After much coercing and whining on my part, Mr. Wonderful and his roommate agreed to have a Halloween party on Friday. So, a few weekends ago, Mr. W and I went on a search for spooky decorations, a fog machine, and the perfect costume (for him, of course—mine’s been planned for months).
We started out at Cinema Secrets in Burbank, where I tried to coerce him into getting a Spartan outfit that would show off his shapely calves, but he poo-pooed that idea. His interest piqued at an Italian Carnival masquerade mask, but it was $175, so that was out.
At our second stop in Glendale, I immediately made him try on (and buy, for a later date) a Batman mask. He wasn’t down with wearing the whole batsuit (shucks), but he agreed to indulge my fantasy at some point with the spiky-eared headgear. We wandered through aisles and aisles of options, and he pondered each one very carefully. I thought he’d make a great 80’s rocker; he wasn’t feeling Bret Michaelish enough. I suggested being a deranged chef; he reminded me that cooking is a very serious matter. Most everything I offered, he shot down.
And then we saw what will be his costume on Friday night.
My sweet, soft-spoken, precious little Mr. W picked one of the most obnoxious get-ups in the entire Halloween superstore. He’s being Dr. Grabwell, the gynocologist. He will be wearing scrubs on his body, and on his head, a silver box with a sort of figure 8 cut out over his face that says “Free mammograms. Place breasts here.” I call it: The Boobie Helmet.
Would I have ever expected him to go from caped Carnival masquerade guy to boobs-in-the-face man? No. Did I immediately tell him that if any girls stick their boobs in his face, I’m punching them? Yes. Will I be getting a free mammogram from him at some point? Most likely.