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 Real 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. 😉
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.
It 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.