Happy Whoreloween

I'm sure this subject has been blogged to death, but I'm going to offer my two pennies.

I don't really do Halloween. I was over it by the time I was 7 or 8. I was tired of putting on a lot of garb and badgering my neighbors for Ring Pops.  I wanted the candy, yes, but I didn't want to wear a mask that obstructed my eyesight and caused me to fall more than Deena from Jersey Shore.

I found a better way to get candy. I don't have Diabetes, but my grandmother did. She would say, "My blood sugar is low," and someone would dig in their purse and hand her a piece of candy.

Sitting in church one Sunday, starving, I leaned in and whispered to my mother, "My blood sugar is low." Low and behold, a peppermint was transferred from my mother's huge satchel and put in my fat little hands. I didn't know what having low blood sugar meant, but it heavily contributed to my pre-pubescant weight gain.

And it eliminated my need for Halloween.

I've gotten off subject.

So, I was over Halloween at a fairly early age, and now that I'm an adult, I still don't give a darn about it.

I'm a prude, okay? I don't want to dress like a whore on Halloween. When I was young, single and rockin, I still opted for "funny" costumes, as opposed to whorish ones. Keep the fishnet stockings. I'm rocking the heck out of that Gumby costume.

I wanted to go to the Halloween party as a booger and Kleenex this year. I know it sounds absurd, but I thought it was a brilliant idea. Hubs would dress in green, throw some slime in his hair, and I would pin a "booger" sign to his chest.

I, of course, would be the Kleenex, dressed in all white, tissue protruding from my hair. We go together like a booger and Kleenex. It was an epic costume idea. And a frugal one, too!

But Hubs is a man. I didn't look sexy in a white sweatsuit with tissue spewing from my headband.

"It's Halloween. You have permission to dress trampy," he said.

That would be awesome if I harbored secret desires to dress trampy the other 364 days of the year. But I've never stood in my closet and called out, "Hey, Babe! Have you seen my edible underwear and tassles? I've got to be at the PTO meeting in ten minutes!"

"But I don't want to dress like a tramp," I whined. "Why can't I be Kleenex?"

"No," he shook his head.

So we were off to the Halloween store.

"Look! They have a slimy green wig! That would be perfect for a booger!" I jumped up and down with excitement.

"No," he shook his head, holding up a piece of thong-cloth and a purple wig. I nearly barfed on a guy in the clown costume from "IT".

I don't get it. My husband wants me to look classy and respectable any other time. Why does he want me looking like trash on Halloween? He'd never let me go to Target in a garter belt and thigh boots. Why does he suddenly want me to dress like this?

We spent nearly two hours in that store. Hubs did a lot of begging. I did a lot of refusing. The music was so loud, and the crowds were so ridiculous, that I nearly had a panic attack. I had to go outside to get some fresh air.

"Just pick something out! I'm going to the car!" I declared, no longer caring what kind of gaudy outfit he picked for me. I just wanted to go home.

When he exited the store, with a cheshire grin, I knew I was destined to look like a slut puppy.

He opted to be the Big Bad Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood.

Of course I got stuck as Little Red Light District Riding Hood

Don't let the smile fool you. Hubs had to take this picture twelveteen times because he said I looked "depressed" in the other ones. Of course I was depressed. Feeling depressed was a direct result of feeling cheap. I'm a mother of two. I shouldn't be galavanting around in such attire. I just wanted to be a Kleenex. A white wholesome tissue.

I'm not trying to post this photo because I secretly think I look awesome. I think I look like a flipping moron. I just pray that this fine piece of photography doesn't find it's way under my son's best friend's mattress in 15 years.

I've heard the story of Little Red a million times, and I never pictured this trash bag skipping through the woods with her basket full of contraception and penicillin. I look more like a Swedish bar maid with a case of the Clap. The front of the shirt laces up, for goodness sakes.

Thankfully it turned out to be a freezing cold night, and the party was outside, so I wore my long pea coat most of the time.

When we got home, I tossed the skank threads in a bottom drawer, hoping that Hubs forgets I ever wore such a thing. But I already know that after a few beers, smack dab in the middle of July, the memory of this costume will resurface, and I will hear, "Hey, baby. what happened to that Red Riding Hood costume? I will put on the wolf suit."

I'd rather wear the gown from the wolf suit.

Moving on.

Here's a photo of my little ninjas. They constantly shout "hi-ya" while wearing this. They went all ninja on the neighbor's inflatable black cat, too. I've got to get these kids in karate. They have some awesome Nylock-fighting skills.

Happy Halloween. May your blood sugar stay relatively high.