For the past two weeks I’ve been relocating every single piece of shit that I own – and then some – into the all new Chowderpad. Forgive me. For those who care, I’m still very much alive.
I decided to spend the first night that I didn’t have to run out and buy ‘stuff’ by testing the smoke alarm in my 600 sq. ft. dwelling. It works. Not only is it loud, but there are two of them that beep at the same time. They talk too. A female voice told me to stop cooking and to exit the building immediately along with all of my pissed off neighbors.
After about ten minutes of listening to the incessant, loud beeping, I decided to just turn the radio on. I couldn’t find the clicker to change the hippy-music station that was on but quickly decided that it was the way to drown out the sound. My new neighbors have two good reasons to hate me now.
After a couple songs I realized why I prefer head banging and mosh pits over club and booty-grinding music. A flood of awkward memories drifted into my subconscious, and one of the memories that stood out was my 8th grade Halloween Dance.
I remember being absolutely stoked. Not just because Halloween is my favorite holiday, but because it was the first legit school dance ever. It was gonna be off the hizzy for shizzy: costumes, decorations, spiked punch, chicks and heavy metal and shit. But heavy on the chicks part. All I needed was a sweet-ass costume to reel ‘em in…
The days leading up to the big dance peeled off the calendar, and before I knew it, I was cart-wheeling out of my mom’s Caravan in front of the school in a badass Zorro getup. (Editors Note: You pussy.)
Ok, two things:
1.) A Marketing professor once told me that minivans are appealing to women because they look like a pregnant woman. Ironically, that man was never married.
2.) And never go to a middle school dance dressed as Zorro.
My cape fluttered as I stormed through the front hall of the school. I could hear the music blaring from inside the gym as I excitedly gave my event pass to the ticket zombie (volunteer mom).
The hallway leading to the music was decorated with hundreds of Black and Orange balloons, spider webs, skeletons, monsters, event posters and a few stragglers outside the gym. Everybody turned as I stormed past. It was definitely the badass costume, I thought. I was a virtual clone of the dashing Zorro, but with less chest hair and more pimples, and probably a boner too.
After turning many heads I exploded into the entrance of the gym, took two steps inside the door and stopped dead in my tracks. It was at that moment when I realized I was the only clown in the whole gym dressed up – and not just any Halloween costume – one that involved a cape, pleather boots, a penciled-on mustache and black tights. That my mom made.
I back peddled before anyone really noticed but they saw. They saw everything. The mustache is probably what really burned me. Or maybe it was the black nylons.
There I stood, in a dark corner of the hallway out of sight, contemplating my exit plan. My heart felt like it was gonna blow up and start my face on fire. Was there a memo that went out that I didn’t get or something? I thought it was Halloween?
My sweaty fingers peeled the mask off, exposing flush skin on my cheeks and forehead. In milliseconds I’d gone from standing on top of the world to having the world standing on top of me – smashing the hollow toe-tips of my fake leather boots.
At this point I didn’t have an inconspicuous way out unless I spontaneously combusted and the janitor swept up my ashes and dumped my dust pile in the bin. I couldn’t go back in that gym. At the other end of the hallway I noticed a Ping-Pong table full of uber dorks. Go figure – they were all wearing costumes. Clearly, this is where I belonged.
I just stood there watching geeks whiffing and digging boogers. Then they argued. Then they whiffed. Then they argued. In the meantime I stood there shamefully peeling off layers of my once-proud costume. All I could think was just blend in, Chowderhead, just blend in. Pretend you are coat rack or something.
And that’s how I spent the rest of the night…
Everyone has a ridiculously funny story from their awkward middle school years like this. What an awkward time transitioning from kid to adult. But the moral here is it’s important to never ever ever stop being a kid. 😉
– Happy Blogging, you dorky Chowderheads \m/
- I Hate Middle-School Dances. (thekab69.wordpress.com)
- We’ve Got a Situation Here – The Situation Costume That Is (costumesupercenter.com)