For Halloween last week I dressed in a '60s dress and white go go boots. I've actually worn this costume several times before. The beauty of moving around constantly, you see, is you can recycle old Halloween costumes and no one is the wiser. I balked at the $40 price tag of those boots four years ago, but they've actually turned out to be a pretty solid investment. I think I'll move again next year just so I can wear them again. Anyway, I used to do the frosted pale pink lipstick and light blue eye shadow combo for authenticity's sake, but a quick look at previous years' photos showed me that that shit does not look good. I don't know who can pull that look off, but it's not me. I figured I was already at a disadvantage because I wasn't going as a "slutty" '60s go go dancer, but I had long since come to the realization that without cleavage, I would never be able to dress as a "slutty" anything. Plus, the dress used to be my grandmother's in the '60s, so while it was super cute and flower powery, it was still fairly modest. Given my relative disadvantage, I figured the least I could do was make sure my makeup looked good. So I threw out the frosted shit and got friendly with some liquid eyeliner and dark smudgy shadow, put on a coat of my regular lipstick and gloss and clomp-squeaked out the door in my $40 plastic boots. Pros: polyester and plastic are warm. No need for a coat tonight. Cons: dear god air, I need some air. Can't somebody please open a window?
So I'm standing around at this hot-as-balls party, and there's about a million people, most of whom I am towering over in my platform clomp-squeaker boots. So I am feeling a tad circus freakish (Yes, nothing to see here folks, just a six foot tall woman, let's move it along), but not altogether bad about myself. At least my makeup looks good, I think, and so I am feeling relatively fresh and sassy and ready for whatever. So when some guy says to me, "Has anyone ever told you..." I get all revved up. Ooooh, a compliment! I think.
"Yeeeeeeeeessssss," I smile. "Go ooooonnnnnnnnnn..."
"...that you look like..."
"Yeeeessss?" I purr.
Across the room a record scratched and a roomful of dancers collectively stopped and let their mouths fall open, and then slowly buried their heads in their hands. Or maybe that was just me. "No, no no no," I murmured into my palms, shaking my head slowly back and forth. "No no no no no!" I brushed away tears and finally removed my hands to face my assailant. He looked fairly stunned.
"What?" he said. "I...I like Kathy Griffin."
"Never..." I said.
"She...she's really funny," he stuttered.
"First of all," I said, "she's not funny. Second of all, you never, ever, EVER tell a girl that she looks like Kathy Griffin."
"I...I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not from this country." And he shrugged his shoulders with a helpless, "look at me, I'm a foreigner in a strange land" smile.
Puh-leese, Pradeep. I have played that game before, the "oh woe, what is an American girl ignorant of your customs to do?" charade. But unless Indian tastes in humor and asthetics tend toward the bizarre and macabre, then I have the distinct feeling that I'm being punked right now.
In retrospect, it was probably my fault for trying to do cat eyes eyeliner.
But really, Internet, I have to interject to insist here that I look nothing, and I mean nothing at all like Kathy Griffin.
Yeah? Who's funny now, Kathy Griffin? Look at these jazz hands! Who's funny now???