The Angst of the Costume Party

by Angela K. Durden
Citizen Journalist. Business writer, novelist, songwriter, and Technology inventor protecting creator's copyrights. 

I was invited to a costume party. Circa 2002. Unless I'm being paid well, I usually turn down all such invitations where I have to put on a costume. This host and hostess were not paying me, but I had to go anyway. Long story.

There was no theme to the party unless you count as a theme "You can dress up as your favorite Bible character if you want." I did not want because then I would be going as a man and I was already having enough trouble with the husband who kept saying things like, "You want to wear the pants in this family? Well, just go on ahead and do it. God forbid you should think I'm the head of this family." To which I would often reply, exasperated as I was, "You could be if you'd just act like it."

Those conversations usually devolved into long silent periods of sulking by the now-ex.

So that's why I didn't want to dress up as my favorite Bible character. But what would I go as? I thought and thought and then, ding-ding-ding, I went to Goodwill and went through the dresses and hats and sweaters. For less than twenty dollars I found the perfect outfit.

I forget what my husband went as because mostly I didn't care and I'm sure it was boring and unimaginative anyway. I was equally sure that no matter what he dressed up as, the hostess would be just melting all over him, fluffing up his ego while thumbing her nose at me. Another long story.

We arrive and, sure enough, hostess melts all over my hubby, his ego inflates and he turns to me with a condescending expression of See, SOMEbody knows I'm a man, while hostess turns to me, laughs, and says in her best Pennsylvania accent, "Oh, my GAWD. Whet er YEW?"

Many replies flashed through my mind, but I chose to not say those as they would have completely gone over both their heads, and since I don't throw pearls before swine, I said instead, "Take a guess." Leaving her to fluff his ego more, I then breezed into the kitchen to deposit a tray full of something I cooked.

Later, as guests meander from inside to outside around the pool, lots of laughing and talking and eating and drinking was commencing in fine form. Suddenly, quite loudly, hostess again says to me, ""Oh, my GAWD. Whet er YEW?"

It went suddenly quiet, everybody stopped. All looked at me. Obviously they had been wondering the same thing but did not have the courage to ask.

I took a bow and said, "Why, I'm surprised you don't know. I'm a Jewish grandmother as seen on TV."

As soon as I said that, why everybody laughed because, sure as shooting, I looked just like a typical nagging Jewish grandmother as depicted in the movies and on TV. And since the entertainment business is run by Jews, we know those are accurate depictions — at least according to all conspiracy theorists I've heard.

Here is what fellow party-goers saw.

My body was covered with a hideous flowered-print sack masquerading as a dress, cinched tight with a white belt. A floppy sunhat covered in a completely different flower pattern, also hideous and not matching the dress in any fashion, covered my head. My feet were shod with the good news of peace, that is to say, I wore brown leather sandals akin to what Jesus wore, and had on white ankle socks.

Then somebody said, "Yeah, but...you aren't...Jewish."

Somehow this person, who had dressed up as somebody they were not, and who had come to a costume party in that get-up, found it odd that I was also pretending.

That explains a lot in my life, and that is why I hate costume parties.