This weekend I attended a costume party. The theme was the letter “s” in honor of the birthday girl whose name began with the letter “S”. There was to be a prize for the best costume, and I was determined to win. I decided to go as. . . SMURFETTE!!
YES! That was the plan. I was going to paint my face and body up all blue! It was genius. No one else would think of going as a Smurf, and if they did, they would probably just hire the costume, or wear blue leggings. Hiring a costume is cheating and blue leggings is not trying.
Not me. I was going to try. I was going to win. I was going all out.
This is how I did it:
- I painted every toenail and fingernail with blue nail polish.
- I strung together a necklace of fat pearls all on my own. (Well, my roommate helped with the stringing after watching me get increasingly frustrated every time I dropped one of the stupid pearls and lost them under the couch.)
- From the Salvation Army I bought a sleeveless white frock just like Smurfette’s.
- Then I bought a white sailor’s hat with which to get creative! I ended up using balled-up white socks to make the part of the hat that flips forward, and safety-pinned the crap out of it to make it the perfect Smurfette-hat shape. (It looked a little like a floppy penis, but that’s what those Smurf hats resemble, right? A floppy penis?)
- Finally, I bought a big jar of blue body paint.
This was so EXCITING! As soon as the first streak of blue was applied to my leg, I knew I would win. I loved the look of the paint on my leg.
A couple months ago I went to an Art Expo in the city in which one of the vendors was selling body paint. Two nearly naked girls hovered and modeled the different body art designs. Their skin was thoroughly painted over; their torsos a colorful canvas displaying some pretty damn cool art.
As they talked to customers I stared at them, trying to see if I could tell where their private parts started. The harder I stared, the more guilty and kind of sinful I felt for trying to see these girls’ bits. But then I was reminded that they painted themselves up because they wanted to be stared at, so away the guilt flew, and I stared and scrutinized and admired the art. I couldn’t see a crack.
Anyway, I didn’t go as far as the painted naked girls. Instead, I only applied the paint to my feet, my legs, my arms, my chest, my back, neck, and face.
The blue was all streaky and patchy like the walls of a room I once painted (also blue) but the paint did the trick. In just minutes I had become SMURFETTE!
I didn’t want to get paint in my lymph nodes, so I avoided my armpits. I also didn’t want to have to scrub the delicate skin underneath my eyes or my eyelids, so I circled the paint just near to my eyes, but pretty much every bit of skin to be seen was blue.
I was so proud of myself. Blue!! Blue!! Blue!! Chris, also bedecked as a “Seventies Guy” strutted down the street with me to take public transportation to the party.
Here we are waiting for the bus.
When we finally arrived at the party and walked in the front door, every head turned. At this party there also happened to be a good number of Chris’ relatives who had flown over from New Zealand. I had never met them before, and this was their first impression of me. Perhaps their expectations were shattered. I’m not sure, but I ignored this fleeting moment of insecurity. The first part of the party was a blast.
Smurfette hit the food table. Smurfette hit the bar. Smurfette hit the dance floor with a surgeon, Snow White, and Seinfeld. Everything was going great, until . . . . .
“Hey!” shouted the Scream Mask, “There’s another Smurf!”
WHAT. I looked over at the bar, and sure enough, there it was. Not just another Smurf, but another Smurfette.
“Who would have thought there would be two?” laughed Scream and scampered off.
I walked calmly over to the invader. There’s only one Smurf
whore ette in the village, and I was she!
As I got closer to the blue creature, I realized who it was. It was Chris’s cousin. She was potential-family, so I couldn’t be mad at her. (I can do that when she becomes actual-family).
We smiled and greeted each other; however, we still did what women in bars do when confronted with competition: The Smurfettes eyed each other up and down.
I sized her up in my head:
I had blonde hair (like the real Smurfette), she had short brown hair.
Point for me.
She had white high heel shoes, I was doing a blue-foot bare-foot thing.
Point for her.
My hat was awkwardly, but convincingly shaped like the Smurfette hat. She wore a pillowcase on her head.
Point for me. Even if my hat did look like a penis.
Up and down we eyed each other, but after a moment, it was only too obvious who the real Smurfette was.
She was entirely blue. And she was dark. She had double coated her blue, and did not stop at her armpits, nor worry about scrubbing the tender under-eye skin. She was not streaky. Every single piece of skin was a dark, healthy blue. She had really gone all out with the blue body paint and looked fantastic.
I had been out-Smurfed. Next to her, I looked like a leprous Smurf with raccoon eyes in a white sack dress.
Sighing, I ordered her a beer. I had to hand it to her: her Smurfette was better. Even if she was a brunette.