Costume Party

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     I absolutely L-O-V-E Halloween.  Sure it’s great to take the kids out trick-or-treating and all that jazz, but it’s not just all about the kids. It’s the one night a year when even adults can dress up like idiots and make complete fools out of themselves. So, I was beyond excited last year when we were invited to the costume party of all costume parties in the city.

     These people have a reputation for being unbelievable costume creators.  They work for weeks and weeks to come up with some seriously killer getups. Since I knew we were running with the big dogs, I spent hours looking online for unique ideas for my husband and me.  I wanted something different than the typical boring old couples costumes.  We finally decided on a devil and an angel, with a twist, of course.  My husband wore a red velvet smoking jacket with a devil’s tail attached to the back of it. I got him some sparkly gold sunglasses, a big gold chain, and a fat cigar that said “Big Daddy.”  A drawn-on black mustache that screamed 80’s porn king completed the ensemble.  I wore a teensy tiny white dress and stuffed a pillow underneath to form my baby bump.  I had feathery wings and a tattoo on my chest that said, “Love Stinks.” The final touch was a sash that I wore across one shoulder that read, “The Devil Made Me Do It.” Surprisingly, we were a big hit at the party, but we definitely had some stiff competition.

     One girl turned herself into a Jesus candle.  Another transformed herself into Humpty Dumpty, complete with brick wall and everything. Then there was the guy who made himself half Max and half Wild Thing from “Where the Wild Things Are.”  And another group of people posed as polygamists with each wife wearing a sign on their backs that said, “Wife #1“, “Wife #2” and so on. One of my favorites, though, was a guy who had on blue scrubs with white clumps of cotton attached all over them.  I stared and stared at him all night trying to figure out just what in the hell he was supposed to be. Finally, I decided to walk over and ask him.  He said, “Here, hold this,” and reached into his pocket to grab a tiny little purple drink umbrella.  He then pulled out a water bottle, spritzed my face with water, and said he was “Partly Cloudy With a Chance of Showers.” Freaking genius!

     This year we are helping to host a big Halloween party in the ‘burbs, so the pressure is on once again to get all decked out.  After much pondering, another one of the wives and I have decided to go as competing prom queens.  We dug out our shitastic old prom dresses from high school and are going to attempt to squeeze our more mature, very post high school asses into them once again. We’re gonna use some magic makeup tricks to give ourselves black eyes and bloody lips, tease our hair all out to hell and back with some good ol’ Aquanet hair spray, rip a crown in half for us each to wear, and tear our dresses as if we’ve really been throwing down. We’re even going so far as to get baby’s breath for our hair and gaudy corsages for our wrists — yeah, baby, we’re going all out!  My husband and her husband are going as Dumb and Dumber with the tacky orange and blue tuxedos and top hats.  Should definitely make for some funny pictures.

     I can’t wait to see what other creations people come up with.  I’m hoping they bring their A-game cause there are fantastic prizes to be awarded for superior awesomeness.  It’s Halloween, people, and it’s time to let your hair down and have some fun!  You may be hesitant at first, but that won’t last long, for no mere mortal can resist the evil of the thriller.  Ah ha ha ha ha, ah ha ha ha ha!

***** HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!*****

Gym Freaks

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     When I go to the gym, I am there for one reason and one reason only — to work out.  I’m not there to socialize or pick up dudes or strut my stuff. My mind is generally pretty focused on the task at hand (especially since I’m always on a tight schedule), but there are times when I can’t help but do a double take at some of the sights I see there.  Good Lord, some of the characters that parade through that place are truly in a class all their own.

     First, there’s a woman that I refer to as “Bacon Lady.”  This woman must spend hours upon hours roasting herself in a tanning bed, because her skin is so leathery and brown that she should be sitting next to a big plate of scrambled eggs.  And it’s hard to tell how old she might be because all those UV rays have made her look like she’s a hundred.  For the life of me, I can’t understand how she could possibly think that looks good.  All it does is make me have a sudden craving for breakfast food.

     Then, there’s the man I refer to as “Circus Dude.”  This guy has created the most insane-looking workout, where he combines acrobatic moves with synchronized dancing and yoga poses.  Talk about bizarre.  He’s jumping, he’s leaping, he’s spinning, he’s making a complete ass out of himself. When he’s in the middle of his performance, every head turns in his direction to try and figure out just what in the hell he’s doing.  I keep waiting for the ringmaster to come out and turn our attention to the center ring.

     Then, there’s the ultimate cheeseball guy who I refer to simply as “Meathead.” This dude is constantly checking himself out in the mirror in between weight sets. He slicks his hair back and arranges his eyebrows, and I often see him doing boxing jabs so he can check out his biceps in the glass.  And he’s not at all nonchalant about it either.  He actually looks around to make sure that someone’s watching the “gun show.”  Hate to break it to ya, Meathead, but you should really think about giving people their money back cause the “show” is not at all impressive. 

     Then, there’s “The Flirt” who tries WAY too hard to be funny and to impress all the ladies.  This guy will literally jump on a machine next to you to try to carry on a conversation.  He pays no attention whatsoever to the fact that your Ipod is blaring, and you can’t hear a single word he says.  He continues to crack his stupid jokes and tell his stupid stories, all while you’re slaving away on the elliptical, trying to get your sweat on.  Perhaps his name should be changed to “Clueless.”  

     And finally, there’s “The Package,” the guy who wears ridiculously tight leggings that advertise that he has a ridiculously large package.  And he’s not just walking around in the gym in this get-up either.  Oh no, no, he’s jogging on a freaking treadmill, while things are wiggling and jiggling and flipping and flopping all over the damn place. And trust me, it is not a pretty sight to see, and as much as you want to look away, you just can’t. It’s kind of like a train wreck.  You just can’t help but stop and stare.  Somebody needs to get that boy a jock strap STAT!

     I never know which one of these odd balls I’m gonna run into on any given day at the gym, but I always come face to face with at least one of them.  I guess it does make for interesting scenery, since the gym can be pretty dull during the winter months.  Wow, can you imagine if they all showed up on the same day?  Bacon Lady, Circus Dude, Meathead, The Flirt, and The Package — now that’s one hell of a freak show!

The “Toy” Store

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     This year my husband and I were asked to help co-host a big adults-only Halloween bash with four other couples.  Somehow or another, one of the other wives and I got roped into picking out the prizes to be awarded for best costumes. They were supposed to be funny gag gifts, and after much Googling for stores such as Spencer’s and the like, we realized that our retail options were very limited in our area.  The only place we came up with is a store called “Lover’s Lane.”  You can probably use your imagination to guess what type of merchandise they carry, but let’s just say it’s a lingerie/”toy” store.

     When my friend and I pulled up to the place, we questioned whether it was even open because there were maybe only two other cars in the parking lot.  They were most certainly open, though, and the hours were painted right there on the door along with the words, “You must be 18 years of age to enter.”  When we opened the door, we were surprised at the large selection of Halloween costumes they carried. (Granted, they were all things like slutty referee, slutty maid, slutty Girl Scout, etc.) We mosied on along to the wall that had all the bachelorette party goods on display.

     We were like the blind leading the blind in there.  The vast assortment of penis paraphenalia sort of stopped us in our tracks.  We just stood there in amazement at how many penis products there were from which to choose. There were penis lollipops, penis leis, penis chocolates, penis straws, penis cups, penis pens, a “Pin the Penis on the Stud” game, and so on and so on.  We obviously looked out of place there or something (I can’t imagine why), because the sales clerk, who was modeling one of the slutty Halloween costumes sold in the store, came over to try to help us.  We told her that we needed to buy gag gifts for a Halloween party, but she clearly didn’t understand the concept of “gag.” She proceeded to show us massage oils and feathered ticklers and vibrators and all sorts of things that were WAY more personal than what we had in mind.  We told her we’d just browse.

     We ended up deciding on a penis soda can sipper to go with a boob beer can sipper and a penis inspector badge to go with a boob inspector badge.  But then we were stumped.  The selection of merchandise was clearly more in the penis realm. We needed more boobs.  I called the girl over and said, “Excuse me, but do you have a boob section anywhere?” She looked at me like I was crazy and said that no, they didn’t really have a “boob section.”  Instead, she led us around the corner to a selection of edible underwear and some blow-up dolls.  After a whole lot of should we or shouldn’t we, we finally chose some his & hers edible drawers and even ended up getting a blow-up doll, which will be awarded late night in the party to whoever makes the biggest ass out of themselves (we’re counting on it to be a guy since it’s an inflatable female).  I thought about buying one of the dolls for my husband when I’m just too tired for all that but decided against it in the end.

     All in all, we were pretty happy with what we found.  I hope and pray that we don’t offend any of the prize winners, but if we do, then those people shouldn’t be at the party in the first place.  Halloween is all about having fun and letting your hair down.  And if you happen to come home with a blow-up doll at the end of the night, she’ll last a helluva lot longer than any old piece of candy.

BOO!

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     Every Halloween our neighborhood has a tradition of “BOO”ing people.  This is basically the same thing as “Ding Dong Ditch,” only with candy.  If you get “BOO”d, you’re supposed to tape a little paper ghost to your front door, so that people will know that your house has already been hit.  It’s then your responsibility to “BOO” two other houses on the block without getting caught.  Seems like an easy enough concept, but when you’re six, being inconspicuous is like sneaking an elephant into the movies. 

     My kids were so excited when we got “BOO”d the other night, and they couldn’t wait to “BOO” someone else.  So, last night, I promised them we’d go hit up some houses after dark.  We stuffed two bags with candy and set out with our flashlights. Most of the houses already had ghosts on their doors, so the pickins were pretty slim.  When we finally found a house that hadn’t been hit, we had fight off another little neighborhood girl for it.  She was armed with candy and ready to “BOO.”  However, I wanted to get the whole thing over with, so I whispered to my daughter to run.  I knew she could totally beat that chick up their front steps, and she proved me right once again.  When she got up to their porch, she lingered just a little too long after she rang the doorbell, and the dad came bounding through the door and caught her red-handed.  She was so bummed that she almost broke down in tears, but I quickly moved the process along by locating the only other house on our street that hadn’t been hit.

     I stood back and watched my two little prankster-wannabes creep up to the front porch and carefully place the bag of candy on the doorstep.  They rang the bell and ran like hell down the steps.  I thought for sure one of them was gonna bust their head open trying to remain unseen, but luckily no blood was shed.  My kids watched with excitement as the woman opened her door and took the bag of candy inside. Mission accomplished.  One down and one to go!  My kids were totally pumped up and ready to strike again.

     Since we’d run out of houses on our street, we decided to try their little friend who lives around the corner.  Apparently, they don’t “BOO” people on his street because none of the houses had ghosts on their doors, which turned out to be a real problem. My daughter decided to have a go at his house first.  She crept up the steps and immediately ducked down and called for me.  I guess the entire family was hanging out in the family room and could see the front porch as plain as day.  I told her just to go for it.  She rang the bell and ran like the wind down to meet my son and me in the bushes.  We could see the dad looking out the window, but then he disappeared.  My son then decided to take a stab at it.  The dad came to the window once again but still didn’t open the door.  I figured the third time would surely be a charm, so my daughter tried one more time.  

     We were nervously waiting in the bushes to see if they were ever going to answer the damn door, when we saw the whole family peering out the window to see who was out there in the darkness.  Then, suddenly the dad came around from the back of the house shouting over and over in a very angry voice, “Who’s there?!”  Oh shit!  I realized that if I didn’t say something, they were gonna call the cops on us.  I could just imagine the headline in the paper, “Nucking Futs Suburban Mom Arrested in Bushes for Voyeurism.”  I quickly stepped out of the bushes and identified myself to the dad, who ended up laughing hysterically at the whole turn of events.  He said he actually did contemplate calling the police.  Like I said, they don’t “BOO” on his street.

     I was so relieved to have the “BOO”ing behind us when we finally got home.  It’s a cute idea that the kids love, but it’s also a pain in the ass when you have two kids who don’t have a clue how to be sneaky.  The excitement factor’s definitely taken down a notch if you happen to get caught.  And it’s all fun and games till someone goes to jail.

Pumpkin Patch

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     My kids have been bugging the hell out of me to get a pumpkin since they first saw them on display at the grocery store back in early September (because apparently, we have to wheel out all the decorative crap at least one to three months BEFORE an actual holiday anymore).  So, this past weekend, I promised them that we’d make a trip over to the pumpkin patch to get their long-awaited pumpkins. And, like most things these days, it didn’t end up to be the fun-filled adventure that I’d envisioned.    

     The “pumpkin patch” is actually just the front lawn of a local church here in town.  All of the profits go towards different charities. In fact, the sign in front of it says, “Our pumpkins help people.”  This idea totally appealed to me because I wouldn’t actually feel like I was throwing money away  when I look out the front door in a few days and see a possy of squirrels going to town on our jack-o-lanterns. My pumpkins may be mutilated, but I helped people, dammit!  

     So, the search was on for the perfect pumpkins.  My daughter wanted a tall, skinny one, and my son wanted a big, round one.  They must have inspected every friggin’ pumpkin there trying to find exactly what they were looking for.  Pumpkins were rolling here, pumpkins were rolling there, and I thought for sure that I was gonna end up having to pay for a bunch of damaged goods.  Eventually, the kiddos found two that met their standards, as well as two other smaller ones that they somehow talked me into buying.  (Yes, I am a sucker.)  I tracked down a wagon, and we loaded it with our findings.

     It was at this time that I realized that our car was parked clear around the corner, and I was gonna have to juggle four pumpkins and two kids across oncoming traffic. Now, I may be one of the world’s greatest multi-taskers, but ain’t no way that scenario was gonna play out successfully.  So, I asked the man at the checkout table if I could leave my pumpkins there while I moved the car around.  He agreed, and I dragged the kids back to the car.  In the short amount of time it took to move the car, the kids must’ve asked me damn near seventy-five times if they could hold their little pumpkins on the way home.   

     I pulled up to the curb, and the very nice checkout man helped me load the car.  As I was thanking him, I decided to ask about the charities that benefit from their sales, and he gave me a handout with about ten different organizations that they serve.  He was right in the middle of telling me all about his favorite charity when my extremely impatient children decided to roll down the car windows and yell my name OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER again.  I didn’t want to interrupt the guy when he was so passionately describing this beneficiary, so I nonchalantly tried to wave my hand behind my back to shush them. This only seemed to add fuel to their fire, and the cries grew even louder.  I was so embarrassed that I actually had to stop him and tell my kids to pipe down.  I was absolutely furious on the inside, but I tried like hell not to let it show on the outside. I slapped a fake smile on my face and pretended to listen as he continued.  When the kids turned their volume up to full-blast, he finally took this as his cue to thank me and walk away.  I held my breath and counted to fifty before I got back in the car to let my kids have it.  

     They started in with their demands to hold their pumpkins, but I quickly squashed that idea altogether.  I explained how incredibly rude they were being and gave a whole glorious speech about the importance of giving to others in need.  Although I’m quite sure it all went in one ear and out the other, I at least said my peace, and we drove home with the pumpkins in the very back of the car all by their lonesomes. And just like that, my idea for a warm and fuzzy fall adventure was smashed like a pumpkin.

Rainy Day Rant

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     Today is one of those wet, dreary days when you just wanna crawl back in bed with a good book.  Sadly, I haven’t done that for almost seven years now.  Instead, I had to make my fifteen thousandth pit stop this week at the grocery store.  And as if going to the grocery store in the rain wasn’t bad enough in and of itself, I had the misfortune of coming across two other irritating issues that bug the absolute hell out of me and make me want to succumb to online shopping forever more.

     As much as I practically live at the freaking grocery, I really think I have earned VIP parking status, and, therefore, should have a front row parking space in my Nucking Futs name.  But, because the world is full of unfairness, I had to park ridiculously far from the door and walk my ass through the pouring down rain.  As I was getting out of my car, I noticed that some lazy son of a bitch had left their shopping cart right in front of the car next to me.  I don’t know about you, but this is something that just boils my blood.  The damn cart corral was a mere 15 feet away, yet some slacker idiot couldn’t muster up the energy to walk it over there.  They decided to leave it for the wind to ram right into some poor sap’s car door. How thoughtful of them.  I decided to put on my good citizen’s hat and return it to the corral myself on the way into the store.  

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     After I grabbed all the crap I needed to buy, I made my way to a checkout lane, where piss-off issue number two reared its ugly head in my direction.  The cashier asked me, “Do you want to make a contribution to breast cancer research today?” Now, mind you, I have already made a donation to breast cancer research earlier this month, so I am all about finding a cure.  However, I am sick and tired of being harassed to donate to this or that cause EVERY stinkin’ time I go to the grocery store! Every single day of every single week somebody’s trying to wrangle more money out of me.  And if you say, “No thank you, not today,” they give you the raised eyebrows with a small shake of the head as if to say, “You are a selfish bitch, lady.”  Believe you me, I have donated to plenty of causes throughout the year on my own free will.  I just personally don’t like to have it shoved in my face week after week — it’s overkill and could potentially make people bitter about giving to charitable causes.  

     As I made my way back through the downpour and got into my car, I noticed a fluffed up little bird who was hiding out under the car next to me.  I was so aggravated that I actually thought about joining him.  He seemed to have the right idea just tucking himself away from the rest of the messy, outside world.  Knowing my luck, though, the car would back up right over me and turn me into parking lot roadkill.

Doggy Style

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     If you’ve been following my blog, you are well aware of the furry little fiend in our house who likes to chew on just about everything in site, including body parts. We’ve spent a crap ton of money buying a bazillion different dog toys for him to chomp on, but it seems he is very particular about which ones really appeal to him.  After many hours of nibbling and gnawing, his top choices have become a stuffed polar bear named Betty and a rawhide type thing called a Bully Stick. 

     When we first brought him home from the breeder, he was not a big fan of his crate.  He’d whine and cry and raise all kinds of hell trying to persuade us to let him out of there.  I decided he might like to have a little snuggle buddy, so I asked my daughter if we could give him one of her thousands of stuffed animals.  She hemmed and hawed over this decision, but she eventually determined that she was willing to part with her big, white polar bear.  And so began the love story between Betty the bear and Wrigley the demon dog.  

     It took a while for Wrigley to really warm up to Betty.  At first, she just kinda served as a pillow for him to rest his head.  We’d glance over at his crate and find him nestled in there with his head propped right across Betty’s.  Little by little, they progressed into full-on spooning.  Betty must be one hell of a spooner too, cause any time I’d take her out to clean the crate, she wreaked of dog.  The cuddle fest continued like this until one day when Wrigley decided to drag Betty out for some open air action.

     It was around this time that Wrigley decided to make Betty his bitch. He’d take her in his mouth and run crazy wild circles around the family room, stopping only to shake the tar out of her. He’d throw her on the ground and stand on top of the poor thing as if to say, “Yeah, who’s your daddy?”  And then one day last weekend, Wrigley figured out how to hump. My husband thought it was the funniest thing ever and even took pictures of the two little lovebirds. He even tried to recreate the mood so that Wrigley could show off his newfound skill to me.  (I was not as impressed.) And I gotta say that Betty took it all like a freaking trooper too with her crunchy hair and filthy stank.  Unfortunately, though, the dog trainer nipped that in the bud.  She said to correct that behavior immediately or else deal with him going to town on anything with a leg in the near-distant future.  I think that my husband was secretly disappointed that the canine peep show had to be shut down.

     Wrigley’s other favorite chew toy is something called a Bully Stick, which looks like a long,brownish-colored rawhide bone.  He loves chewing the crap out of this thing, so I ended up buying him another one.  We had these sticks lying around our floor for an entire week before I learned what they are actually made of.  Turns out they are dried bull’s penises!  I kid you not!  I may have thrown up a little in my mouth when I learned that I had been stepping over cow peckers all week.  So now, it has become a big joke around here.  The kids will tell Wrigley, “Here, chew on your peeper, Wrigley.”  And when he starts to bite us, my husband and I will tell him, “Go find your dick, Wrigley.”

     So, it seems that Wrigley is in his experimental phase.  On the one hand, he likes to get down and dirty with Betty, and on the other, he likes to nosh away on cattle dongs.  I feel like we have a PG-13 puppy in our midst, and we need to start shielding our innocent little audience member’s eyes.  Otherwise, we may have to explain the old birds and the bees much earlier than we thought.