For years I have been begging Andy to do a couples Halloween costume. He finally relented our sophomore year of college; we were to be Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson. I had the best blonde wig and push up bra, and Andy had spent a whole 6 hours growing a thick black mustache. It was going to be epic. The day we were set to make our big debut, I began to have side pain. By the evening, I was horizontal in a hospital bed with appendicitis.

It was the worst Halloween ever, and we never couple costumed again.

John Bender and Claire from The Breakfast Club.

Pee Wee and Miss Yvonne.

Ron Burgundy and Veronica Corningstone.

Andy Warhol and Marilyn Monroe.

The Olson Twins.

All denied. Andy hates Halloween and wants to ruin it for everyone. Come to think of it, I haven’t even seen Andy dressed up as anything since preschool.

I was a Wuzzle. It was apparently a really popular costume in 1984. Andy, however, went on to hate Halloween and spend the holiday bitter and lonely, throwing eggs at policemen and putting bologna on cars.

Once kids came into the picture, Halloweens became less about me wearing a trampy version of something otherwise benign while Andy drove me home to puke my candy corned guts out, and more about me wearing something marginally festive (this is how sweater appliques happen) as I schlepped the little ones door to door. Andy was on a night shift and missed out on the Halloween experience entirely, which he loved because he thinks it’s a fake holiday and hates going to stranger’s houses, and I loved it because it meant I didn’t have to share candy with him.

That sounds selfish, but not everyone gets a trophy, y’all.

The kids were so happy to finally have him tag along last year, he even humored them by wearing a Darth Vader mask to match his two little Jedi’s. Between their contagious excitement and me being turned on to the hilt (there’s just something about watching guys be cool dads outside of your house where you’re otherwise annoyed with them, amirite?), he cautiously agreed to couple costume this year (he said it out loud in his sleep. I recorded it.), with the promise that it couldn’t be something that required him to wear fake boobs, learn a made-up movie language or be religiously or ethnically offensive.

That only leaves one thing…

I can’t believe he’s letting us do this, either!

Why Mr. Potter… what a big wand you have.

Ok, we’re done here.


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