killer bees are gonna get you

I spent yesterday afternoon at the Fall of America, Halloween costume shopping with A. We made mad dashes around the Fall looking for 30 small plastic snakes, a black dress, green hair dye and a tiara. If you’ve ever been to the Fall, you know that a few mad dashes around it will suck the life force out of you -or- just make you tired and cranky. Add in the billion people and their offspring dressed up for the season and you have a recipe for making haiku_girl something something.

Our first stop was the food court. DUH, we’re GIRLS. On the way to lukewarm pizza Utopia, I walked past a boy who was so absolutely beautiful my heart stopped for a second. Seriously. Our eyes met. I blushed. He crossed his legs to the right, kicking one of his many Banana Republic shopping bags over. Apparently, my GAYDAR was on a momentary hiatus. Maybe I should have given him my number anyway. He could’ve joined the Hot Gay Boy Army of One (well, then Two) who freely and frequently tell me my ass looks good in these jeans.

In route from the small plastic snake store to the tiara shoppe, I think I heard the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. The culprit: a woman pushing a stroller and chatting with her friend. We rounded a corner and she said, and I quote, “OH, that smell is CINNABON, it’s cinnamon roll smell!” She said this in a surprised manner.

Has she never been in a MALL before?

Has she never smelled a CINNAMON ROLL before?

There are a few smells in this world that are undeniably recognizable. Poop, Thanksgiving and Cinnabon. Has this woman been living under a rock? The sheer amount of cinnamon roll scent that this place pumps out in an hour is mind-numbing. Yet, this woman was surprised by her discovery. WOW, that’s cinnamon roll smell!?! Go figure.

The afternoon left me thinking a little too much about the event that is Halloween. Specifically, Halloween for grown-ups. Along with the many costumed tots at the Fall, were the token handful of childless, costumed adults. Please keep in mind that this was Saturday afternoon, people. A wee bit creepy. We saw a particularly bad batch, a trio, of poorly costumed grown-ups. The worst of the three was a woman dressed up as a bee. A bee that would so kick your ass if you looked at her boyfriend the wrong way at the 3.2 bar. Her potentially festive yellow and black stripes were smudged on like war paint. She had little fairy wings attached to her been washed with the darks a few too many times yellow sweatshirt. She didn’t seem to be having a very good time, unless her angry expression was part of the outfit. A and I came up with the idea that she might be dressed as a killer bee – hence the war paint and the sour puss – but we weren’t so sure. Didn’t seem the type. Missing a machete or something. Some blood maybe. Something.

I shouldn’t make fun. AWWW, ok, maybe just a little.

If I were smart, the afternoon shoulda ended my DAY. I shoulda just come home, put on my jammies and went straight to bed. But nooooo, M came over and we got stinkin’ drunk. Drowning our sorrows, we said. Finding the answers to our problems at the bottom of a bottle, we said. Working our way to killer hangovers, we did. OH, it was fun for about 45 minutes, then the initial tingle gave way to bad judgment and more booze. No good! It’s almost 24 hours later and I’m still not feeling so hot. M isn’t either. Double no good! We’re idiots.

Tomorrow is Monday. Back to the grind. Ha ha. Get it? Coffee shop… grind… yeah.