You know. I used to love Halloween and all the things that went with it. Candy, dressing up, ear headbands, a tail, candy,
inappropriately making out with carnies not getting all huffy when a cute boy would say, “Heeeere pussy, pussy, pussy....” when I was clearly dressed as a cat, candy, haunted houses (NOT CHAINSAW GUY), candy, wearing a unitard... in public .... and getting away with it, candy, staying out late and of course, the candy.
Oh, hell to the yes, I still love to dress up inappropriately. At appropriate occasions of course.
I wouldn’t wear a Playboy bunny outfit to a funeral... but I sure as fuck would wear one to a gathering of friends. A gathering called Tarts and Vicars. It should have just been called Whoooores and Really Touchy Priests. What? Redundant? Fine. Then, um, be-collared guys and gussied up gals smoking and drinking a lot. Still redundant? Um... people... in a bar?
I know I haven’t posted anything since that Mothra incident, [::cough:: ::cough:: almost a month ago ::cough::] but I have to tell you guys something. You know that bullshit that people spew about being busy as a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest (no offense to you one-legged men of course)? That shit ain’t funny. I am truly that busy, since the 21st of September, today is my 4th day in the office. And I am miserable.
But... BUTT... (big butt) I want to tell you all of a few days of sparkling goodness and merriment that have made all the difference in the world.
At the end of September, Mister and I celebrated our four year anniversary the way all good DINKs should. We took the day off of work, went to a day spa and left there feeling as though our bodies were made up of jellyfish parts and angel dust. We were sparkly, we were smooth, we were manicured and massaged. And then? We ordered out. Only because the next morning at dawn’s ass crack we were to get up and fly into the great Midwest for an impromptu visit with a small group of merry makers.
We flew in, met Jane at the airport. I ran over, and because of her charming text message “WHERE’S MY DRINK AT BITCH!? PS, I have on a light blue sweatshirt.” immediately knew who she was, hugged her (she’s not a hugger) and then was quite pleased as she kept up an incredible banter all the way to the inn. She’s very witty, that one.
We met the tribe in the bar of our favorite inn, had a few drinks, let Mister get acquainted with many he had not met before... Okay, everyone in the bar except me and maybe one other person.
Sidenote: Do you guys know how fucking awesome it is to have a spouse totally support you (and I totally mean me) in your quest for (let’s be honest here) friendship and acceptance? It is totally awesome. It doesn’t concern him that I am a huge bucket of crazy that has met some of the most awesomest people in all of the land through this “journal thing”. And he will willingly go along and join in the fun... and dress up as a Priest! (His name was Father McFeeley.)
I am going to be vague. And also... not.
I fastened a bustier and admired a priestly cassock on a young hot gay man. The young hot gay man was not wearing the bustier.
We went to dinner.
Do you know me? Do you really know me? This could all go a lot faster if you were just to see one picture.
Except... giving you the link to that picture would break every law I have ever set for myself on this here journal thingy. 1) No pictures with double chins. 2) No pictures of Mister. 3) No pictures of me in a ridiculous costume with Mister grabbing my boob and me making a perfect O-face.
Let’s move on to what happened after dinner. We went to this place, this place that makes you do awful things and causes complete strangers to get all up in mine and (Mare’s business and be those guys. You know who those guys are?
Mare & Susan: [hushed whispers, telling stories and excited “Holy SHIT! You did NOT!”’s ]
- sudden silence -
Mare: [whispering] There are two gentlemen standing behind you looking at your ass.
self: [whispering] Fantastic.
Mare: [whispering] Oh, here we go.
Random Guy: [coming over, invading our personal space, clearly looking at cleavage] Hello, Ladieeeeees. [He looks back at his friend and wiggles his eyebrows or something.]
Mare: Nice buddy, real nice. My eyes? Are up here. Actually, they are in there. [points inside the bar] Why don’t you just move along?
self: [clearly in love with “Kiss My Ass” Mare, Now with 100% more Marabou! I give the guy the “shoo fly, don’t bother me” hands... and the “don’t be that guy” face.] Thanks Mare.
Mare: We’re not out of the woods yet.
self: These fuckers better move along because I want to ... nay, HAVE to hear this story.
Guy With Dreds: What’s going on here ladies? [puts his head into our conversation space, almost puts his arms around us... Mare gives him a look that would have made the first guy pee his britches.]
Mare: Costume Party.
self: Please go away.
Guy With Dreds: Alright, alright, no need to get defensive. [He departs.]
self: Okay, so... you were saying?
Mare: Okay, so....
Small Black Man: Now THIS is what I am talking about! Woo!
self: Oh, COME ON! Please, sir, kindly move it inside.
Small Black Man: No need to get mean.
Small Black Man started to say something else; Mare gave him a lifted eyebrow that would kill a Titan. He scurried inside. About that time, the bouncer who I would like to call Thunder*, stepped halfway out the back door to check on us; any loitering would be harassers scattered.
*Thunder was about 6’10”... maybe bigger, corn fed and nice.
We danced, we sang, we laughed, we joked, we took gajillions of pictures and we had just started. Well, the rest of the crew had just started. Mister and I pussed out at about 11 pm and went back to the inn for some rest. We knew we had a busy day in the morning.
We got up the next morning loaded ourselves up on the pimp limo bus and went for a little drive. We had breakfast and lunch and meat sticks and... Starbucks® and... did I mention the meat sticks? And cheese curds and antiques and “Come Sail Away” complete with hand motions by this pretty lady. Then we had dinner at this wonderful brewery, dinner was divine and then it was time for karaoke! (I am an observer only. I promise. I wouldn’t do that to you.)
The next day everyone else was headed to watch a football game at a pub inside a stadium. Mister and I decided to drive a few hours away and go see where he was born, where his dad was born, where he went to school... the whole nine yards. I got the tour y’all.
We took a frillion and one pictures and were harassed by the local help at the Dairy Queen for asking for gravy with their chicken finger basket. Apparently you have to ask for gravy.
DQ Bitch Basket: Because, you see, in the picture there above the registers, in that basket of chicken fingers*? That there? Is Ranch.
self: Well, I didn’t get any ranch either, so please, may I have some gravy?
DQ Bitch Basket: Well, next time... just so you know.... you have to ASK for it.
*Chickens don’t have fingers you fuck. And yes, I had to bow to the wisdom of some Dairy Queen working bitch who was all of 15 years old.
I didn’t get to see anyone on Sunday, but got to spend the day with Mister and his history. The next day Mister and I traveled home. It was a long day, and we were glad to be back at the house when we got there but... every time I see those people, I grow to love them more and more.
Yeah, I’m sappy. Get used to it.