The Tiki God(father)*

Anyone who knows me knows I love costume parties. Unfortunately, the only time I have the opportunity to go to one anymore is on Halloween. But, back in college, there were always sorority and fraternity theme parties going on so I got to put together a costume about twice a month.

Shrek was not a fan of costume parties and would often bail out of going to mine at the last minute. Several times, he would listen to me all week carry on about how excited I was for the party, nod and smile, then wait until an hour before the buses left the night of the event to tell me he was too tired/busy/sick/whatever to accompany me. This would piss the hell out of me and I would go to the parties anyway and spend the night macking on his friends (you’ve got to appreciate the mature, healthy relationship we had).

Then the day I never expected arrived: the day of a party rolled around and Shrek had not bailed on me yet. The theme: Mafia Madness. Shrek and I spent the afternoon at the costume store to find accessories and such to wear to the party. I was stoked when I found some cute mid-sized squirt guns that I would later fill with a bottle of vodka. I also found a hobby horse for pretty cheap that I could cut the head off of and carry around.

Shrek was not impressed with my awesome finds. He told me the squirt guns were a dumb idea and wouldn’t work. Apparently no one would get the horse head either (because, you know, Godfather movies are obscure). In addition to not liking the items I had picked for myself, he did not like the ones I picked for him—a gangster hat, suspenders, a water gun. He spent a very long time milling around the store, ignoring any suggestions I made.

At last, he found something that caught his interests: a bamboo walking cane. No, really. I explained that this really didn’t fit in with the theme. And he insisted it was a good idea. He proceeded to buy an entire luau get-up. The explanation he offered was that he was a retired mafia boss living in Florida. Huh?

I consider myself an expert in costume parties and as such, I feel that my advice is superior to anyone else's on the matter. One thing that I always think about when I put together a costume is “Will people look at this and instantly know what it is?” A costume should not need a story to go with it. It should be obvious what the wearer is trying to be. If someone asks you what your costume is, that means you failed at dressing yourself.

When we arrived at the party, everyone loved my horse head and totally coveted my vodka guns, especially when the lame-ass bar decided to crack-down on the underage drinking at the party (which is unheard of in New Orleans).

People at the party looked at him like he was retarded. I drank myself into oblivion via my vodka guns (which I refused to share with Shrek because he told me it was a dumb idea). Very few people even bothered to ask about his costume. The ones who did asked if he was told the wrong theme.

By the end of the night, Shrek was running around telling people that the reason he was in a Hawaiian get-up was because I am a bitch and thought it would be funny to get him to come to the party in an inappropriate costume, so I told him it was a luau-themed party. Right. Because I totally wanted people to think I am dating a retard.

Someone went home very sober and very alone that night.

* We had some fun naming this entry. CCG was the creator of the title used, but a close second was one I came up with: "Say 'Hello' to my (retarded) little friend." Clearly, this is the inferior of the two titles, but it merits a mention anyway.