I hate Halloween. There. I said it.

It has nothing to do with the evil of Satan or any other religious issues. Nope. Plain and simple: I'm far too rooted in reality to make-believe that I'm someone else.

Especially a sexy cat.

My childhood? There's no answers there. I grew up in the 70's, where the pretend industry hadn't quite taken off. Our prep involved going to Woolworth, checking out the assortment of plastic masks, packaged inside cellophaned boxes, and hope the slits doubling for eye and mouth holes, didn't cut our lips. Too much.

As an adult, things didn't fare much better. My costume ideas? Way too cerebral for my un-Martha Stewart like abilities. Like the time my cousin and I went as the pope and Sinead O'Connor, after the music star's 1990's Saturday Night Live appearance.

Before the party, I spent a whole lot of time searching for the perfect flesh-colored, latex, bald-headed, skull cap. I found it. But I failed to take into account the hair-matting gallons of sweat that would be streaming from my overheating body for the rest of the evening. Or the make-up that I should have invested in to blend everything together.

Not quite a smokin' nurse.

Another time, I needed a costume fast. (Or more realistically, someone needed a designated driver.) The only thing at my disposal? My dad's mechanic uniform, featuring size 38 pants and an XL shirt. I wear a 10. My, soon-to-be-drunk, friend helped accessorize me with a red Budweiser cap, worn backwards of course, and a bandana rag.

A temptress vampire I was not.

Actually, maybe it's not Halloween itself that truly irritates me, but this whole cultural movement by way too many females, who use the holiday as an excuse to try to bring sexy back. Especially when I'm the one dressed in greasy work boots.

I guess the bottom line is that we all use Halloween to be something that we're not.

So you do your sexy thing for one night only.

And I'll sport a mustache to hand out candy.