What do you call a spooky protozoa?

An amoeBOO.  (Or a Boo Cell, if you’re Laura.)

But I’m not.  It’s me, hey, Katherine BOOrton.  

Please don’t hate me, even if that’s how I signed all of my emails on Monday. 

Like all basic white girls, I’m a big supporter of October and, duh, Halloween.  ONLY, I solemnly swear this very day that I will never resort to dressing up as a cat or a small woodland animal for any reason.  Total copout, I say.  (Cat-out?) Obviously I have strong feelings about this.  There are WAY more creative things you can be, put a little thought into it plz. 

Anyhow, I was invited to a party Friday night under the caveat that the theme was “scary Disney,” and I was to come as a character.  The invitation was a little last minute and I hurriedly figured out that I could be Gaston.  Brown boots, black leggings, red shirt, yellow collar, yellow gloves, low ponytail.  Easy enough, right?

My friend Jeremy, my ballroom instructor, no less, is super into Disney, and is a fan of the cute, light-hearted side of Halloween.  Only upon arriving at his very decorated house did I realize that it was actually his fiancé’s party, and his fiancé was into death, gloom, and skeleton babies.  ALSO, aside from Jeremy, who was dressed as Maleficent, and his fiancé, who was dressed as King Triton, I was the only other person at the whole party wearing a costume faintly reminiscent of a Disney character. 

So….not a scary Disney themed party then? Uh, cool.  I mean, ghoul.  

1. I know it's blurry.  That's what happens when you ask an old man to take your picture in a dark room.  

2. I'm not sweating, it's a shadow.

People thought I was Robin Hood, at best, but once I told them I was Gaston and they did a double-take at my rubber dishwashing gloves, it clicked.  Though not a lot of people asked. 

I have a healthy dose of social anxiety to begin with, only exacerbated by my introversion, but every now and then these things just don’t bother me that much, and I go into situations weirdly confident and self-assured, even if I’m dressed like a dork, especially if I think I can get a good story out of it.  Like this night.  Upon walking into the party, however, I had the face-smacking realization that this was not my scene.  I’d grown so accustomed to hanging out with Mormons all the time that I completely forgot about what it was like to be at a party with adults who weren’t LDS.  

I wandered around the house and backyard a little bit, politely talking to a few strangers here and there, until I happened upon the food table in the garage and I really hit my stride – hardly anyone was in there (check), it was fairly sequestered away from the main party (check), there were plenty of places to sit (check), and like six kinds of salsa (check).  I fell into an easy conversation with Jordin Sparks’ tour manager (who LEGIT knows the Jonas Brothers) and talked with him about the positive effects and influences of music while I unattractively nibbled Doritos out of my grubby little gloved hands.  Jeremy breezed in and introduced me to his dogs and then proceeded to call me out to the living room, where the furniture had been pushed back against the walls, so he could show me a variety of ballroom moves with one of his other students.  

“Katherine, watch! This is the hustle!” he called out to me over his caped shoulder, spinning his friend wildly around the room while electronic club beats thudded in the background.  

I perched lightly on a stool at the kitchen counter, sitting next to a mafia mob boss, and watched them amusedly as a mildly inebriated, middle-aged woman dressed as a flapper sidled up to me and pointed out how handsome her hairdresser was, before slinking over to gyrate next to him on the dance floor. I then made an excuse about having to leave, even though it was only 10:30, because “it was getting late” and I had a cake tasting early the next morning.

But mostly because my hands were sweaty in my gloves, and, well, I wanted to go home and sew. 

The next night, I had another get-together at my co-worker’s house, which was essentially the complete opposite of the previous night’s gathering – family-friendly, very little alcohol, no smoking, and hardly any gluten.  Plus, Susan, the veritable Friendship Unicorn of my Heart, was wearing a morph suit and had blue hair, which will never not be a plus. 

And then I gave everyone diabetes (pieabetes?) by bringing a dark chocolate salted caramel Oreo pie. 

After her party, I went out dancing in Old Town Scottsdale with some friends.  Once again: not my scene, but I went anyways.  At first, I was super self-conscious of the fact that I was dressed like a freaking egg and all the other girls in the clubs were dressed in lingerie, parading as, unsurprisingly, cats and small woodland animals.  But then so many people stopped me on the street to tell me how much they liked my costume, which bolstered my confidence.  After all, if there’s one night to go out dancing, Halloween was probably the best time to do it.  One girl shouted out to me from her car window, “Are you an egg??!!?” I smiled and nodded at her.  “And a devil?” she inquired with further disbelief.  Again, I nodded.  By this time, the car had driven past us, and as it was about to turn the corner at the end of the block we heard her shout from her window, “You’re a deviled egg!!” There it is, you put it together, nice job. 

Last night, on actual Halloween, I watched “Vertigo” and then donned my eggceptional costume one last time for a couple remaining events – a pretty chill pizza and ping-pong party, followed by a very Mormony dance, complete with a magician, that ended at an innocent and responsible 9 PM.  But at least I met a cowboy with beautiful arms, which will always register as a Halloween well-spent in my book.