Last year I went to the WORST Halloween party. For starters, it was thrown by a lesbian couple in recovery, so it was a completely alcohol-free event. I was the only guest who wasn’t in NA. Having been to these get-togethers previously, it should be noted: being sober doesn’t prohibit this crowd from getting totally fucked-up on energy drinks and acting hammered, possibly in fond yet frustrated recollection of their former party days.
The only thing I was really looking forward to was my costume.
I had decided to dress up as a “binder of women.” I got the idea from the internet. I was less motivated by the questionable dig at Mitt Romney (for having referred to binders of applications from female candidates as “binders full of women” and subsequently spawning countless memes) than I was by the fact that I already had a huge “box of women” in my basement from a previous costume. (One year I thought that I was super-cool by tying dolls all over my body and being a chick-magnet…just like everyone else did that year.)
My costume was extremely well-received with a great deal of enthusiasm. A great deal of VAGUE enthusiasm.
“Oh, look at that, ha ha ha ha ha, that’s awesome,” a slutty cat complimented.
“Ha ha, cool,” her friend, Honey Boo Boo, agreed. “Uhm, what is it?”
“Uhm…” she deliberated, on the spot, “doll…house?”
“You could be the book Little Women,” Honey Boo offered.
“Great whorehouse!” Fred Flintstone, added joining the discussion.
“Oh my GOD, a BINDER OF WOMEN,” someone finally figured out on their own, eliciting some confused agreement and obligatory chuckles from a room full of people who still didn’t actually know what I was.
I realized that if I stood in a corner and folded my little foam-board binders backwards, that I could actually convert my costume into a safe little hideaway, and so I did that, drawing myself into a tight little ball, like a turtle drawing itself into the safety of its shell. I was in the process of spiking my own punch behind the walls of my costume-fort when Mario and Luigi (the couple hosting) announced that this year’s party would feature a costume contest –complete with a trophy–thus effectively renewing my interest.
I poked my head out long enough to size-up the competition. Most of the costumes were stupid: Barbie and Ken, some girls dressed as skanks (although I will issue praise to the one in the Octoberfest costume who proudly declared “I’m fat Heidi Klum!”), a dead Hooters girl…the only real problem that I foresaw was the ugly Real Housewife of New Jersey, also known as: the Alpha-homosexual.
I hate the Alpha-homosexual. He wants to sleep with my husband. He’s very good at living up to the preconceived stereotypes of the fun-loving, fabulous, witty gay. He’s the kind that will unabashedly impersonate a loud Italian reality television star while dressed like a woman for the sake of solicited laughter, which he feeds on like stem cells. I am not. I am the person that pouts about their costume and manages to drink alone at a party where there’s no alcohol being served.
Regardless, I pulled myself together and began working that room, feigning interest in the other partygoers and exploiting them the way that one can only do when there’s a prize. I catered to their political beliefs without admitting any of my own, allowing them to infer that we were on the same page. I invited Barbie to be one of the women in my binder. I passed out Red Bull. I told the skanks that they were sexy, and not skanks.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched the hairy-legged real housewife lip-synching for an audience, letting Jesus grab his fake boobs and slap him on the ass. I began handing out Barbie dolls, as bribes.
The fact that I lost the costume contest was not as surprising to me as the fact that I lost really, really HARD. I tied, with a “French kiss,” for sixth place. I was furious. I lost to Barbie. I lost to Ken. Fourth place went to a seven-months-pregnant woman who had painted her stomach like a jack-o-lantern. So, in essence, I lost to a fetus. The runner-up was a grundle hair. A fucking grundle hair. I lost to a grundle hair. I had to make my costume with a staple gun and insulated wire, and all he did was write on a t-shirt. Grundle hair, my ass. Literally.
“He deserved to win,” I overheard someone say, as the king-queen collected his prize. “He stayed in character all night.”
“I loove you awlllll,” announced her majesty. ”Y’erall as Italian as tha Awwwwlive Gardennnnn.”