bad wig to the pumpkin. Aside from mopping, the only real effort required when throwing a pumpkin party is finding pumpkins. Traipsing three blocks and finding none, I sat down for a drink at Lucky Jack’s (129 Orchard St.) where I noticed the chef from Black Tree, (131 Orchard St.) taking a break. Frenzied, I ran outside and asked him where all the pumpkins had gone. Graciously, he then gave me one. Go there because the food is good, but also because they gave me a pumpkin.
WATCH FOOTBALL AT GRAYSON
Really, the only good thing about October is football, my favorite excuse for sitting on my ass and yelling at the television. A lot of chicks don’t dig football, and I will never understand why, given it features hot men in tight pants playing with balls. Having grown up around the Beltway, I have the great misfortune of being a Redskins fan, and yes, the slanderous name should be changed. Because everything in D.C., down to the last square of toilet paper, is now named after Reagan, they’ll probably just call them “The Reagans,” but I suggest they call them “The Hogs” in honor of the nickname given to the Skins’ early ’80s offensive line (football trivia!). These days, I spend most Sunday and Monday nights watching my favorite team lose at Grayson (16 First Ave.) where my dear friend, Matt, (formerly from Lucky Jack’s) now bartends. Go there and over-tip him, because his cat just died.
Upon writing this, I have had a catharsis normally only induced by Willie Nelson songs, and am suddenly crying. I’m not wise, especially when I’m watching football. I’m also not one to give advice, not even to myself, but here goes: Don’t take one second of this shitshow for granted. Try to look at the stupid, asshole fall foliage and not think about the impending hell of another Polar Vortex and your radiator not working. Think about the warmth of the person next to you. Give them a (not creepy) kiss, and tell them you love them.
