abandoning pretense: three pints of glitter and some electrical tape

It’s Halloween, my loyal so-and-sos! The one day a year when we can indulge our inner demons, wreak havoc wherever we please, and let our secret psychos come out to play, all with the lame and yet somehow perfectly acceptable excuse of “What? It’s Halloween.”

This Halloween I thought it would be fun to have sexy, scary guest blogger Kristen Mae of Abandoning Pretense stop in and share with us a hilarious and ghoulish story of a costume party gone afoul. (Okay, it’s not really that “ghoulish” of a story. And “gone afoul” is a bit of an overestimation. But trust me. You *will* laugh your pants off. So before you start reading, make sure you’re wearing your sluttiest Halloween panties.)

(That goes for the men, too.)

(What? It’s Halloween.)

Let’s read! And when you’re done, don’t forget to check out:


Happy Halloween!hard-returngif

Three Pints of Glitter and Some Electrical Tape

I got my husband to attend the charitable Halloween ball by highlighting “open bar” on the invitation and leaving it on the sofa arm for him to discover. That way he would think the whole thing was his idea, and never suspect my secret hankering to slather glitter all over myself.

That was the easy part. The tough part was figuring out a couples costume—I was flexible, as long as I got to wear a metric ton of glitter. My husband, on the other hand, wanted to go as a scary monster (i.e., wear jeans, a t-shirt and the horrifying mask we have hidden high in our coat closet because our eight-year-old pisses his pants every time someone mentions it.) I vetoed this option, because:

  • I knew my husband would try to show the scary mask to our son right before ditching him with the babysitter, and no way was I going to do that to the poor kid… or my son.
  • How was he supposed to brainstorm million-dollar inventions with strangers over cocktails while wearing a rubber mask? Luck equals opportunity plus preparation. There are no masks in that equation.
  • He wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate how sparkly I was through his mask.

“Scary monster” was my husband’s only contribution to costume ideas. After that, he flapped his hands at me like a territorial praying mantis and grumbled something along the lines of “I don’t freaking care, just pick something for me and I’ll wear it.

So I scoured the Internet for couples costume ideas, but most of them were crazy and elaborate and required a hefty investment of money, time, and Pinterest-worthy craftiness (think “giant pair of dice” or “sexy Tarzan and Jane” with leaves barely covering the tender parts). I needed something that was both cheap and lazy, but still awesome.

When I stumbled across the Tooth Fairy and Kid Who Just Lost a Tooth idea, I knew we had a winner. I already had a dress that could pass as something a fairy would wear, so that left plenty of room in the budget for three huge pints of glitter. Besides that, I only needed to buy adult-sized wings. (I tried on my toddler’s tiny dress-up wings and, surprisingly, they looked weird.)


To make his part of the costume work, my husband only needed to wear pajamas—which I thought he would find very pleasing given his general lack of interest in the whole costume-choosing endeavor. All he really needed to do was put some crap over his tooth to black it out, and carry around a teddy bear and security blanket. BOOM. The perfect Tooth Fairy and Kid Who Just Lost a Tooth costume. We would be the most adorable couple at the party.

The big night arrived and I was frothing at the mouth with anticipation. I hadn’t glittered since I was an undergrad, and since motherhood had depleted me of all my regular human woman sparkle, I was determined to twinkle intensely enough to blind at least a few people.

Unfortunately, my husband was having trouble getting the tooth-blackout makeup I’d bought to stay on his front tooth, and he kept bugging me about it. “Babe,” I finally told him, “I am not finished with my glitter. You’re an engineer. I’m sure you can figure out how to make your tooth disappear.” He resolved his dilemma, very effectively I must admit, by wrapping a strip of electrical tape around one of his front teeth.

We arrived late to the party and had to park about four streets away. Fortunately for me and my feet—which were stuffed into heels for the first time since getting pregnant three years prior—a shuttle was circling the neighborhood to bring far-parkers around to the party, which was being held in the backyard garden of a historic riverside home.

When the shuttle was about halfway to the party, my husband suddenly turned to me in a panic and said: “Honey, did you remember my blanket and teddy bear?” After I slapped the gross off myself from hearing him ask that icky question, I glared at him and said, “It’s not my job to keep track of your stuff, remember? We’ve been having this conversation for ten years!

After a brief debate as to the direness of the blanket/teddy bear situation, we agreed that my husband could do without them. I reassured him that he still very clearly lacked a front tooth, and as long as he stood beside me—obviously a tooth fairy—people would “get it.”

We should have turned around and gotten the stupid costume props. Everyone at the party was decked out like it was Vegas. There was a Black Swan, various creepy zombies, some sexy nurses, a few outright hookers, werewolves, doctors, giant babies sucking coffee mug-sized pacifiers, and more. Not a single person was without an elaborate costume.

Not a picture of the actual party, but close enough. You get the gist.
Not a picture of the actual party, but close enough. You get the gist.

As for my husband and I, the entire evening was a repeat of the same conversation:

“Oh, you look SO pretty and sparkly! Perfect fairy!”

“Aw, thanks!” Then I would subtly jerk my head at my husband in a silent plea for the party-goer to try and figure out just what kind of fairy I was.

The person would inevitably turn to my husband with a confused look on his or her face and say, “Hold on. Lemme guess. A homeless person? No? Hmm… a college kid? Oh, I know! A junkie! Not that either? Hmm… I dunno. Hey, what happened to your tooth? Did you have a bad fall or something? Or is that just a big piece of spinach? Here, lemme get it for you. Hold still.”

Each time the conversation occurred, I stood to the side, mildly concerned that I’d dressed my husband like a meth-addicted homeless college student for Halloween, but my mouth was exploding with too much empanada for me to give enough damn to rectify the situation. My husband got pretty irritated that only my half of the costume had worked out, but I pointed out that he’d had zero interest in the costume selection up to 30 minutes before it was time to leave for the party. However, in a gesture of compassion, I suggested he go ahead, take the electrical tape off his tooth (it was inhibiting his eating), and get comfortable. Dejectedly, he insisted the blacked-out tooth was the only indication that he’d put in any effort at all.

I’m pretty sure this was what people were saying about us.

The party wasn’t a total bust, though. I kept the beer in ready supply, and soon my husband and I were shaking up the dance floor, me pretending I didn’t have eighteen blisters on my squashed feet while poking everyone in the eyes with my fairy wings (told you I would blind people!), and my husband grinning next to me like a drunk fool, his missing tooth on full display. Oh, and it rained.

By the end of the evening, I’d given up on shoes and decided to just limp back to the car barefoot and wet, leaning on my inebriated gap-toothed husband, hair sticking to the sides of my face.

“Did you have at least a little bit of fun?” I asked him, feeling guilty for roping him into attending the event in the first place.

“Eh. It was okay.”

“Maybe next time we could just donate.”

“Or hope the party’s inside.”

“And you can choose your own costume.”

“Yes! I’ll wear my scary mask.”

“Anything but the mask, sweetie. How would you talk to people through that thing? And how would you be able to see how glittery I am?”

He sighed. “Ugh. Who cares? I’ll just let you pick.”

“Sounds good.”


When Kristen Mae isn’t running absurdly long distances, washing poop out of her dog’s butt-hair, or taming her two booger-machines, she’s tossing her expensive Master of Music Performance degree out the window by feverishly attacking her “writing career.” She is a regular contributor at Nickmom.comBluntMoms.com, Mamapedia.comMamalode.com, and ScaryMommy.com. Her writing has also been featured Huffington Post and HotMessMom.com. In addition to her blog, Kristen shares hilarious and heart-warming tidbits of her life on her Facebook pageGoogle+Twitter, and Pinterest.


Photo credits:
“Tooth Fairy Man”: http://www.amazon.com/Tooth-Fairy-Costume-Chest-48-53/dp/B001ODU9U8/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&qid=1444315748&sr=8-9&keywords=tooth+fairy+costume+man — Modified
“Costume Party Attendees”: CC BY 2.0; File: VFS Makeup Design Students display Halloween makeup on Urban Rush.jpg; Uploaded by Flickr upload bot; Created: 29 October 2010 — Modified
“More Costume Party Attendees”: Halloween 2010 – By Armando Salum, Veracruz; Date 8 November 2010; Source originally posted to Flickr as “Beater Clown & La Catrina”; Author Eduardo Pavon; This image, which was originally posted to Flickr.com, was uploaded to Commons using Flickr upload bot on 11:41, 27 November 2010 (UTC) by Infrogmation (talk). On that date it was licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license. — Modified

12 Replies to “abandoning pretense: three pints of glitter and some electrical tape”

      1. I hear you on the hard- to -get -rid -of -glitter problem. I totally agree with that guy on the internet who once said “Glitter is the herpes of the crafting world.”
        It’s just that time of the year for glittery things: we’ll have our herpes-shedding Christmas tree up soon!

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