It’s that time of year here on the Central Coast. The days are crystal clear and a little too hot, but with the bite of fall in the air. Every evening as we’ve returned home after school and work, a mama dear and her baby are lounging in the shade of the oak trees in the lower meadow. The baby is exceptionally prettier than the other babies. Her name is Clarice. They’re mostly ambivalent to the monkeys that get out of the quiet new white machine, slamming their doors. Except when those monkeys chase them, hooping and hollering through the trees in their Crocs.
This is also the time of year when backseat car drives mostly center around what to be for Halloween and fantasies of Mama projects to make last year’s party into an annual tradition. Zombies, or rather Zombie killing is still the theme of choice. Jacob plans to be a zombie hunter again… he just needs ANOTHER $100 Nerf gun to make his costume complete. The fifteen Nerf weapons he already has just don’t have that zombie slaying je ne sais quoi.
Meanwhile, Nate is racked with indecision. Making personal decisions, without brotherly advice, continues to be an ongoing area of focus for his individual development plan. They’re in the backseat and Jake suggests, “Why don’t you be a Zombie Assassin?”
“Uh, what would I wear? Like sweatpants and a jacket?”
“Yeah, and you could wear the mouth bra.”
“What’s a mouth bra?”
“You know, the mouth bra. It’s black. From our ninja costumes.”
I’m dying in the front seat. There is zero self-consciousness or embarrassment taking place in this convo.
“Oh yeah… Mom, do we still have the mouth bras?”
It’s supportive and stylish for those active zombie-chasing nights. And for the record, I used to call it a face bra.