Grant and Halloween

Grant is pretty and all.  But he needs to get over his divorce.  And that chip on his shoulder about Mormonism.  Yoda says:  Majorly screwed up in the head he is.  And thus a perfectly good Halloween evening of Papa Murphy's, a bag of fun size snickers, and a redbox was wasted listening to him talk about what an idiot he feels like for getting involved with such a witch (but she ain't Glenda's daughter everybody).  And I totally felt bad for him....for the first fifteen minutes.  And then I got angry at him.  Because he was a pig!  And I knew better.

Oktober-Beer-Fest/Slut Costume Parade was the theme of this party.  Why I really think he called me:  he needed a designated driver.  I had to listen about what prudes (the least offensive of the name calling) Mormon girls are and he can't believe he fell for one who was so frigid.  My theme for the night:  Mercy help me, how did I get involved in this?  

Apparently, after his divorce (and I'm wondering how long after his divorce because it was just six months ago) nobody would give him a chance (poor baby...maybe because of that "I'm a raving lunatic" flag he's flying...but it could just be me?) and he became Mr. Damaged Goods rather than the Mr. Desirable he is used to being.  And then a coworker set him up with a "hot" nonmember and it all is downhill from there.

One down.  Three more holidays to go.  I think I'm coming down with a long and highly contagious case of mono this holiday season.

 

Halloween Sweaters Are Tacky

*Not Glenda (or is it?)

So are Halloween earrings.  Glenda (the not-so-good witch) is wearing both today.  Is it possible this makes her more obnoxious?

So I Get a Text Today

Hey stranger, what's up?  It says.  And its from a number I don't recognize.  

So I respond:  Who is this?  

Grant.  He responds.  Grant is from Ogden, old friend from high school, divorced.  And this was totally out of the blue.

I need a favor.  He says.

Me:  What's that?

Come with me to a Halloween party tomorrow.  I'm in a pinch.  He texts back.

In a pinch, huh?  Why's that?  I ask.  Because I haven't heard from Grant in months.  Months people.  And I hate to be his last option when he's "in a pinch."  The last I heard came in an email divorce "announcement" for lack of a better word.  Which I thought was kind of tacky, but really, how else do you get the word out so that people can avoid that awkward  "Where's your wife?"   "Oh, we're divorced now," conversation?

Please, Harper.  I'm begging.  Which is followed by a picture text of Grant on his knees begging and let me tell you, he doesn't look too shabby, that Grant.  He lost 129 pounds of blonde bimbo and that does a lot for a guy's looks.

So long story short, I am going to Halloween party numero dos tomorrow night.  Why can I not return to my reclusive state?  I am not a bowler.  I am not a party-goer.  I stay at home and enjoy my quiet peaceful life.  I hang with my family and girlfriends occasionally.  I don't go to parties.  Please let this one work out differently than last week's.  I guess it is time for a new pair of wings.

Guess Who Is Eating Her Own Words?

Me.  You know that whole recluse thing.  Well, what is it about a crush on a boy that flicks that switch to "suddenly social"?

Tommy Boy and his roommate invited folks over for a Halloween Party tonight and Tommy Boy texted yesterday and said I needed to come.  So last minute I searched through my disorganized crap closet to find some wings from an old costume and I tried to throw together some type of fairy(?) costume.  I even stopped at wal-mart and picked up false eyelashes because somehow that makes a costume official.

So I went.  And it was awful.  Too many people trying to impress too many other people.  It was loud.  The food was gross.  My eyelids now itch from the fake eyelash glue.  My left wing got bent somewhere in the night.  And all night Jen, my new enemy in the ward, flirted her cat self (she was a cat for Halloween, of course it was a "not too risque, but a little seductive" cat costume) all over Tommy Boy, who dressed as Buddy Holly (how appropriate is that, full of himself, Rivers Cuomo wanna-be).  And he was all over it, I'm quite sure.  Talking and talking and talking and more talking in the corner.  And she giggled, and he probably giggled.  And I sat with my cup of homemade rootbeer and gross hot dog and wondered how I became this crooked winged loser.

So I gave Alisa THE LOOK and she returned THE LOOK and we left early.  And Tommy Boy didn't even notice when we said goodbye.

This is why I hate social engagements.  I remember now why I stopped all that around 25.