Speaking of whores… October 27, 2006

My friends have gathered up fishnet stockings and push-up bras and tiny costumes (“um, I’m pretty sure that referees don’t wear mini-skirts” “shut up”) in anticipation of this weekend.

No, I’m not going to rant about how Halloween is actually Dress Like a Dirty Whore Day because, up until last year, I was one of those dirty whores. I was a dirty whore in fishnet tights and a push up bra and a barely-there police officer “uniform,” handcuffing myself to cute boys and writing tickets for being “too hot.” The fines ranged from a shot to a beer to a kiss.

This year, on top of being domesticated, I am also sick. And being sick in my apartment just doesn’t cut it (no one should have to heat up their own soup when they’re sick, they should add that shit to the constitution). So I’m going home to New Jersey to be taken care of by my mom (“My poor baby! What can I get you? DVD’s? Tea? A blanket? I know. I’ll bake an apple pie. And some apple crisp. Apple cake too? No? Too much?”) and my dad (“Your mother’s insane. Here’s $150. You know, for the bills. *Wink.*”)

The Boy is coming with, because he too could use a little suburban downtime. He’s slightly disappointed, however, about the fact that he won’t get to see me prance around in a tiny pair of orange shorts and a Hooters football jersey at a party this weekend, as previously promised. He’s all “you sure you don’t want me to run over and get the outfit for you? Just in case? You know? In case your parents decide to throw an impromptu Halloween party? Or something?”

Little does he know I have already purchased the Hooters girl get-up and, despite being morally opposed to almost everything the restaurant stands for, I will be debuting it on the evening of his birthday in mid-November. What can I say, I aim to please. And also, I surprisingly look pretty good in orange.