the Hippo Brigade

Bunco 80′s Coma Party

4 Comments

February 27, 2012

The ladies in my neighborhood host parties once a month. When they started these gatherings a few years ago, before I moved in, they actually played Bunco. Which if you’re unfamiliar with that term, it means you haven’t started menopause yet. Congratulations, you’re still fertile and relevant. They would sit tastefully in wooden folding chairs and roll dice with the other women on their block. But as the years wore on, and their children grew, they stopped playing Bunco, and started drinking their body weight in wine. Which was about the time I moved in. And I think I deserve a, “well played, Beckey” and a pat on the back for the timing on that, because subjecting myself to Bunco every month sounds about as awesome as getting a Snoopy tattoo on my calf.

The tradition of the monthly neighborhood party remains, but the Bunco part has been tossed aside much like their party cups with the scant remnants of a Cab Sauv.

And this month was no exception. Oh there was a party alright, an 80′s prom themed party to be exact.

And because I don’t like to disappoint, I dressed in an authentic prom dress that was worn by my friend’s sister in 1986.

1986!

I was five in 1986, and at that time, I was probably walking around with a runny nose, holding a Rainbow Bright doll, eating an Otter Pop, wearing a shirt that said, “What’s Happening?!” with Alexander the Grape satins on it, and finally letting my hair grow out of that charming (albeit frustrating for my mother) phase when I cut it myself.

And since Pat doesn’t like to disappoint either, he shaved his beard and groomed this outstanding mustache.

I can’t decide if it’s more of a low budget fetish film mustache,

Creepy van with a crescent window and a viking princess airbrushed on the side mustache,

Or European dictator mustache.

But whatever it is, I find it both creepy and sexy at the same time.

For me, getting ready for the night was a dazzling display of glitter and Aqua Net.

And as I was plucking a particularly stubborn upper lip hair, a thought occurred: If I ever get into a terrible car accident because I was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for my kids while driving, but my kids were fine, and I barely made it to the hospital, and there was blood and peanut butter everywhere, and I escaped death by falling into a coma instead, I would need to hire someone to groom me.

Isn’t this something I should put in a Will? Or let my spouse know? Or a the very least write on a little piece of paper and stick it in a jar labeled “in case of emergency”? Well I’m letting everyone know right now: If I go into a coma, I need a groomer! I’m sure my co-pay will handle the cost of that.

Foley catheter………………………………………………………………………………………………..2,576.00

Personal groomer…………………………………………………………………………………………..4,500.00

Mesh underwear…………………………………………………………………………………………….1,200.00

(Little unknown fact, those hospitals are making a killing off mesh underwear)

Here’s what my groomer would have to be in charge of:

Waxing my eyebrows and upper lip (twice weekly)

Flossing my teeth (daily)

Scalp conditioning treatment (weekly)

Cuticle removal (weekly)

Blackhead removal (weekly)

Back-zit popping (daily)

Heel callus removal (weekly)

Trimming toenails (weekly)

Making sure my toenails don’t appear to be yellowing by painting them a seasonally appropriate color (weekly)

Oxyingnating facial (twice monthly)

Shaving my arm pits, legs, and lady business (weekly)

Spritzing my body with Evian spray so I can retain a healthy moisture and glow (hourly)

French braid my hair so I don’t get bed-head-dreads (every other day)

Applying deodorant (daily)

Grooming knuckle hair (daily)

That about sums it up, but I’m flexible, if my groomer sees something that needs to be kempt, I’m comfortable with a little artistic freedom; just not too much, I don’t want to wake up with a Pat Brumfield, creepy van, fetish film, 80′s prom, but in a weird way hot, fascist dictator mustache.