The Scariest Costume Ever
I don't work at a classy restaurant. Instead of a sommalier, we have specialty glassware. Instead of a maitre d', we have barely-out-of-college kids in sweatshirts shouting and waving menus in the faces of passers-by. And instead of an elegant, tailored uniform, we have dress-up days.
I'm not sure which was more embarassing: Dress Up As Your Favorite Disney Character Day or Dress Up As Your Favorite Rock Star Day. I'm still waiting for Dress Up As Your Favorite Suffragist Day and Dress Up As Your Favorite Athlete's Illegitimate Offspring Day. No ridiculous, ill-conceived dress-up day, however, could ever compare to the eyesore explosion that is Halloween.
I had choices to make on my first Halloween as a server. My planned costume, Clark Kent changing into Superman, involved my suit. Not a great idea, considering whatever I'd be wearing to work in would end up covered in barbeque sauce, creole mustard, and the sourest of creams. I gazed across the restaurant floor, wondering what the pint-sized Italian cutie would be wearing for his costume. Or the fascist Pocahontas lookalike trainer. Or the girl with the oddly overhanging belly who wore too much makeup...
...wait.
That was it. I had my costume. Using the unfortunate-looking (and very sweet, might I add) girl as a springboard, I began to plot and plan. That was the day Ramona was born.
To create a lumpy, misshapen effect befitting the World's Ugliest Waitress, I stuffed t-shirts into strategic parts of me, using a bathing suit I had worn in a production of Pageant as sort of control top to hold it all in place. I was especially proud of the giant FUPA I had carefully sculpted. Then I put my usual uniform over my makeshift fatsuit. One curly black wig that had fallen into my possession after a stint at Six Flags and a hideous makeup job later, and Ramona emerged from the upstairs restroom, ready to creep the crap out of all of her guests.
Ramona walked slowly and as though an invisible string was pulling her by the FUPA. Her heavily mascaraed eyes blazed widely with intensity when they weren't twitching open and closed in a spasm. Her lipstick managed to mostly end up on the lower half of her face, some even on the lips. Her lips themselves seemed carved into a permanent grimace, and she spoke in a hushed, masculine monotone normally reserved for child killers and carnies.
She terrified most of her guests. Some were foreigners who apparently didn't have Halloween in their native Kuzbekweshtan, some were Americans who hated being waited on by hideous bearded drag queens. And some, I think, truly just thought that they were being served spinach dip and sass by one of the ugliest bitches they had ever laid eyes on.
I later turned Ramona into a Skeeger sketch that kicked off both our Rootin' For Dirt show and our best-of show at Caroline's. She also showed up at both auditions I've had for sketch comedy TV series. I even Ramonaed out again the following Halloween, much to the dismay of my general manager and my guests. But she was never quite as funny and fun as she was in 2004, when her well-padded ass brushed up against grumpy Brits and her sagging breasts nauseated formerly-hungry Long Islanders.
This year, I went as a doctor. It's way comfier to run your ass off in scrubs than a fatsuit and a wig.
I don't work at a classy restaurant. Instead of a sommalier, we have specialty glassware. Instead of a maitre d', we have barely-out-of-college kids in sweatshirts shouting and waving menus in the faces of passers-by. And instead of an elegant, tailored uniform, we have dress-up days.
I'm not sure which was more embarassing: Dress Up As Your Favorite Disney Character Day or Dress Up As Your Favorite Rock Star Day. I'm still waiting for Dress Up As Your Favorite Suffragist Day and Dress Up As Your Favorite Athlete's Illegitimate Offspring Day. No ridiculous, ill-conceived dress-up day, however, could ever compare to the eyesore explosion that is Halloween.
I had choices to make on my first Halloween as a server. My planned costume, Clark Kent changing into Superman, involved my suit. Not a great idea, considering whatever I'd be wearing to work in would end up covered in barbeque sauce, creole mustard, and the sourest of creams. I gazed across the restaurant floor, wondering what the pint-sized Italian cutie would be wearing for his costume. Or the fascist Pocahontas lookalike trainer. Or the girl with the oddly overhanging belly who wore too much makeup...
...wait.
That was it. I had my costume. Using the unfortunate-looking (and very sweet, might I add) girl as a springboard, I began to plot and plan. That was the day Ramona was born.
To create a lumpy, misshapen effect befitting the World's Ugliest Waitress, I stuffed t-shirts into strategic parts of me, using a bathing suit I had worn in a production of Pageant as sort of control top to hold it all in place. I was especially proud of the giant FUPA I had carefully sculpted. Then I put my usual uniform over my makeshift fatsuit. One curly black wig that had fallen into my possession after a stint at Six Flags and a hideous makeup job later, and Ramona emerged from the upstairs restroom, ready to creep the crap out of all of her guests.
Ramona walked slowly and as though an invisible string was pulling her by the FUPA. Her heavily mascaraed eyes blazed widely with intensity when they weren't twitching open and closed in a spasm. Her lipstick managed to mostly end up on the lower half of her face, some even on the lips. Her lips themselves seemed carved into a permanent grimace, and she spoke in a hushed, masculine monotone normally reserved for child killers and carnies.
She terrified most of her guests. Some were foreigners who apparently didn't have Halloween in their native Kuzbekweshtan, some were Americans who hated being waited on by hideous bearded drag queens. And some, I think, truly just thought that they were being served spinach dip and sass by one of the ugliest bitches they had ever laid eyes on.
I later turned Ramona into a Skeeger sketch that kicked off both our Rootin' For Dirt show and our best-of show at Caroline's. She also showed up at both auditions I've had for sketch comedy TV series. I even Ramonaed out again the following Halloween, much to the dismay of my general manager and my guests. But she was never quite as funny and fun as she was in 2004, when her well-padded ass brushed up against grumpy Brits and her sagging breasts nauseated formerly-hungry Long Islanders.
This year, I went as a doctor. It's way comfier to run your ass off in scrubs than a fatsuit and a wig.
posted by Michael at 9:18 PM
2 Comments:
I demand pictures.
By the way, I'm totally going as Clark changing into Superman this year.
I'd rub your ass if you were wearing scrubs! Wouldn't come near you as Ramona though.
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