Friday, October 31, 2014

Photo Evidence

Last Friday, I wrote about the 5 reasons I hate Halloween.  Reason #1 looked like this:

1. Adult costumes
No, I will not dress up with you. You looked shocked.

Why won’t I? Because I’m fcking 37 years old and past my Raggedy Ann prime. And so are you.

Oh, you’re throwing a party and nobody gets in unless they’re in costume? Have fun, dickwad. I’ll be at the bar down the road with the rest of the adults.

Listen, peeps, it’s not like I haven’t tried. As if I needed any help being unattractive in college, the one time in my adult life that I decided to dress up, I went as Mimi from The Drew Carey Show.It was a misguided Halloween costume effort by a dorky horseface who’d been raised by her dad.

And it might have been funny, I guess, but the problem was, nobody had told me that in a college town, the most hailed and appreciated costumes were the sluttiest ones. Hell, some people didn’t even wear costumes…they just glued sparkly pasties to their boobs and called themselves hookers.(I never figured out if they were legitimate hookers or not…or how well they were paid. Not that it would have made any difference in my career choice, of course…)

Needless to say, after about 5 (okay, dammit, 10) people looked right at me and laughed into my blue eyeshadowed-face, cutting me off with an eyeroll and an “Oh, we know” as I tried to explain who I was, I finally got sick of it.

I found a dark corner of the bar, a dedicated waitress who pitied me and served me pitcher after pitcher of beer on the house, and a bucket so I wouldn’t even have to get up to piss.

Never again.
Because I’m a giver, peeps—it’s just who I am—I decided to search for a picture of the night in question.  And guess what:  I found one.

A friend of mine found this muumuu for me and helped me stuff it, and I thanked her.  I actually thanked that bitch.

I told you it was horrible.  But now that it’s 15 years in my past, it’s horrible in a good way, because I’ve been able to step back from the situation and realize the many gifts this ill-fated costume has given me.

Take, for example, the chicken wing.  I had forgotten all about that gnawed-off chicken wing bone.  I think the reason it slipped my memory was because the bone wasn’t a prop for the costume.  Back then, there was nothing out of the ordinary about seeing me walk around with a chicken wing bone in my hand.  One time I wasn’t holding one and a friend asked if I was feeling alright.  “Sure,” I’d replied.  “Why?”

She’d stood there for a moment with her brow furrowed in concentration, studying me.  “I don’t know,” she’d finally said, shaking her head.  “It just seems like you’re not all there.  Like something’s missing.”

Yes, back in the day, there was nothing I loved better than some greasy bar food, and chicken wings were at the top of my list.  I’d say, in fact, that you’d be hard-pressed to find a picture of me from my 20’s where I wasn’t holding a chicken wing bone.

I was even assigned a project in college once where I was to write 10 things for which I was thankful.  We then had to give a speech about them.

“Number one,” I’d said, standing before my class.  “Chicken wings.  Number two—“

“Wait—wait,” my young professor interjected.  “Did you just say chicken wings?”

I’d paused and looked at him.  “I did.”

He grimaced as if the answer was wrong—as if any answer could have been wrong on that stupid assignment.  I mean, for fck’s sake, it wasn’t a Christian university or even a goddamned philosophy class.  Since then I’ve become fairly certain—based on my own teaching experiences—that he had been hung over and in need of a bullshit assignment to pass class time. 

This was before my fear of public speaking took over, so I just stood there comfortably at the front of the room, blinking at him, waiting to see if he was going to say anything else before I could get on with my speech.  Instead, he sighed, and I took that as my cue to continue.

“Number two, long jeans…”

I’m not sure what my thankful items said about me, but I like to think it’s that I can see the blessings in the small things (boyfriend pictured above included)—and not that I’m a complete dumbass.  I suppose it’s a toss-up.  In any case, the only thing that’s changed is that I’ve gotten married and had kids, so out of a sense of obligation, they’d have the #1 spot.  Seventeen years later, chicken wings and long jeans would only be bumped down—not taken off of the list.  Let’s be clear about that.

And ahhhh, let’s talk about the Crocodile Hunter to my left in the picture, aka “Little Tom,” who has also succeeded in making this picture even more hilariously terrible.

Listen, folks:  Beggars can’t be choosers, and when you’re 6 feet tall and look like a horse, it’s slim pickins.

If I’m being completely honest, which I usually am (I can’t help it; it’s like a fcking disease I have)—

Okay, here’s a quick tangent.  My dad once told me that I’m sometimes honest to a fault.  “You don’t have to go into a job interview and tell them everything, Shay,” he had said after I’d told him that I’d had an interview for a teaching position at a Catholic school and had informed the principal that I was currently “living in sin,” but my fiancé and I “hardly ever do it,” so that didn’t even count, right? 

I still got the job.  Well, after I promised the principal that my fiancé (now husband) and I would take a quick trip to the altar and be married by their parish priest if any of the students or their parents found out.  I was cool with that. 

“Do you think the priest is available today?” I had asked.  “My fiancé’s kind of dragging his feet, and I need health insurance.  I gave it up when I quit my job to move with him.”

Anyway, like I said, if I’m being completely honest, I was the one who asked Little Tom out first.

See, what happened was, I had just been caught cheating on my really hot boyfriend.  When I say “really hot,” I actually mean it.  He was hot.  So hot, in fact, that one of my friends once asked me, “How did you get him?” and another had interjected and said, eyes wide in disbelief as she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, “Her really fun personality always lands her the hot ones…”

I can dig a compliment out of the depths of any backhanded insult, so somehow, I walked away from that conversation feeling really good about myself.

So anyway, I had just been caught cheating on my really hot boyfriend, and he had very unceremoniously dumped my ass.  And wouldn’t you know it, it was right around the time that my older sister was getting married to her first husband.

The hot boyfriend in question had been a part of our lives for several years, so of course he was invited to the wedding—along with his new girlfriend, whom he’d begun dating about 3 hours after dumping me. 

Obviously I had to have a date for the wedding, too.

My best friend Leigh was dating a guy named Tom at the time, and he was friends with Little Tom.  Boyfriends with the same name?  Leigh and I figured it was destiny.

When I told Tom that I was going to ask Little Tom to attend my older sister’s first wedding with me, Tom had replied, “You’re interested in him?

I remember puffing out my chest with pride.   I understood his implication:  He was surprised that I had taken a liking to Little Tom because I was so much hotter than he was.

“Why?” I had asked.  “Because I’m so hot and he’s not?”

My best friend’s boyfriend had looked taken aback.  “No,” he’d responded.  “Not that at all.  I was wondering because you’re 6’ tall and he’s, like, 5’5”. You could literally pick him up and put him to bed at 9:00 after reading him a story and getting him a sippie of milk.”  

But the Crocodile Hunter—Little Tom—was a cute little guy, and he was funny.  Also, I was a woman scorned, and there was no way that I was going to show up to my older sister’s first wedding alone.

All of these things combined to result in what ended up being a semi-happy 4-month relationship with Little Tom.

Yes, sadly, we did break up.  Somewhere in the middle of that 4 months, I met a fiery red-headed hairdresser who ended up being my roommate.  She taught me the art of makeup and hair bleach, and let me tell you:  You wouldn’t think that going from “horse” to “Tori Spelling” would be that huge of a leap, but my new look started bringing in the suitors—at least the really drunk ones.

And after a few heady weeks of this, I became the superficial bitch I’d always wanted to be, tossing Little Tom out like a bloody tampon (Great simile, right?) to begin what I affectionately refer back to as “The Skank Years.”

Ah, memories.  It was a fun season of life.

I ran into Little Tom several months after we’d broken up, when I was at the grocery store with a new boyfriend whom I’d only begun seeing a couple of weeks prior.  Little Tom stopped, looked at me, looked at the new boyfriend, and said, “She’ll cheat on you, dude.”

The new boyfriend and I looked at each other and shrugged.  We figured he was probably right.

Happy Halloween!

8 comments:

  1. WAIT is Little Tom the one you married? And OMG I love your photo! And we might be twins. Knowing your parents (from this blog) it's very possible. Have you talked to them at all about the fact that you have a person out here who seems to probably share your DNA? Or are there maybe a lot of us?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. HELL, no, Kristi! Hahahaha. I started wearing makeup and dousing my hair in bleach, and after a couple of years of perfecting the art, I met my superficial bastard of a husband who probably wouldn't have noticed me before. Kidding!! Well, sort of. He's not really a superficial bastard, but he is really hot. :)

      Delete
  2. Oh, poor Little Tom! But yay for your transformation! Did you keep your love of chicken wings?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Absolutely! But now my husband has turned me into a Dave Ramsey financial guru wannabe and I think that my old favorite place, Buffalo Wild Wings, is too expensive. We still go on special occasions, but last time, our bill was seriously over $50, and that's waaaaaaay too high for me. I will admit that I ordered enough boneless wings to last for my lunch/dinner the next day, too, though...haha

      Delete
  3. Kristi may have had trouble following your story, but I got it. Did you actually call him Little Tom to his face? You and I should share dinner sometimes - I hate chicken wings so you can have all of mine. But I get your chocolate.

    Oh, and that simile was awesome and disgusting.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Holy Shit,
    you are freaking hilarious. Why haven't I found you before?!!!!!!!!!!!

    ReplyDelete
  5. LMAO! Sorry for laughing but that was hilarious! And you kept the photo! LOL Poor, poor Tom, I hope he has gotten over you by now. LOL

    ReplyDelete
  6. You actually thanked that bitch? hahahahaha! Honestly, I think there was only one costume, in my entire life, that I was remotely sexual- I was a potted plant, it required I wear a bright green bodysuit for the stem. Oh, and I hid my zits by painting them like ladybugs. Everyone was amazed at the 3-D effect.

    ReplyDelete