Udderly Ridiculous

Last Saturday evening some folks from church hosted a Christma-ween party... Basically a Christmas party to which each couple had to dress up like their favorite Christmas Carol. Sounds fun, right? Wrong. Those who know me well, know that I have a uniform: khaki's or jeans, a collared shirt, most often tucked in so as to accentuate my nicely-shaped bum, and a fleece when it's cold or raining... Classy, traditional, gets the job done. Most everything in my closet matches everything else. To say the least, dressing up like Christmas Carols deviates from the aforementioned wardrobe, so I was less than thrilled with the idea of finding a way to embody "O Holy Night", "Deck the Halls", or "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer". Little did I know that what Rand and her mom had in store was worse... much, much worse.

In jest, I suggested that Rand and I attend the party as "8 Maids a Milking"... I thought it would be a nice, punny take on the Christmas spirit, given that Rand is lactating and all. However, after a shopping trip dreamed up by the dynamic Biard duo, they came home, whipped out their magic sewing machines and hot glue guns, and turned into the wicked, emasculating fairy godmothers. When it was all said and done, our living room curtains had become Randi's skirt. My dress socks had magically transformed into my tail, a pair of otherwise respectable surgical gloves had taken on an entirely different purpose, and I had the uncanny urge to chew some cud and moo at passersby.

Oh, to have even an ounce of dignity left...