We’re a week away from Halloween and most folks don’t work with children so my drive to work in my mustachioed Smart Car while dressed like a tree earned me quite a few more looks than usual.
No one else out and about was dressed up.
I was reminded of the time Husband and I got invited to a Halloween party. As a Scotsman, Husband had never gone big with Halloween costumes. I had to talk him into the concept and then talk him into a themed couples costume because, “come on, it’ll be fun!” But then, I was stupid enough to agree to his themed couples costume idea.
A quick side note: Husband’s last name is Taylor. We don’t have children but he always used to joke, if we had a girl, we’d name her Jenny. Get it?
So many years later, we’re going to this party, and Husband has decided he wants a couples costume and – drum roll please – he wants me to dress as Jenny Taylor while he is dressed as Pete Ennis.
Don’t get it? Say them fast while mumbling in a Scottish accent. Got it? Good. Because the photos are too obscene to post.
Husband’s costume was jeans, a pink button down shirt with two rather large pink balloons attached to his waist, topped off with a pink wooly hat a size too small on his head.
I had just taken my hair out of extensions and sewed the synthetic hair on to a pink shirt in the shape of Jenny Taylor. It wasn’t too offensive until Husband attached red tissue paper to the inside oval. That little touch served to make it quite obvious what was on the front of my shirt.
To my mind, there was no mistaking what we were but, just in case no one got it, we wore name tags, the kind that say: My Name is… These ended up being very useful because everyone knew what we were but were too polite to say it. Reading the name tags out loud made it look like they didn’t have dirty minds. I knew better.
We drove to the party; me slouched down in the seat so no one could see my parts and Husband grinning broadly because his balloon parts were tucked out of sight. Husband parked the car and we got out, both of us rearranging ourselves and headed for the front door. It was still a bit light out and we got a few looks from the neighbors driving by. At the front door, Husband did one last check to make sure his ‘balls’ weren’t crooked, and we rang the doorbell both of us giggling like twelve year old boys looking at their first dirty magazine.
And this is where it all went tits up.
The hostess answered the door in a rented Little Red Ridding Hood costume, complete with basket of goodies over her arm.
It took a moment to figure out what we were and then, shocked, she called her husband to come have look. He was in a rented Big Bad Wolf costume, complete with big ears and gleaming white teeth. He took one look at us and laughed so hard, his ears shook and the light glinted off his teeth.
They stepped back to let us inside and they directed us into the kitchen dinning area where NOT ONE PERSON WAS DRESSED UP.
And, to add to the horror, not one of the folks in that room possessed a sense of humor – or rather a crass sense of humor. In fact, I think they were all down right disturbed. Of course, when very large male and female body parts confront you, perhaps your reaction should be shock followed by disgust.
Now, walking into a party is awkward for us anyway. Neither Husband or I possess the ability to ease into a space and neither of us is great at the small talk. Frankly, both of us were pretty darn conversational dressed as we were. But the room was silent. Not one of the folks said a word to us.
And that is how we ended up outside by the keg for the night.
Husband and I had not brought a change of clothes and so we hung out with the folks that wandered outside for a smoke or to get more beer. Thankfully, they were all much chattier and vulgar, like us. Sadly, I was the designated driver and so could only watch as Husband got ploughed, (giggle giggle), his balls all askew, while me in my girl parts drank coke awkwardly in the corner.
The next year he talked me into going as the man and woman bathroom signs. It was the last time we dressed up in themed couples costume because, “come on, it will be fun.”
My ego can’t handle that kind of fun.