My husband asked me to take him shopping the other day. Believe it or not, that never happens. We shop differently. He goes to the hardware store and comes out empty-handed. I go to the mall and buy everything. But this time, he wanted me to come along because he wanted my opinion -- another first.
"I need makeup," he said, as we headed out the door.
Oookay. What could he possibly need makeup for? To cover up the scratches in the kitchen table? Don't they have something at the hardware store for that?
"And I need it to match my skin tone," he continued.
Then it dawned on me. We'd recently been invited to a Halloween party and he was planning his costume. At least, I hoped that was it.
I haven't been to a Halloween party since I was young and thin enough to fit into a French maid costume. There's no way I can wear any of those sexy outfits as a middle-aged woman. First of all, they wouldn't fit around my middle-aged fat. And secondly, no one wants to see my sun-spotted skin, thunder thighs and beer/wine/coffee gut protruding out from that skimpy material. There will be no more Naughty Nurse, Bawdy Barmaid or Pretty Princess costumes for me. Now, if you want a hospital custodian, drunken old sot or weight-challenged witch, call me.
"So what are you planning to wear to this Halloween party?" I asked, worried he might be thinking of going as a Naughty Nurse, Bawdy Barmaid or Pretty Princess.
"A Meth Dealer." That made complete sense. We've been so caught up in marathon viewings of "Breaking Bad," it seems like Walter White and Jesse Pinkman are part of the family. As for the meth part, we're not sure what that is exactly. Probably some kind of metaphor for life.
"I've got the baldhead cap," my husband said, "but I need it to blend into my skin so it looks real."
"I see," I said. "As for the rest of the costume, you're not planning to go in your tighty whiteys like Walter White, are you? Because there's no way I'm going out in public with you in your underwear."
"Fine," he said, channeling his character. "I'll wear pants."
"So," I said, "if you're going to be Mr. White, the chemistry-teacher-turned meth-cook, do you want me to go as his beautiful wife?"
"I was thinking you'd be Jesse Pinkman, Walter White's assistant." What? He expected me to wear baggy, low-slung jeans with my boxers showing, a T-shirt that says, "Yo, Witch!" (edited for the family newspaper), an oversized hoodie and a knitted stocking cap? Works for me. Hopefully no one will recognize me.
Tom is totally into this costume. In fact, he plans to "cook" his own blue crystal candy (he got the recipe on The Food Network site.) I just hope there are no DEA agents there, or we may have to call Saul to bail us out of jail.
Oh well. It's only for a few hours, right? Then we can go home, eat a bunch of leftover Halloween candy and watch the last episode of the best TV show ever: "Breaking Bad."