Pig Mask Tales

With all this desk-decorating hoopla going on, and planning for tomorrow’s pie party (ha-ha, that’s all Henry), I haven’t had much else to write about.

But since the pig mask has been such a popular topic of conversation here at work, I started reminiscing about all the great times Pig and I have had together and decided to share one of those memories with you guys, here, tonight, on the blog.

****

My Oinkin’ New Years, 2008

This New Year’s Eve was very significant for me because it marked the first time that I got to spend it with my bestie,  Christina. Usually I end up calling her the next day, crying about how lame my night was. This time, we woke up the next morning and proceeded to laugh about how obnoxious we are. It was nice. We may not have had a party banquet, a free-flowing fountain of Patron, or pulsating club beats, but what we did have was all the makings for an evening of wildin’ out: a pig mask; a Thomas the Tank Engine flash light; a stock of Disaronno, Woodchuck and (cheap) champagne at our gluttonous fingertips; and an arsenal of bitter jabs at Tila Tequila.

Henry started off the festivities by going upstairs to take a nap since he was running on a low tank of energy. (I mean, when isn’t he?) By 10:30, I was a little annoyed and really wanted him to come downstairs because “things were about to get real krunk.” I believe those were my exact words. I turned the bedroom light on and he promptly pulled the blanket over his face.

At this point, I did what any other rational human would: I invited the pig mask to hump my face and then proceeded to stand in the front yard, alternating between calling out a blood-curdling  “Happy Oinkin’ New Year!” at passing cars while thrusting a warrior-like fist in the air, and hurling stones and rolled-up newspapers at the bedroom window.

Suddenly the light went out and I found myself very troubled.

I assumed he had shut the light off and went back to bed, so I was a little surprised when I saw (and heard) the front door slam shut. It didn’t take me long after that to deduce that he had locked us out. My incessant banging and yipping was enough to blackmail him into letting us back in, thank god, but mostly because he didn’t want me to embarrass him in front of the neighbors.

Because Henry is a Grown-Up, he spent most of his new year’s eve on the computer, channeling the patron saint of ear plugs and searching for his reserves of patience to mainline, while Christina and I acted like drunk fools in the living room. (And all over my block.) This is what he looked like, pretty much all night:

[2011 Erin here, chiming in to say OMG WHAT A MOLESTER.] Leaving Henry to sulk at the computer, Christina and I cased the neighborhood, which unfortunately was not so much a hotbed of activity as I had hoped. Several cars passed but no one seemed to notice the piggy asshole gyrating on the sidelines. I even had a gang sign especially for the occasion. It was just the universal fornication sign conveyed by sticking the forefinger of one hand into a circle made by the thumb and forefinger of the other hand. (Wait, which finger is the forefinger? Is that the same as the pointer?) Flashing that sign really added some punch to the rest of my routine. One car beeped and a woman walking down the street nervously turned her head and veered onto a side street.

At 11:59, I frantically pulled my hair back into a taut bun and stuffed the damn pig mask over my face again.

Precisely at midnight, I flew out the front door, duly forgot that sound reverberates underneath the mask, and started shrieking “It’s two thousand fucking double quad ya’ll! Oink oink!” I insisted on saying “double quad” all night and there was a point where Christina was like, “Would you stop saying that?” and Henry echoed, “Yeah, please. That’s stupid.”

Christina dressed me up in her thuggish cash-love hat and we pretended like I was a Jersey Yo-Girl, right down to the streaks of orange across my face. She dropped Blue into my hands for the final touch, because nothing gives a gangsta street cred than a plush dog from a Nick Jr. show.

What’s that glaring red rectangle emblazoned across my ample bosom, you ask? Why that’s my Chiodos hoodie. See, all I wanted for Christmas was a Chiodos hoodie. I’m always pretty specific with these things, yet no one listens. Just in case Christina and Henry might think I forgot what assholes they are for not making sure my torso was buffeted by an over-priced example of my fan-girl love for a band, I fashioned my own Chiodos hoodie with a little bit of ingenuity, Henry’s Everfresh hoodie and a piece of red cardstock. On Sunday, I used a blue sweatshirt and white paper, crudely ripped into a small box just large enough for me to scrawl ‘Chiodos’ with my Sharpie, but it wasn’t as eye-popping as the black one. Both days, I sported my makeshift hoodies with pride. Even though on Sunday my hoodie didn’t even have a hood.

Henry and Christina didn’t seem to feel very bad, though.

My favorite part was later on when Christina and I were on the porch having a smoke break. The mask had been long abandoned by this point (my breath causes condensation to drip down the insides of it and it’s really gross; really fucking gross) but my vocal chords were still begging to be used. (Seriously, you think I like being so mouthy all the time?

I can’t control it.) I can only imagine how much my neighbors appreciate me. So there I was,  still very hyper and buzzed, running all around the yard, when I spied a car coming down the street. As a person who has always yearned to be part of a hit and run, I charged toward the street and started screaming and essentially shaking my body like a schizophrenic with a bit of a skin-crawling affliction.

The car effectively slowed down. Then the car stopped and I noticed it was a fucking taxi. Still a 12-year-old at heart, I laughed hysterically into my hands like I had just cold-called a crush and hung up, and rushed back into the house and left Christina to handle it. She stood out there, waving the cab on, and yelling, “No. No! No one needs a ride. NO! JUST GO! LEAVE!” Then I laughed in Henry’s shoulder about it for a few minutes while he desperately tried to shrug me off.

This New Year’s Eve was much better than the one back in 2003, when I completely flipped my shit at my mom’s house over a stupid game of Trivial Pursuit, lunged over the coffee table at Henry and called him a motherfucker, left all of my friends there while I drove home drunk, and then broke my phone into pieces when Henry called from my mom’s to lovingly tell his bi-polar girlfriend that all of her friends were pissed off at her for having another episode.

This pig mask is the best thing I’ve ever purchased.