You know what was great about the Milk Glass Halloween party?
It’s also the worst thing about the party because here’s the thing. I pretty much made out with everyone at the party.
Well, mostly women OR SO I THOUGHT until I ran into Fantastic Mr. Fox at school drop-off on Friday.
Seriously, I was forcing myself on just about any (woman) that would let me in her personal space.
Don’t ask me why because at this point in time I might have a few ideas about what got into me but I’m sure as hell not elaborating about it here.
Let’s just say that I really wanted everyone to know what an exceptional kisser I am.
I figure that since I was just smooching women, it’s no big deal. Right?
The only thing is that I can’t remember who I smooched.
This is a problem because I can’t really tell who was at the party. I know which of my friends were there but the other people? Hell if I know.
So I’m in this major state of anxiety because when I’m at the school and someone walks past me and gives me a weird look I don’t know if it’s because they are squicked out by the fact that I force-frenched them and now they are questioning my/their sexuality, or if they are just looking weird because they look weird.
Me. All the time.
Do you see my problem?
The only thing worse than getting drunk and making out with a bunch of people at a party is NOT REMEMBERING WHICH ONES YOU MADE OUT WITH. Every single person I see at school might be a person I have to apologize to.
Me: Uh, were you at the party?
Person At School: No
Me: You missed out. It was fantastic! (Oh thank god)
Me: Uh, were you at the party?
Person At School: Yes
Me: Did we … uh … I … um … did I … sorry.
It’s the worst fucking part! Did I or didn’t I? Hell if I know.
Loony is no help because he’s just making fun of me and letting me sit in my own poopy diaper.
And the one woman that I was SURE I had made out with, I didn’t make out with!
I know this because I went over to her house the next day to apologize and she was all, “We didn’t make out. My husband told me that you told him that we made out but we didn’t.”
Me: No. I’m sure we did.
Her: Nope. We were dancing and this guy was videoing us and he yelled at my husband when he got in the way. Then he asked you if you would make out with his wife and you said okay.
Me: So what happened?
Her: I think you made out with his wife. Then you transferred that memory onto me.
Me: Well that’s a relief. Who was the guy and wife?
Her: No idea.
As for my friend’s husband (who is smoking hot) I left him alone because despite my condition, I have serious boundaries about my friends’ hot husbands.
I’m not going there. Not even in jest.
Your husbands are safe!
But he was wearing this crazy costume that had a huge headpiece and I couldn’t see his face so I just went under it and, you know, conversation.
Seriously. We talked about very stupid stuff.
Well, I talked about stupid stuff and he was like, “Okay. That’s nice Viv. Can I have my personal space back?”
But according to his wife (and apparently other people in the room) it didn’t exactly look like that.
At the time I felt like there was lots of room under that mask but the next time I saw it I kind of wondered what the hell I was thinking. Not much space.
But I stand by my assertion that all that went on under there was awkwardly close talking.
And Nina. She rocked pasties at the party which was pretty fucking rad.
But if you know Nina you will know that
1) this is a stretch for her and
2) Nina is rather, er, assertive about everything
3) doesn’t have a bisexual bone in her body. I mean, she’ll tell you tout suite that your ass looks fine in those Bad Kitty pole shorts, but still,
4) groping her boobies probably isn’t a good idea.
In fact, she rather humorlessly told me (at the outset of the party) to keep my hands the hell off her boobs.
Her husband wasn’t allowed to touch them for crying out loud!
So guess what happened?
Nina generously let me off the hook.
Aw shucks, Nina. I’m glad to know you aren’t furious with me because I don’t want to see you angry at me.
Moving right along.
I’m sorry about jumping on the performance artist to dressed up like a dog.
For some reason I just had roll around on the floor with him because he was so big and shaggy and didn’t have a face.
But he seemed kind of scared of me and the way he cowered in the corner should have told me that he wasn’t into it.
And I’m sorry about the giant rabbit that I wouldn’t leave alone.
No matter how much I hassled him, he wouldn’t break character because HE WAS DOING HIS JOB!
I’m sorry I didn’t get to ride the giant stilt/horse thing.
And I’m sorry that my boobs kept popping out of my corset because (and you have to believe me) I really didn’t engineer my costume that way. I even prematurely posted a self-congratulatory post about how I wasn’t going to go slutty this year.
All I had to do was move just a little and …
If you put me in a costume I become someone else, which is why I love Halloween so much.
But I’m not sorry that the bartender saw my boobs and got a “work boner” (his words, not mine) because clearly it wasn’t upsetting him.
And I’m not sorry that I made out with that guy’s wife because, duh, he totally asked me to.
And heck, I guess I’m not that sorry that I was completely out of control because the general consensus is that people totally expect that shit from me by now and, as a rather conservative school mom said, “You can get away with it so just let it go.”
What? Permission to be a total freak? Alright!
I will say that I toned it down for the school Halloween celebration, although even my tamest work is slightly provocative and features a lot of boob.
Everyone asked me if I made this costume. To that I answer with a question: Where would one go to buy a full-body pig suit with eight suckling pigs?
Of course I made it.
Just to wrap up, here are pictures of the venue. Carly, the event planner and head of Milk Glass Productions really knocked this one out of the park.
I can’t say enough wonderful things about the decor, design, execution, staff, professionalism and creativity that went into this party. You should hire her.
Well that just about wraps up my enormous mea culpa.
Why do I document and publish these things? I once heard a wonderful quote that I hold near and dear to my heart.
“There is nothing worse than losing control of your own narrative.”
I put it out there so no one else can. I mean, they can, but it’s not like it’s something I didn’t already make public.