When Married People Try To Spice Things Up OR Being A Vampire Is Not As Easy As It Sounds

Marriage is NOT easy. Sometimes, you have to spice things up one sexy vampire costume at a time…

My husband and I are going to a Halloween party – a sexy Halloween party, not a trashy sexy Halloween party like you might imagine they’d have on one of those┬áReal World type reality shows. No, this one’s going to be more like an “Angelina Jolie from Mr. and Mrs. Smith” sexy Halloween party, or like if Cirque Du Soleil hosted a Halloween party, or like an “Eyes Wide Shut minus the blatant orgies, but still mysterious and fairly risque” Halloween party. I think you are getting the picture.

When two people have been together for a long time – almost twenty-five years, for example – sometimes they need spice things up a little. And yes, I did go for a ride on the back of my husband’s motorcycle the other day. For me, that was HUGE. In general, I’m not into crashing and having my legs run over by a truck. Sadly, that happens to motorcyclists occasionally. Thus, my husband should count himself lucky that I even went.

We’ve also been to a nude beach once (YIKES), and taken salsa lessons. What’s next, you ask? How about a key party with The Rock and his wife. I’m just putting it out there, in case The Rock’s wife ever reads this. Oh wait, apparently The Rock doesn’t have a wife anymore. That’s so unfortunate. Call me, Dwayne. ­čśë

OK, so back to the Halloween party. As it is usually the woman who decides what will be worn to these sorts of events – men don’t usually give a damn – I’ve decided that my husband and I will be going as vampires. Not Twilight vampires, more like Blade Trinity vampires, Underworld vampires, or Brad Pitt in Interview With The Vampire vampires.

The costumes I’ve picked out are simple. My husband will wear leather pants – fitted but not too tight – some kind of silky shirt, gold contact lenses, and “small but still recognizable as vampire” fangs. I will be wearing a white blonde “you mess with me, I’ll fucking bite your throat” wig, a black leather corset top with collar (very important), black leather shorts, fishnet stockings, and a pair of hot black stilettos.

Sounds pretty good, right? Yeah, so here’s the problem. (At our house, there’s ALWAYS a problem.)

Yesterday, the corset part of my costume arrived. I ordered it online a few weeks ago. I couldn’t find exactly what I was looking for anywhere around here. I mean, come on, we live in Ottawa, not New York City, or even Montreal. The problem with ordering stuff online is that sometimes it doesn’t fit. The “boobal” area (for lack of a better word), was a little more puckery than it should be. So now, I have to go to my tailor and get her to fix it – because there’s no way in hell that I could do it – ipso facto, she’s probably going to think I am some sort of extreme “we have a dungeon in our basement” weirdo.

Just for the record, we DON’T have a dungeon in our basement. We have a squat rack, an exercise bike, one big-ass television, a large and very comfortable sectional that doubles as a bed for certain frat members who are friends with my middle child, and some Berber carpet that the cats are well on their way to destroying.

When Married People Try To Spice Things Up OR Being A Vampire Is Not As Easy As It SoundsIt doesn’t really matter about the basement though. I am imagining myself at the tailor. “It’s for a Halloween costume,” I’ll say to one of the two women who work there. I’ll leave out the fact that I’ll probably wear it again in the bedroom at some point in the future, when I”m not too tired and when the kids have moved out. Of course, neither of these women need to know every single detail of my life, which is why I won’t tell them this. It’s not like I’m proclaiming it to the whole universe just now by virtue of me blogging about it. Like duh.

“The bra part needs to be adjusted.” I’ll show it to her. “It doesn’t quite fit, see?” I’ll hope to God that her male assistant isn’t there. “Maybe you could add a little bit of padding?” I ordered a B-cup, but this thing is WAY too big. Sheesh, you’d think a leather corset would come in a standard size. Nope. They make them for Megan Fox-esque, “I say I’m a B-cup just so other women don’t feel bad because my waist is literally 24 inches at most, but really I’m a C or D-cup” breasted women only.

Going to the tailor for this is going to be interesting. The women there don’t speak the best English, which means, me trying to explain myself is going to be that much worse. I’m taking my husband along for sure. If I have to suffer, so should he. We are going to this party together, after all.


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Some People Are Still Afraid Of Chucky

Funny how sometimes, one thing can lead to something completely different. Yesterday at our house, it went from carving large birds to killer dolls.

You see, Thanksgiving is coming, and like so many others, we are having a bunch of people over for dinner tomorrow, which means we’ve started cooking.

Potatoes, corn, asparagus, turnip, carrots, pumpkin pie, stuffing, and of course, turkey. We cooked one last night, and we’ll make another one tomorrow just so we have enough. People eat like horses around here. At least Charles does.

Anyway, we were preparing the bird, when the talk of big knives began…

“I wouldn’t want to be stabbed with a big knife.” It was my husband, stating what is probably a sentiment most people would agree with. I mean, I don’t think anyone likes┬ágetting stabbed.

“No, me neither,” I replied.

“Especially not by a little person,” he went on.

“Little person? How likely is that?” What was he talking about? My husband is strange sometimes. “Well, at least they probably couldn’t jab you very hard,” I answered. “Nor could they likely reach beyond your waist – like they couldn’t stab you in the heart – unless of course, they were standing on a chair, but then that would take time to organize. You could run away by then.”

“Chucky. I just don’t like Chucky.” His eyes were big. He looked afraid.


“That doll from the horror movie in the 80’s?” Ah, so now I understood. It was like he was reliving his childhood again, except when the movie came out, he was nineteen. I needed to help him out.

“Chucky is from New Jersey. How’s a toddler supposed to get to where we live?”┬áLogic. I hit ’em with it every time, and it usually makes things better. Lucky for me, at that moment, it did, and we could get on with the holiday.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He let out a big sigh of relief, and went back to cooking.


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