Wisdom from Beyond the Grave
"It's so cold," I whined, my teeth chattering behind blue lips. I was never good at maintaining a normal body temperature, so I knew that tonight, given the fruit soaked in vodka that I scarfed down in place of dinner, would be no different.
"You are not hopping the fence," said my husband firmly.
"Whatever, " I retorted dismissing his wisdom carelessly, "that's how we got here so I don't see why we should leave any differently." I hate when people imply that I can't do something. I am Superwoman, hear me roar!
I swung my leg over the fence, getting stuck mid-air momentarily by the tightness of my skirt and the pillow babies shoved in my spandex shirt, preventing full mobility of my body. I wavered trying to balance the slow cooker full of little cocktail weenies. In slow motion, I watched them swish back and forth, the few remaining dogs, choking in the barbecue bath that was supposed to serve as blood.
I thought that clearing the fence would be a cake walk even though it stood higher than my waist, and I vaguely remember having some difficulty on the way in. Unfortunately, I had foolishly forgotten a key factor (other than my tipsiness) dictating how the whole series of events were to unfold...the fishnet stockings.
They got caught on the spokes of the wrought-iron fence and pulled me into its jaws. Bam! My calf, followed by the full weight of my body (and the additional weight of the little weenies), came down on the fence spikes.
"Ouch!" I cried, stunned by the force of the blow.
"I told you," said my husband, shaking his head.
I fell to my knees, careful not to tip the dogs out onto the sidewalk--I would want those later, I was sure. I kneeled there on the cold sidewalk, weenies in hand and one leg stuck straight up in the air, secured to the fence by dollar store fishnets.
My husband unhooked me and helped me up. Not wanting him to be completely right, I fought through the pain, ignoring the trickle of blood on my leg, and tried my best to walk as though nothing had happened.
"We'll go around," I said.
"Yeah," my husband said grinning, "I think that would be good."
I can not begin to tell you how bad my leg hurts right now: 3-puncture wounds connected to 3 gashes colored by 3-large bruises.
That, my friends, is why Halloween is dangerous. It's not the ghosts or demons--it's the combination of dangerous costumes and the alcohol not normally consumed by boring people such as myself. Be careful tonight...