First Burb Party: Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

Halloween brings out the freaks. So I was optimistic about finally finding the creeps and kooks hidden in my hood.

It turns out they weren't hiding at all. They paraded down the darkened streets pulling wagons of Coors Lite-filled coolers, as their little pirates and princesses, ninjas and one mailman (that would be mine) scored loot and sugar highs.

But Sugar Mama, you're thinking, Coors Lite? Isn't that water masquarading as beer for non beer drinkers who desperately yearn to be beer drinkers?

Yes. Coors Lite is not beer. It's beer-ish. Maybe Coors Lite was invented for fast drinkers unable to intake real beer at the same clip. Because the biggest Crap Lite fan of all was pounding and toasty and invited the hubs and I back to his house for a party.

In his backyard with ten other die-hards, we enjoyed a fire, more beer, and cigs. Bonus: His wife played non-stop Prince and the Revolution.

Bonus #2: HE KNOWS WHERE THE SHACK IS AND HAS HOOKED ME UP WITH AN IN. (You need an invite to enter the Shack. And a bit of snag: you also need a dick. Only a few women have been allowed in. I can only go if I have mad poker skills. All the more reason to watch my mulleted minx, Scotty Nguyen. I shall get in. Oh yes, I shall!)

So we were whooping at up to Raspberry Beret and drinking the Silver Bullet and smoking cigs and I'm finally, finally feeling the love in the suburbs and dancing with some fella on my hubs' bball team when I decide it would be a good idea for us to perform the Baby-Johhny lift. He agrees that this is the best idea EVER.

So I leave the room . . . and come sprinting back in at full speed . . . with my arms outstretched like Superman . . . to do this--

JOHNNY!



Only I don't get air. I slam into him. Oof. This move is not easy. Especially while wearing heels, post-25 Coors Lites, in front of a china closet.

We tried again.

I survived, the china did not.

Oh, and at some point during the night, I might have said in an Irish whisper that this suburban town was Ira Levin's inspiraton for The Stepford Wives. Which will go over well with the other women, who have already begun labeling me as "the hot mess who thinks she's Jennifer Gray circa 1987 who broke the Smith's china closet."

Yeah, something tells me I won't be invited back to another burb party anytime soon. Hope you beasties enjoyed Halloween, too!