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For some reason, my boys have no interest in my design talents and want to wear store-bought costumes, but my own is carefully crafted. I wear an iteration of the same theme every year: the mad scientist’s creature. One look at Peter should tell you who plays the mad scientist. All we need to do for him is throw a lab coat over whatever he happens to be wearing on October 31, tease his locks up a little bit higher, and voilà! The execution of my getup is slightly more complicated, as it requires three main components: an elaborate wig, a latex dress, and a pair of freaky white contacts.

I care so deeply about this particular holiday that a few years ago I had myself fitted for top-grade, straight-out-of-a-horror-movie zombie eyes. These lenses white out my irises completely, except for a small black spot in the center to see through. Their design is very clever—imagine a white doughnut painted on a contact lens—and the effect is ultra creepy. I can see perfectly with them in, and they are comfortable, but I have one problem: I cannot get them either in or out by myself. For all the gory and disgusting things I can put up with around me for this occasion—the fake blood, the bowl of “intestines,” and so on—I am grossed out to the point of fainting by the idea of my finger making contact with my eye. This year I went upstairs to my neighbor’s apartment and she slipped them in, amid much blinking and tearing, but clearly I couldn’t go see her at one A.M. to ask her to take them out. I slept in them and tried to get them out by myself the next morning, to no avail. Peter is equally as eyeball averse as I am, so I needed to find someone less squeamish.

“Mom, really, I’ll make my own breakfast,” Truman said as he bumped into me in the kitchen. “I can’t look at you.”

“Truman, do Mommy a favor and help her get these things out?” I pleaded. “I have a meeting in an hour, and I can’t show up like this.” I rolled my eyes for effect. He backed away, forgoing food and practically running for the door.

I would have asked his older brother, but one look at Peik’s nails after a night of partying suggested otherwise. I finally tracked down Peter. Not only had I run out of boys, but also, I figured they’d had enough of me and my costume needs after the annual get-Mom-into-her-latex-dress event the afternoon before.

Many people have a favorite Thanksgiving dish; for me it wouldn’t be Halloween without latex. My dress this year was black, knee length, and backless, with long sleeves and buckles at the neck and waist. I bought it at a fetish shop in the East Village, one of the last New York neighborhoods that hasn’t been sanitized of its sex shops.

Wearing latex is quite ritualistic, and latex garments are difficult to get into. First, you cover your body with baby powder, sprinkling the inside of the garment as well. Then you step into the dress and sort of roll it up—hoping to align it properly, because it is nearly impossible to reposition once on. Once you’re dressed, there is baby powder everywhere and polishing to be done. The boys, each equipped with a handful of silicone gel, rub me down until I shine like a brand-new sex toy in a Times Square window (before Disney, that is). I can only wonder what lasting effects this activity will have on their sexuality, but I figure they will end up in therapy for some reason, so why not make life interesting for their eventual shrinks? You spend that kind of money, someone better be entertained.

Halloween starts about an hour after I don the giant albino Afro wig and six-inch Jimmy Choos. I now clear seven feet easily. As long as I don’t drink, I won’t need to pee. Mayhem breaks out at about five, when packs of kids large to small arrive. The undead fill our loft to the rafters, and even those who dare to show up without costumes take on an eerie glow in the strobe lights and artificial fog. Kids eat way too much candy, and adults drink way too much liquor, as evidenced by the inevitable “Thriller