Recommended wine for today’s entry: I think I’ll try a glass of P.K.N.T. Silver Collection Carmenere 2008 tonight. After my friend Kara recommended Chilean wines, I’ve been looking for new ones to try. This has a really cute chili pepper on the label and it promises “exotic spices along with fruity and juicy blueberries” aromatically and “round tannins that succumb in a long velvety chocolate finish. It says it’s good alone or with spicy Tex-Mex … I’ll plan tonight’s take-out around it!
Isn’t it fun when Halloween falls on a Saturday?
My husband and I are going to a 50th birthday/costume party for our friend Dennis. We are dressing as white trash, which isn’t all that much of a stretch and most of our attire will come from our current wardrobes. I will be totally distraught if people ask us why we didn’t dress up — distraught but not all that surprised.
It was about as “costumed” as my husband would go.
What is it with boys? They all refuse to wear costumes after the age of like 11. I think it’s because they wear stupid red Superman capes everywhere — to school, to church, to funerals — for the first 10 years of their life, then one day they are WAY too mature for that kind of crap and will never dress up (without a fight) again.
I know that my husband is REALLY excited to wear the mullet wig I got him. I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure he’s been going into the closet where it’s stored and trying it on like every day. Well, he’ll be out of the closet soon enough — and when he is, I have even more in store for him.
I’m sure he’ll be fine letting me black out a couple of his teeth and applying the snappy temporary tattoo of the giant snake. He’s gonna love it — he just doesn’t know it yet.
That’s why they make beer.
As for me, I have a lovely frosted blonde wig with black roots, but I realize now that I could have just cancelled my hair appointment set for this week and had the same effect.
I couldn’t bring myself to do that, though, so I’m all in on the wig. I’m worried because it’s all smushed out of shape from being shoved in the bag.
I wanted to take it to my hairdresser with me and have Susan style it but that’s where my husband drew the line: YOU ARE NOT GOING TO PAY TO HAVE YOUR WHITE TRASH WIG STYLED! he shouted at me in all capital letters from his Blackberry.
When you see businessmen on the plane frantically typing on their Blackberries, laptops or IPhones, this is the kind of thing they’re “working on.” On their resumes, they call it Expert at Costume Conflict Resolution, and it is a major draw for large corporations.
Well, anyway, his giving me a restriction on how I spend money pissed me off so I went to Kroger and got about $200 worth the tailgate accessories, University of Louisville fan-wear, fragrances and DVDs. He won’t know because I’ll tell him he’s been eating like a pig the last two weeks so the grocery bill is high. Oh and I got a Chop Wizard too.
Kinda like Trick-or-Treating with a shopping cart.
But back to boys and costumes — this has obviously been grating on me — don’t you think it’s super creepy when boys wear masks that like cover their whole faces and you don’t know who they are or if they’re really a psycho mass murderer like on Halloween and Friday the 13th and Saw and all the other scary movies that my daughter and I love?
Well, if you were me, you’d be freaked out by boys in masks too, because once when we lived in Dallas, my husband was out of town on Halloween. I got all excited about Trick or Treaters and we had a bunch in our cute little neighborhood. But they’d all finished by nine o’clock, so I put on my jammies and washed up for bed.
I had Clearasil slathered on my face and my hair in a spout like Pebbles Flintstone. Oh, and I was wearing my thick-as-crap glasses that made a dent in my nose.
All the lights were off except for the bedroom, where I was reading. At about ten-thirty, my doorbell rang. I could have puked.
My dog started barking, so I loudly said, “NO, BRUTUS! YOU ARE NOT GOING TO ATTACK ONE MORE PERSON TONIGHT! I JUST GOT ALL OF THE BLOOD OFF OF YOUR MUZZLE!” which I am sure scared the living crap out of the EIGHT men in children’s Snow White masks who had piled out of a beat-up pickup truck parked in front of my house.
I am not kidding. They had these super giant heads and these little bitty masks that showed their five o’clock shadow beneath Snow White’s super ruby lips.
Anyway, I scooped up Brutus, who was really a 15-pound terrier mix in a bow-tie collar named Buddy, and peered out a window. Like they wouldn’t see me. At this point, Clearasil and giant 1980s glasses and all, no one could have been deranged enough to consider raping me.
So what did I do? After they didn’t leave for a few minutes, I OPENED THE DOOR. But I did it REALLY fast because I’m stupid but not THAT stupid, and I FLUNG all my remaining candy out the door and slammed it shut.
The eight giant Snow Whites grabbed at the candy like five-year-olds at a pinata party and then ambled back to their truck and left. I didn’t see them stop at any other house in the neighborhood and I didn’t shut my eyes all night!
So I think my phobia of men in masks is deserved, don’t you? And if anyone shows up at the party this weekend in a Snow White mask, I hope I’m wearing a Depends under my white trash costume!