Glue Gun Mafia

I admit it, I have occasionally been one to make fun of scrapbooking, craft fairs and "primitives" (beat up old crap, err... "crafts," which are still a mystery to me.) Crocheted tissue box covers, Santas painted on driftwood and teddy bears dressed up like historic figures are NOT my idea of "fine art." For Pete's sake, I have an art degree! Well, not exactly art, it was arts administration, which is similiar but for art-lovers with no talent for creating it. We just operate the businesses that make money on the art.

But, for the last couple of months, I have been attending gatherings of the "Glue Gun Mafia," craft workshops for the semi-hip. GGM sessions have included bird and peacock feather jewelry making and crafts for wine-lovers - wine glasses dipped in chalkboard paint, wine glass charms and etched glass candles. Although I was reluctant to join this creative clan due to my aversion of all things crafts, I have had a blast at GGM! I've learned, through these sessions, that a "craft" doesn't have to be made with fuzz ball pom pons, appliques or puffy paint. They can, instead, be cool, useful items that actually wouldn't embarrass me to show to my gay boy friends (harsher critics than Martha Stewart!)

My dislike of crafts, particularly craft shows, stems from growing up in the late '80's and early '90's when entire houses were decorated in country blue and mauve and ducks were the "theme" of every kitchen, at least in my small town. At the time, craft shows seemed to pop up in EVERY school gym, church basement and public hall. As it was THE thing to do, I (along with my mom and sisters) was a frequent attendee, along with every puffy painter, doll clothes maker and popsicle stick artist in a thirty-mile radius, of the craft show.

Now, I don't mean to offend those who really do (even in this day and age) enjoy a good craft show. There are some quality items, I'll grant you - jewelry, for one, and other artful things made with skill and taste. I'm just saying, there are good crafts, and there are bad crafts, and you'll know the difference when you see them. What craft shows really need is the magic touch ("fairy dust," if you will) of the gay man. No self-respecting queen would allow the appliqued, Halloween-themed sweatshirts or lace-strewn toilet paper cozys, not the "fabulous" gays anyway... And until craft shows get "queer-eyed" (in the style of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,") the only crafts I want to see are those of the Glue Gun Mafia. Here, every Martha Stewart-worshipping queen can hold themselves with pride.

Glue Gun Mafia at Regalo
Tuesday, Nov. 22
7-9 p.m.
http://www.facebook.com/events/203720813035538/

'Tis the Season

"I saw peter today... 'tis the season!" says a text message from my mom today. Actually, such off-the-wall colorful messages aren't so unexpected from Mom. My sisters and I tend to get them regularly. The website "Parents Shouldnt Text" was made for my mother! If you're not familiar, you should be. This hilarious website features some of the best (and worst) examples of text messages from parents sent to their children. My mother should get a share in their earnings, because, I'm fairly certain that she was the inspiration for this phenomenom. It's not that Mom's texts are ever unwelcome, it's just that they're pretty darn funny from a mother to her child.

Today, Mom's text was actually a reference to a really old Folger's commercial that has been shown every Christmas season for as long as I can remember, at least since the early '80's. In my family, the arrival of this commercial marks the official kick-off of the holiday season. Although it's a silly, sappy, completely overacted and outdated piece of "theater," it's sentimental to my family. I consider it almost like a family memory, or at least, a family tradition.

Another sign of the season for us is the arrival of the "Little House on the Prairie" Christmas episodes. As I've mentioned a time or two, my sisters and I grew up on "Little House." The stories of the Ingalls in Walnut Grove (and, at one time, Mankato, for you true fans who are fact-checking me) were a huge part of my childhood. One of the earlier, particularly nostalgic Christmas episodes was based on the "Gift of the Magi" theme (Laura and Pa both got Ma an oven, Pa got Laura a saddle for her horse, Bunny, who Laura had sold to the Olsen's to pay for Ma's oven...) and it was an emotional killer! There's also a later episode where the Ingalls girls are grown-up and everyone tells about their favorite Christmas memory. Just the mention of Hester Sue singing spirituals brings a tear to every Cooper girl's eye. Seriously, it's a true blubber-fest. And it's fantastic!

And, so, with the inaugural "Peter" sighting, the holiday season has officially begun, at least for my family. The "big day" is still weeks away, but soon there will be lots more texts about Christmas lists, travel schedules and the menu (no jello and don't mess with the mashed potatoes, please!) between us. And, no doubt, there will also be more reports from my mom and sisters about "Peter" and those damn "Little House" episodes as they start to play more and more throughout the season! It's nice to know that even as adults, those silly (and actually bad) TV moments from the '80's are still as affecting and sentimental to us as they used to be. Afterall, what's Christmas without Peter?!!

"Peter Comes Home" Folger's Commercial, circa 1982:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4kNl7cQdcU

Beer Club Victory!

If you're one (the one, thanks Mom!) who reads this blog regularly, you may have noticed the lack of new material lately. With every intention to add to the list of entries and document my life's goings-on (mostly so that I remember every detail for my therapist,) I'm afraid I have been slacking. Actually, I've been busy... busy accomplishing my greatest "achievement" of the entire year! Yes, it's true. After eleven painstaking months, I have finally become a member of the Flanagan's Pub Centurion Club!

As I mentioned in a previous blog post, members of this exclusive "club" have successfully sampled 100 different beers from the vast selection of brews at the local pub, Flanagans. Those who succeed in this task then become an official mug-holding member, as the award for such a feat is a handmade, personalized beer mug in which to enjoy their beers # 101 and on. Like a celebrity's photo grandly hung in a restaurant where he once dined, my trophy, um... mug will be on display behind the bar. And I couldn't be prouder! My hope is that my mug, a symbol of this accomplishment, will inspire every happy hour-goer, social drinker and functioning (or non-functioning) alcoholic who enters its empire.

While my Centurion Club pursuits come from a beer-loving gal looking for an excuse to get together with a dear friend, the accomplishment of completing the task, in a way, represents something more. It seems that this year has brought its fair share of challenges. Yes, I realize that everyone has their ups and downs in life, and there are so many more people worse off than me. This is why I choose to embrace this small accomplishment, my beer club membership, as a symbol of my faith that I could reach this "lofty" goal and also of my determination to finish it.


I was just remembering the time I went hiking with my dad when I was 18. My dad has always loved the outdoors and is notorious in the family for choosing and dragging us down the longest path, up the highest hill or through the most treacherous terrain (especially on vacations,) and this trip was no different. However, about three miles in to our five mile (it felt longer, trust me!) hike, the nastiest, darkest, most ominous thunderstorm like nothing I had seen, started rolling in. Caught totally off-guard, we were lucky to find a shelter high up on the hill nearby. Now, even as a girly-girl teenager, I wasn't one to squeal if my feet got wet or my hair got messed up. However, this wasn't just a quick spring drizzle, this was a full-on, raining sideways, check-the-weather-channel-to-verify-what-you-just-witnessed amazing storm. And I have to admit, I was a little scared of being so exposed and so vulnerable to the elements. The black clouds were moving very quickly and we knew that it would pass soon, so my dad and I hunkered down in the corner of the wood frame structure trying to shield ourselves from the pelting rain and wind. Eventually, after 20 minutes in that shelter, the rain eased up enough that we were able to continue on with the hike.

Now, years later, when things seem difficult and it feels like my luck will never change, I think of how we literally "weathered the storm" that day. And as cheesy as it sounds, I know that, eventually, the "storm" will pass and things will get a little easier. I just need to wait it out the best I know how. Either that or the storm will leave me beaten, battered and facedown in the middle of a muddy ditch. But, I prefer to think of the first option. And at least I'll have my hard-earned, membership badge of pride, my beer club mug! Because I'll need it!

'

Barefoot Tap Dancing

After living in my previous apartment for six years, I knew every corner, creak and quirk of that place. But, when I moved into a new apartment a few months ago, I had to adjust to an unfamiliar atmosphere, particularly its noises. I've gotten accustomed to the traffic outside the window, the furnace kicking on at all hours and even the heavy-footed upstairs neighbors coming home late at night. However, one noise I was not expecting to hear is the sound of tap dancing down the length of my shotgun apartment. Although I had recently dug out my old tap shoes for a Halloween costume, the sound of dazzling dancing wasn't coming from me, it was my cat. My girl cat --not my girrrll, gay Harold, but my actual female cat, (although I wouldn't be at all shocked to find fabulous Harold tap dancing his little homo heart out)-- had gotten tiny pieces of kitty litter stuck in her toes. The sound of the litter gently hitting the hardwood floor as she walked down the hall sounded like tap shoes, and I couldn't help but giggle at the image it brought to mind (and, no, it wasn't "beer club night" - see previous posts.)

The sound of my cat's tapping took me back to the years of dance classes from my youth. But, the sound also reminded me of another cherished memory, my mother's "tap" dancing. As I've mentioned a few times before, my family, including three seemingly-girly girls, has a great appreciation for "inappropriate" jokes, bathroom humor and, as some might call it, a cheap laugh. And, with her amazing sense of humor and incredible creativity, my mom was the queen of comedy. One of her "acts" that got a laugh from us everytime (even during our sullen, unimpressed teenage years) was to tap dance without tap shoes. How? By "tapping" on her bare skin, the palm of her hands on the surface of her cheeks. Her, um, hind-end cheeks...

Yes, she posessed quite a talent, my ass-cheek-tap-dancing mom. The reason it was so funny was because of the determined but noiseless foot steps she mimicked and a sound (not from her feet!) that sounded so real! After sitting through dance recitals year after year, she actually had quite a few of the "steps" and complicated rhythms of a practiced professional. Mom was armed with nothing (no patent leather tap shoes, no glittering sequined costume) but her own anatomy, however her "shuffle" and "time step" could rival those of the great Gene Kelly or Savion Glover (almost.)

What prompted Mom to turn to the dance and invent her unique "style," I don't even remember. Perhaps she sought to live out some unrealized childhood dream of being a dancer. Perhaps all of those years watching dance classes and recitals encouraged her creative expression (in a slightly unorthodox way.) Perhaps she was trying to make her three rule-abiding, approval-seeking daughters  laugh and take life a little less seriously. Whatever her inspiration, Mom has definitely taught my sisters and me to find joy in the unexpected, humor in the ironic and to appreciate those who march to a different drummer... Or, dance with a different tap shoe, as it were...

Hiney

As the third girl and youngest child in my family, I was the lucky recipient of many, many hand-me-downs from my two older sisters growing up. But, before you make me out to be the complaining, spoiled, ungrateful "baby" of the family, I have to admit that I loved being given the trendy clothes that my sisters had outgrown. There was a treasure trove of flats in impractical colors (like turquoise,) "Flashdance"-influenced sweaters that purposely fell off the shoulder and jeans (perfect for tight-rolling) that were the style in 1986 Midwestern small-towns. What awkward, 5 foot, 6 inch, 3rd grader (me) wouldn't love that? So, growing up, my forward-thinking parents perfected the art of economical living, and I grew very accustomed to the "recyled" clothes, supplies and other materials that appeared in my life. That was, until the line was most definitely crossed.

As a survivor of the Depression era and its way of living, my grandma, like many 80+ year-olds, cannot throw away anything without guilt, and that includes the mattress she graciously lent my parents when I moved back into their home after college. Although I was grateful for grandma's kindness, I knew that the borrowed mattress was old, really old, and it wasn't comfortable. Much to my dismay, it had a rock-hard solidness that betrayed its age and a steep right-leaning "grade" like a gravel road through the Appalachian Mountains. One night, my rotund, hard-sleeping beagle, Margaret, who occasionally slept on my bed, actually rolled down the crooked mattress to the floor with a "kerplunk!" loud enough to wake everyone in the household. But, I slept on that recycled mattress for two years until my parents finally gave up on their dreams of emptying their nest and decided to replace the antique mattress with a new one. That's when the real story came out!

When Grandma heard that the old thing was being replaced, instead of arguing to keep it because someone would "find a use for it someday," she quickly agreed that it was time for it to go. Why? Well, Grandma finally revealed the original owner of the mattress. Hiney, the long-dead uncle of my grandma's friend, Clarice. Really, Grandma? The name Hiney, alone, makes me cringe in disgusted wonder. For years, someone named Hiney laid his own hiney in. My. Bed. I can't help but picture an old man wearing his dingy, gray-tinged, ten-year-old BVD's, so old that the elastic around the legs has long given out, with nothing but a thin layer of dirty, white sheets between him and that mattress. Eeww!

Realizing with intrigue and fear that the mattress might actually be older than we even suspected, my mom asked my grandma. As she began to do the math, Grandma replied to the question with, "Well, Hiney died in 1963..."  Wait, you mean, I had been sleeping on a fifty year-old mattress? You know how they say that in ten years time a mattress doubles its weight with dead skin cells and dust mites? I am purposely keeping my mind from truly picturing it, all of the hand-me-down germs, stink and other funk currently residing in my AARP-qualifying mattress. And from a guy named Hiney!

But, despite my horror about the questionable sanitation of the thing, I realized that Grandma meant well in lending me that mattress. She was just doing what her generation did, reusing, repurposing and thinking twice before throwing anything out. However, I only wish she had been a little more forthcoming about its true age and lineage. Afterall, the beloved Hiney, who was the first to rest his weary bones on that mattress more than half a century ago, as it turns out, actually DIED on it too! Awesome. Rest in peace, Hiney.

Aunt Pookie's Babies

The older of my two nephews (my baby boys) recently had his 15th birthday.  With this milestone, I can't help but think back to when my nephews were born, where I was in my own life then and what they've both meant to me.  I haven't talked much about my nephews in this blog because I want to respect their privacy.  As hormonal teens, starting in new schools, the last thing they need is their "Aunt Pookie" telling embarrassing stories about when they were babies.  But, I will anyway...

While lots of friends near my same age are having kids, thinking about kids or, in the case of a few of the gay couples, adopting kids, I find myself in a much different stage. I feel like I've already had my babies... my gorgeous nephews. My oldest sister, their mom, and I have always been close. I've mentioned before that my sister was/is very maternal and has always acted like a parent to me. When she had her babies I was in my late teens-early 20s and fortunate to be there since my parents' house was still my primary residence. Like my sister did for me when I was young, I also found myself helping to take care of her boys. Actually, my entire family pitched in, as only family can.

Since my mom babysat during the week and I was still living at home, we both got to spend a lot of time with my baby nephews. Coincidentally (or not,) this is also around the time we both came to appreciate the happiest time of the day, happy hour. Not to say that my nephews were bad children, it's just that they were/are extremely active, energetic beings, unlike those easy-going kids who sit still long enough to watch Teletubbies for the entire half hour (giving their caregivers enough to time to shower, dress and brush their teeth or, at the very least, finish off the remaining toast crusts and apple juice backwash from the kid's breakfast.) No, there were no such luxuries of quiet time while watching my athletic, argumentative, incredibly hilarious nephews.

With all of the child-rearing experience I gained when my nephews were young, in a lot of ways, I felt like a proud parent. However, my children saw me as anything but a parent or even an adult. Instead, they saw me as a peer, someone closer to their age than the adults in their acquaintance, someone who played games and tee-ball and power rangers with them all day, someone who might as well be their "slow" cousin rather than their "adult" aunt. In fact, there was a time or two when my boys tried telling on me to my mom (their grandma) when they didn't get their way during a game of tee-ball or when their slow cousin/aunt (me) may have uttered a choice four-letter word (ok, so I may have contributed to their fowl language vocabulary.) Little snitches!

As an 18 year-old aunt/slow cousin to two beautiful boys, I feel that my maternal instincts are fulfilled. My nephews, although not my own biological children, are my pride and joy. They are an extension of my family and the ones who will be taking care of me, their old, pickled aunt when she's 80. So, from now on, I better let them win a few games of tee-ball...   

A Hag's Halloween

The other night my gay husband, "Corky," and I had a serious discussion that can only be done over a few glasses of wine among a couple of "girlfriends." The topic? Our Halloween costumes... a very serious decision that is only made once a year for a reason. It takes a lot of work if you're going to do it right. Halloween is, afterall, "gay Christmas," the holiday created especially with the homosexual man in mind. Once a year, on that magical day, every gay in town is given permission (hell, they're expected!) to dress in more sparkle than the Vegas strip and/or dress as a woman. And the boys don't dress as just any woman, they dress as THE MOST fabulous pop star, 80's Dallas character or any other ultra-fem, slutty clothes-wearing lady that enables them to wear mascara, a wig and as few clothes as possible.

This year for Halloween, "Corky" is going as "Frank-n-Furter," the mad scientist transvestite from Rocky Horror Picture Show. This involves wearing a corset, fishnet thigh highs, a garter belt and heels, of course. So, being the good (some say "expert") fag hag that I am, "Corky" and I spent three hours planning and piecing together his costume.

First, a wig. Although it's easy to find "Frank-n-Furter" wigs online, "Corky" insisted on a "nice" wig... preferably with real hair (Asian) in a more fashionable, but authentic, style. Warning him that "nice" wigs could cost a lot more than the perfectly good "costume" wig, I suggested that we move on to corsets... a corset that fits a flat-chested, broad-shouldered man. Again, there were many options online, however, "Corky" thought the Victoria's Secret corsets were too plain, Frederick's of Hollywood too slutty and the other sites too costumey. Onto makeup... "Corky" says he has this part of the costume taken care of since, apparently, one of his co-workers is an expert in dramatic electric blue eyeshadow and pancake makeup, so she has been recruited (unbeknownst to her) for her abundant skills... in the "art" of transvestite makeup.

So, "Corky" and I debated which size corset would fit him and he was convinced that he would be a smaller size than me. Granted, I'm a big girl, but as any woman knows, your true waist is the smallest part of you just below the bustline. "Corky" is a boy with a broad chest and could in no way fit into a size 34 corset. This was proved when I had him try on my bra and, although I'm pretty sure he enjoyed the feel of the black lace across his chest, had at least eight inches before reaching "hook" to "eye." And this shocked poor "Corky" who was convinced that either there is a bigger difference in our sizes than there is (bitch!) or that he could more easily fit into women's clothing, namely, a corset.

So, after much planning and discussion about "Corky's" costume, I fully realized how much work a hag's job is, especially around the "holiday" (Halloween.) There's so much planning and preparing for the big day that I almost feel like a pageant mom making sure that little "Suzy" (or "Corky," in this case) has her elaborate outfit all ready. And I've been such a good pageant mom/fag hag that over the weekend I even stopped by the costume shop to pick up the fishnet (not regular nylon, because that's not what Frank-n-Furter wears, "Corky" tells me...) thigh highs for my gay husband. The things you do for your spouse...

So, for all of the fabulous gays, I hope that on the big day your hose don't run (unless they're supposed to,) your makeup is just right and that your costume is every bit as radiant as you'd hoped. Happy Halloween! And remember that no matter what happens, be sure to bring back those fabulous heels that you borrowed from me.

Coddled Kitties

A friend of mine recently posted a photo of her cat looking very regal as he surveyed the kingdom of his living room. Underneath the photo was a note about the kitty allowing her to live in his home. I quickly questioned whether she was sure about it, because to me, it looked as though that kitty was just waiting for papers from his lawyers so that he could finally evict her. Despite her shaky living situation, my friend really gets it that she is not a cat "owner," but that she is actually "owned" by her cat. For this, I have the utmost respect because I can really relate.

As someone who is "owned" by two beautiful cats (no, they're not a "couple," they're actually "fag" and "hag" - see previous posts,) it is my job to see that they are happy. I can't see how they wouldn't be, because so far, I think I'm doing a pretty good job. If they want an early breakfast at 4 a.m., I crawl out of my warm bed to fill their bowls. If Harold wants a drink of fresh water out of my drinking glass, I quickly offer it up. If Henri wants the blanket I'm using all to herself, I take it from my body and gently wrap it around her. If either of them wants up in the window sill to chirp at birds but is having trouble getting up there, I hoist their fat asses up, then wait for them to indicate that they're ready to be lifted down. Sure, these chores are sometimes minor inconveniences to me, but somehow my two cats have me believing that it is not only my duty but my privilege to comply.

There has been a long line of pampered pets in my family. My parents, both big animal lovers themselves (although my dad tries to hide his gushing but not very well,) taught me that this is the only way to treat your pets, like they are your family - better than family. My dad works out of town most weeks, and when he gets home on Friday evening, he gives a quick greeting to his human family then rushes out to greet his canine and feline family. Also, he used to faithfully lift our pretty kitty, Lottie, up and down from a tall shelf in a picnic basket. It was the cutest thing! Little Lottie just got used to such treatment and would patiently wait for my dad to arrive with her special transportation. My mom is just as bad (or good, really) at pampering our pets. For years she actually put off major surgery while our beloved beagle, Margaret, received top medical treatment for any small ailment like a benign cyst on her ankle and $80 worth of blood work for a stomach ailment caused from eating too much lasagna.

I know lots of people who spoil their dogs, but those with really spoiled cats (like mine) truly know what it's like to become a servant to your pet. There is a saying that particularly rings true in my home, "dogs have owners, cats have staff." And I wouldn't have it any other way! Now, I have to go. My two little "managers" need their monogrammed fleece blankets fluffed and warmed in the clothes dryer.

Club Meeting

Every couple of weeks, I attend the "club meeting" of my local chapter. No, our regular meeting place isn't a board room, a "clubhouse" or a sterile meeting hall where the Rotary or other professional group meets. Our members (the two of us, myself and my friend, Matthew) meet at a local pub for a gathering of the "Centurian Club." Members of this elite club are those who have sampled a selection of at least 100 different beers and completed a punch card tracking these efforts. The reward for completion is a personalized mug to hang on the pub wall, but more importantly, the satisfaction of completing an ambitious task AND bragging rights. Although the club is open to any lover of beer, only the most diligent succeed in making it to the club.

I like to think that we are already part of the "club," however, Matthew and I still have around 15-20 select beers to go. It's only a matter of time considering that we've only been working on our goal (100 beers) for eight months. Don't get me wrong, it's not that we couldn't complete our task within a shorter time, it's more that in order to consume that many premium brews, it also takes money! Matthew is in the Army (a faithful beer drinker, if ever there was,) and I work in non-profit (underpaid, but of German heritage, need I say more about my love and prioritizing of the brew.) And club members generally spend anywhere from $500 to $750 on annual "dues." However, after some budgeting and estimating, we will complete our new member "initiation" within the next 4 to 6 weeks.

Last week, we club members celebrated the arrival of fall with some Oktoberfest brew. The pub had just tapped a keg of Spaten which was served in liter mugs (the kind you only see being carried four at a time by a hefty "Helga" wearing lederhosen.) The delicious amber ale of the gods served in a barrel of a mug warranted three "checks" on our beer club membership card. So, of course, we indulged with no regrets (except for the sore forearm muscles caused by lifting the nearly seven-pound glass repeatedly from the bar top.) The beer was yummy, and Matthew and I proudly hauled our mugs around with the ease of any brawny fraulein at Oktoberfest (the real one in my homeland of Munich, not the faux ones held in every Midwestern American town that boasts a German heritage.)

As I enjoyed my giant beer during "club," I thought about my dad and how proud he would be of me for my accomplishment. See, my dad and I share a lot of things, our dry wit, our stubbornness and our mutual love of good beer. When I'm home to visit my parents, my dad and I share a few beers (the good stuff, if I'm lucky,) while no one else in the family much cares for the stuff. And when he's in town to visit me, I always seek out places with the best beer list to take him.

So, during club last week, I sent my dad a picture of me enjoying my gargantuan liter of German beer (with a mug that mostly covered my face) and the text, "Just trying to make Daddy proud..." And I have no doubt that he is. Afterall, this is a man who has only once really shown his disapproval to me, that was when I snuck one of his really good beers, his homebrew, of which he was so proud. I was just getting a quick "sneak-peek" taste out of one of the plastic bottles that stored the beer when my dad saw and scolded me with the words that will live on in my beer-loving head, "For God's sake, Erin....... get a glass!" And this was the only time I can recall my dad ever "punishing" me.

So, with the arrival of "Oktoberfest" in Germany and around the world, I celebrate my dad, our German heritage, our mutual love of beer and Dad's sage words that will forever make me regret those college days drinking "Natty Light" (Natural Light. Do they even still make that swill?) in a plastic Solo cup (which may or may not have been taken from the top layer of the trash can and rinsed out in the sink... I'm just sayin...)

A Big Gay Haircut

Tonight, I indulged in a simple but long-overdue luxury enjoyed by most, a haircut. Not unlike many women I know, I love getting my hair cut! I love the experience of going to a posh salon where someone other than my big sisters or gay husband (who, as I recall, has asked to braid my hair a time or two) spends an hour of their life focused on my appearance. I also love that such a minor "quick fix," a new "do," actually makes you feel renewed.

Part of the reason why I love getting my hair cut is that I allow my mostly-frugal self the treat of an expensive cut at a fancy salon/spa. I'm not ashamed to say that usually I shop the sale rack (even at Target,) buy generic EVERYTHING from Tylenol to toilet paper, and have been known to buy the $3 bottle of wine at Walgreens in bulk (once a week, but anyway...) But, I will, every six to eight weeks, spend good money (that could be spent on better wine, like the $5 bottle at Rite Aid) on one hour-long trip to the salon. And it's worth every penny!

It occurred to me tonight, as I was relaxing into my pampering shampoo, cut and style, that Christopher, my fabulous hair stylist, is a unique part of my life. I have been loyal to him and his "mane magic" for nearly seven years. He has seen me through four job changes, a bad break-up, lots of funny dating stories, and every hair length from pixie to Rapunzel. An excellent stylist and a true professional, Christopher actually makes the experience for me, and I think of him as a true "girlfriend." Like lots of women at the "beauty shop" (as my Grandma calls it,) Christopher and I share dating stories, gossip about other customers, daydream about the perfect "up-do" for a night out on the town, and we laugh and laugh during our time together. However, he provides something unique in my life and my circle of acquaintances. See, I'm the proud customer (friend and supporter) of Christopher, a straight male (GASP!) hair dresser.

For those of you who don't believe me (and I know there will be many,) I have to say that I, too, refused to acknowledge this truth (that Christopher is straight) for the first six months of our relationship. Afterall, my life is filled with mostly gay people (my gay "husband," most of my male friends, many co-workers, dozens of neighbors, a couple of dates, my therapist and even my cat.) The homo lifestyle, although not my own, is what I know best. Imagine how it felt learning that the one I trust most with my luscious locks as well as the most juicy rumors, turns out to be someone completely different from the person I knew and made my "girlfriend."

As I have my gay son, Harold (not my child but my cat, see previous posts,) I have come to accept Christopher for who he is, a proud straight man. It has been a long process of learning to appreciate him as a person and trust that this straight boy will give me (I hate to say) the hair advice of a gay man. Afterall, my respect and support goes out to all that are disenfranchised or the victim of prejudice, including my Christopher, the straight man hair dresser. And next time, let's try those hot pink hair extensions (a la Katie Perry) that you recommended...

This Friday Night...

It's been a busy summer! Tonight, after a quick happy hour drink with a friend, I plan to enjoy my perfect Friday evening. I'm going to enjoy my own company over takeout food, a movie or two on Comedy Central (which don't require me to think) and a bottle of wine. After a summer filled with many events and changes at work, a move and a few weekends out of town, I feel no shame in admitting that the combination (although boring to some) of rest, solitude and wine are what make for my ideal weekend evening.

Sure, lots of people in their early thirties, like me, are eager to spend the evening at home with their young families enjoying meatloaf and Netflix before tucking into bed at a reasonable hour (since they have an early soccer/baseball/karate/dance/banjo practice.) On the other hand, there are also lots of people my age planning to tear it up tonight at one of the many evening hotspots where they'll "see" and "be seen" until the early morning hours and a nightcap at Barbara Lee's Kitchen (a local "kitsch-ier" Waffle House.)

Now, I like to go out in the evenings and on weekends (afterall, I am just a handful of brews away from my 100-beer "Centurion Club" membership at the local pub - you don't get that award sitting at home!) and experience all there is to offer in this party town. I also enjoy meeting friends for dinner, checking out new restaurants and bars, and, ok, "seeing" and "being seen" occasionally.  But, not tonight.

Tonight I choose to sit on the couch, in my underwear, surrounded by enough Chinese takeout boxes to feed three (I'm not kidding, my usual order typically comes with three forks and fortune cookies. Then, when the delivery guy comes, I have to pretend that I'm waiting on the arrival of a couple of friends, while, really, the steaming, greasy, MSG-laden haul is just for me.) Then, after enjoying my delicious takeout dinner and a bit of wine, I will probably also do what I tend to on Friday nights with a full belly and the week's drama safely behind me. Yes, I can see it now. By 10:00 I will lose the battle to keep my eyes open and fall asleep slumped over the couch with a half-drunk glass of wine clutched to my chest, an open Reader's Digest laying at my side and Dateline on the TV in front of me.

Hmm... You know what, maybe I'll go out tonight...

Nouveau Labor Day

I don't know about you, but to me, this has been the shortest summer ever! It's been a busy one with a regular 9 to 5 job, a weekend job, a major move, a week-long trip and "appointments" with friends, such as gay volleyball every Thursday, many happy hours and other social functions. It is now already September and Labor Day weekend is upon us.  Unfortunately, my job requires that everyone work the Saturday before the holiday at our annual street festival, so my "long" Labor Day weekend is spent, well, laboring. I'm not the only one disappointed not to get a well-deserved three-day weekend like most American workers, but I've come to realize that bitching is pointless. It is what it is.

So, instead of making a trip home to visit my family, my weekend will be spent working (as I mentioned,) getting together with friends for an end-of-the-summer pool party and catching up on house projects and junk TV. It's been a few years since I've been able to make it home for the Labor Day weekend, but I still miss being able to take that last road trip of the summer.

My family doesn't really have any set traditions, but, like every other family in this country, we usually have a cookout of the traditional burgers, hot dogs and brats for such holidays (we wouldn't be good Americans if we didn't.) You can also count on the family dinner table to feature dishes of squash, tomatoes, corn or any other "in-season" summer vegetable. And if you're lucky, Dad will share a can or two of his reserve "barbecue beer," (so named to distinguish it from the other beer in the fridge, the bottles of "craft" beer) the glacier-cold lager is best enjoyed next to the open flame of the grill. To me, this simple menu (of char-grilled meats, the backyard garden's harvest and a can of beer shared with Dad) are what make the holiday.

Although I've had a great Labor Day weekend filled with friends, activity and pizza delivery, I can't help but yearn to be at my parents' home. I'm reminded of this each time I smell the charcoal grills and cooking meat wafting through the neighborhood during the weekend. Sure, I could buy one of those $5 disposable "grills" (which are a miracle when you're an apartment dweller!) But, the real essence of the holiday is not what's cooking outside. It's the time spent making that meal, drinking that cold beer with Dad, saying "goodbye" to summer and "goodbye" to the family I won't see again until the winter holidays months away.

So, I hope that my family is gathering for a Labor Day barbecue tomorrow even though I can't be there (to make the deviled eggs -- I must say, I make them the best with not too much mayonnaise and lots of pepper) to enjoy it. I will be thinking of my dad out at his station by the grill, my mom inside setting out the side dishes, as I enjoy my nouveau Labor Day meal of Australian wine and Indian food takeout.

Gimme a "B"eat...

Good news! I made the cheerleading squad! Of the gay volleyball team...

A couple of my good friends (mostly gay men) have been playing sand volleyball at the local courts every Thursday evening. My gay husband "Corky" and I have been up to watch (over a bucket or two of cheap beer) the team play most weeks throughout the summer. It's not so much that we are "sports" fans, it's more that we are fans of "skins" night... which, on a gay league, is almost every night! Afterall, why play a dirty, sweat-inducing sport if you're not going to take off the shirt and show those fine-tuned abs?!!

We, "Corky" and I, have had the best times going up to watch the gay games. We've been such loyal fans that we have officially earned the team T-shirt. The "Boobs and Botox" team (sponsored by a local plastic surgeon whose employee - that I LOVE with a capital "L" - is on the team) is a force to be reckoned with at Baxter Jacks.  It's not so much that they win their games, it's more that they are a "lean" and "mean" force because, well, they look fabulous! And they (and their unofficial team mates/cheerleaders) have the BEST time of anyone there!

The reason why it's so much fun to go to the gay volleyball game every week is that no one there takes it too seriously.  At least not on our team.  Case in point, the only Thursday this summer that the team unanimously decided to skip was because of a major conflict with two very important events.  If only the opposing team who won by forfeit that evening KNEW that half of "Boobs and Botox" (it may have been the "boobs"...) team decided to attend "Drag Queen Bingo" that evening instead, and the other half made the hour and 45-minute drive to Cincinnati for the Janet Jackson concert.  Now that is a gay sports team!  And, of course, being the supportive hag and team cheerleader ("Captain" of the squad, I'd like to think, but as this is a gay team, I'm thinking "Corky" gets the honor by default) that I am, I was also attending "Drag Queen Bingo," as you may have read in previous posts...

Surprisingly (or NOT surprisingly, for those, unlike me, who don't generalize people) the "Boobs and Botox" volleyball team has some great athletes!  The competition is usually equally-matched and the games are always close.  That's what they tell us, anyway.  Corky and I are usually more focused on the shirtless hard-bodies on the next court over reenacting our "Top Gun" volleyball-scene fantasies.  Or who on the opposing team (who we've watched play many times over the summer as well) has been working out or who should definitely be voted "Most Improved" in muscle definition of six-pack abs.

All in all, I love "Boobs and Botox" (the team, not necessarily the things themselves,) and look forward to the games every week.  You will never meet a better group of people anywhere who knows how to have a good time (and look good doing it.)  My only complaint is that when we go out for a drink after the game, I'm the only one ordering a calorie-ridden beer and fatty fried food while most of the team orders Diet Coke and a salad with a spritz of lemon juice.  Queers! (Again, I say that with only love.)

My New Friend, Tex

I started writing this blog because of my mom.  For years she has been encouraging me to write down the stories that I tell her.  So, when Mom read my first entry, she was informed that our family (namely her) is rather eccentric.  Although the rest of us were quite aware, this was, apparently, news to Mom.  She (and even my sister) like to think that everyone else is "different," and we're the normal ones.  So, I'll let them keep thinking that.  And lucky for me, eccentricity yields many blog topics.

Growing up we always had lots of pets.  My mom worked in an animal clinic for a time and we were always the family that took in stray (or dumped) cats from the neighborhood or public park.  Although we mostly kept to cats and dogs as pets, we are animal lovers through and through.

When my parents left the small town where I grew up, they moved to a house out in the country with a few acres of woods and a couple of streams.  Except for the deafening sounds of nature (birds, bugs and other wildlife,) it gets pretty quiet out at their new home.  So, one summer evening as they were sitting out on the deck, they heard the loud croaks of a bullfrog down in the creek closeby.  After hearing the familiar croaks from this frog a few more times, they decided to make a "pet" (one they only heard, but never saw) out of "Rusty."  I thought they were nuts. 

For months Rusty visited every evening, "calling out" as if to say hello and let my amused parents know that he was still out there.  One tragic day, a big storm passed through, the creek and yard were flooded and poor Rusty was never heard from again.  However, this summer, my parents' pool mysteriously filled with hundreds (if not thousands) of tiny tadpoles.  Mom and Dad like to think that Rusty's legacy is living on through the gobs of nasty, slimy, pre-historic-looking creatures (that's my opinion. My parents think they are cute.) he left behind.

A few weeks ago, after moving into a new part of the neighborhood and now parking on the street under low-hanging trees, I noticed an elaborate spider web strung from my car's sideview mirror.  While taking a closer look at "nature's artwork" on the side of my car, a small but stout, brown spider crawled out from the corner of the mirror.  Although I appreciated his beauty and friendliness, I quickly rolled up my window so as not to get too close to the icky thing.  The next day and for many days after, each time I went outside, the early morning sun shone on another beautiful web on the side of my car.  Also, that same brown spider came out of the mirror to give me a brief "howdy do."  I named him "Tex."  For weeks, Tex has greeted me every morning as if to say, with a tip of his hat, "Ma'am..."  I even find myself driving well below the speed limit (even when running late to work) so as not to blow Tex away.  He frequently rides along with me hanging on for his dear life to just one impossibly thin thread of his web.  I always apologize to him (outloud, of course, otherwise how would he hear it?) for the thrill ride he just received.

So, summer will soon be coming to an end, and with it, so will the "circle of life" for dear Tex.  As Charlotte had to say goodbye to Wilbur, Tex will soon be saying farewell to me.  I realize that he cannot be with me forever, and I will one day have to ride to work alone.  And when that day comes, I will miss the little guy for all the times we've shared.

Tex has made me realize so many things, the most obvious of which is that I am just as "nutso-buttso" (my mom's term) as my parents.  And if being eccentric brings a little more appreciation (for friends like Tex) and humor to my day, I'll take it.

Short Bus Family

Growing up, my family had lots of pets.  My parents were (and are) animal-lovers, so my two sisters and I were destined to follow.  As adults, all three of us have pets that we consider our own "new" families. I myself have two cats, my sister just lost a cat but also has a dog (beautiful Auggie,) and my other sister, the violinist (if you know a musician, this story will probably not surprise you,) has three cats and a dog.  This sister's "family" is very loving and very spoiled, as they should be.  However, these pets are slightly different than most.  For some reason, my sister attracted or was drawn to, a most interesting collection of animals.  Seemingly "normal" on the outside, in reality they each have their own special "quirk," something that sets them apart from the general flock.  And I would expect nothing less from my sister.

My sister adopted her dog from a local shelter when he was just a puppy. Murphy is a black and white bird dog who had gangly ears and long legs from day one.  Although he eventually grew into a medium-large adult dog, his ears were still a little, well, stunted.  When my nephew was very young, he so perfectly said it in his awestruck way, "he (Murphy) kept growing and growing, but his ears stayed the same size!"  Murphy's handsome, but somewhat awkward, shape and size isn't all that makes him "unique."  This tall, lean hound makes a distinct grumbling noise that sounds EXACTLY like a Wookie from Star Wars.  It's amazing!  You couldn't imitate the sound as perfectly if you tried.

Winston, a large, black, male cat, was my sister's "first born."  He is a good, mature-seeming boy, with the appearance of sophistication and esteem.  When I look at him, I actually think of Wilford Brimley, however, he's not amused when I get in his face and recite the Liberty Mutual commercial, "I'd like to take a minute to talk to you about life insurance..."  As the most stable and sensible (it seems) of the family, my sister calls Winston her "rock."  So, it's somewhat surprising to hear this intimidating, big male cat's "meow."  This badass cat has the highest pitch "Castratti" voice, not unlike Mike Tyson.

Then there's Parker.  Parker was a preemie kitty, who wasn't expected to make it.  But he was adopted by a veterinarian's office, more particularly, the black lab who lived there.  The lab nursed baby Parker back to life, but Parker would never develop fully as an adult cat.  Small in stature, he is always cold and constantly looking for someone (cat, dog, human) to snuggle up to.  Parker acts more like a human baby or even Cabbage Patch Doll, perfectly content to be swaddled in a blanket or wrapped and zipped up in your hoodie.  As small and petite as he is, however, mysteriously Parker thumps down the hall so heavy-footed, you would think he weighed 100 pounds.

Fergus is my sister's somewhat recent addition.  He is a youthful red-head (orange kitty) that lived on the streets and probably ate out of garbage cans for years.  A healthy young brut, Fergus looks to be an all-American feline boy.  However, three year-old Fergus, as it turns out, still likes to nurse like a newborn kitten.  My sister discovered this phenomenom when wearing a particular green cotton nightgown.  Her new cat, rescued from the hard streets of Memphis, suckled and found comfort in the lining of the fabric.  Years later, Fergus has kept up the habbit, continuing to "nurse" on that one green garment.  When my sister goes out of town each summer, she makes sure to bring along Fergus' nursing nightie so that he can feel the comforts of home even when he's away.

To know her pets, is to know my sister.  Her family is a unique bunch, to say the least.  I would expect nothing less from my sister who takes great pride in being "one of a kind," which she most-definitely is.  As someone close to her, I also know that she has a special place in her heart for others who are different.  I know my sister as someone more warm and vulnerable than she would ever care to admit.  And for that, I appreciate her and her crazy family even more.

"Pookie" and Other Pet Names

I was just thinking about the story behind the name (Pookie) that my family calls me.  It occurred to me that I'm not the only one in my family (although the only human) that goes by a nickname. We've always called our family pets by alternate names. This is not so unusual, I realize.  Lots of people call their beloved shi tzu or hound dog by a shorter, sweeter, more personality-appropriate version of their actual name.  It is, afterall, why they call them "pet names."  So, Bowser may turn into "B-boy," Snoopy becomes "Snoops" and Margaret turns into "Madge," (the name of my darling beagle when I was young.) However, the nicknames of my family's pets, are anything but normal by these standards.

There is, actually, was (poor baby passed this year) my sister's cat, Claude. Claude was a handsome, lean, tabby that had a special way of entering a room (chin first, ears back and with a sudden stop as if caught redhanded) with all the grace of "Kramer" from Seinfeld.  Anyway, handsome Claude was soon called "Claudimus" (a masculine, almost "gladiator"-sounding name,) then "Claudimutz," and that eventually shortened to just "Dimutz."  And this strange, less than warm-sounding name is what the poor guy answered to until the day he died. My sister's other cat, Daphne, also had an interesting nickname.  Daphne, unfortunately, came to my sister during the heyday of the show, Melrose Place. Daphne Zuniga (who you may also know as "Princess Vespa" in Space Balls) had a starring role in the show. So, through no fault of the unlucky cat, she soon became "Zuniga" of the B-list actress fame.

My sister's critters aren't the only ones with interesting nicknames.  My parents have a slew of cats and two gorgeous dogs, Ella and Max.  Both of these are nice normal names, even fairly-common for family pets.  But for some unknown, and slightly bizarre reason, my nephew began calling Ella "Montez" and Max became "Peru." Why, you ask?  I have no idea. My nephew was very young at the time he came up with them, so who knows where he heard the words, let alone the names. But, these nicknames are still around today.

I have to admit that my own cats have also been subjected to alternate names. I've spoken a lot about my kitty, Harold, the one who's gay (I say in a whisper as if it's an unconfirmed rumor -- it's not. He's out, trust me!) But I also have the beautiful Henri who I got when she was just a kitten. Even though I've had cats all of my life, determining the sex of my baby was not as certain as I thought, so I gave her a "boy's" name. (I'm not the only one to make that mistake. My parents had a cat, "Blanche" until they realized "she" was, in fact, a "Bud" instead.) Henri is a funny (some would say "bitchy") girl with a complex personality and a bad attitude. She loves her mother (me,) most men and all lesbians. She does not love women, Grandma, my gay husband, "Corky," or anyone else. Anyway, my complicated girl, "Henri," has eventually become "Tissie" or "Tiss."

Truth be told, the origins of this name came from the term "Tissie Pristle," the term that my grandpa used (in a loving way, I like to think) to refer to gay men.  I don't know why my kitty, Henri "Tiss," got the nickname instead of my gay son, Harold.  I have a feeling that perhaps Harold is holding out for an even more fabulous title, maybe one of European royalty. Or, more likely, he may be waiting to pick out the most perfect "show" (drag) name.  My gay baby is probably secretly trying out new ones soon to unveil a new persona to fit a name, like "Amber Fields" or "Vaseline Dion" or "Amanda Reckenwhith."  That reminds me, has anyone seen the fabulous hot pink flapper-girl wig from my Halloween costume?

(Thanks, Lynnelle, for the truly frightening Photoshop work!)

She's Fallen and She Can't Get Up!

Whenever I think of my childhood or of any family memory, I think of my two older sisters. We, all three of us, were (and are) very close despite an eight year age difference. With this, I've always considered my oldest sister a "mother" figure, someone whose maternal instincts were evident even as a young girl. There are so many pictures of her holding and taking care of a newborn me. I'm also told that she has been looking after me as her own since day one, and I have more than a few memories of my sister getting after me to do the right thing, or to stay out of trouble, or nagging me to wear my lipstick (which she thinks brightens my face and "pulls me together.")

I'm grateful to my sister for taking such good care of me all these years (she still "mothers" me even now.) But, despite her fine-tuned maternal instinct, it's a bit of a surprise that she is NOT good in emergency situations. Although she has cared for her testosterone-filled family of athletes for fifteen years (and her sisters for even longer,) including the occasional sports injury or accident, this highly-educated, CPR-trained, former-lifeguard, 4th grade teacher (is there a tougher job? no!) woman, cannot handle an emergency. Unfortunately, she gets so panicked that she freezes and all common sense leaves the situation.

Years ago, I offered to accompany my sister on a 2 1/2 hour drive to deliver my nephew to my other sister so that he could stay with her for a few days. After making our delivery, we started back for home. However, shortly into our journey it started snowing. Then, it started snowing A LOT. I could see that my sister was too panicked to drive in the nasty weather, so I offered to take over and drive her SUV instead. Then, not two miles down the road, my frantic passenger let the stress of the snowstorm get the better of her and she insisted that I pull over. Although I felt fairly confident driving in the storm, I pulled over and let my sister calm her nerves. What I didn't expect was that my caretaking big sister, who was too petrified to drive or even let ME drive, would now be reclined back in the passenger seat, mouth hanging open, snoring five minutes after she insisted that we stop and leaving me to deal with our predicament on my own. So, I went ahead and made the executive decision that we find a hotel for the night since we weren't going anywhere and my sister was obviously exhausted from her trying experience. The next morning, we finally started for the drive home, that was, only after scraping ice from the windows using the butter dish and block of wood she kept in the car for such occasions. No, really.

Another time when my sister demonstrated her heroics during an emergency situation, was when the neighbor's house caught on fire. Reacting quickly in her attempt to help, my sister ran back to her own house, just a hundred or so feet away, to get a fire extinguisher. However, in her panic, she had a horrible time making her way back to the fire. With the bottom half of her body suddenly paralyzed in distress, my sister's legs gave out, she collapsed on the muddy lawn, not once but four times! Every time she attempted in a frenzy to get back on her feet, her legs buckled and she fell down again. And with each "fall," she got more anxious and more covered in mud. Meanwhile, the "helpful" other neighbors, having witnessed the whole, unfortunate scene, casually went about their barbecue, never once offering to assist or at the very least drag my sister out of the mud pit in which she was now swimming. As you can probably guess, by the time my sister finally did arrive with the extinguisher, the fire was already long out. Lucky for them, the neighbors quickly forgot about their frightening emergency after watching the entire scene of my poor sister dragging her way (as if she were on a "boot camp" obstacle course) across their yard from the kitchen window.

Despite her successful or not so successful attempts to help in an emergency, her intentions are good. And really, that's what matters at the end of the day. I just hope that she has 911 on speed dial. And really, "Life Alert" isn't just for Grandma.

Remember when?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQlpDiXPZHQ

Pookie Goes Home

I just got back from a weekend trip to Illinois to visit my family. Although it's an easy four-hour drive, perfect for a weekend (preferably a long weekend,) I have to admit that I don't get back there nearly as often as I'd like. Despite the distance between us geographically and the completely different lives we all now live, I'm still really close to my immediate family.

During my visits home, of course I look forward to catching up with my family, but I also look forward to the break from my "real life," the 30 year-old professional woman who works 9 to 5, pays bills and has a healthy retirement plan. Sometime during the drive back to the "homeland," I transform from the independent career woman that I've become to the youngest child, little sister, spoiled with love and attention teenager. Somewhere in the middle of Indiana, between Clarksville and "Skeeter Mountain," I, once again, become "Pookie."

Since I was probably ten years-old, my family has called me nothing but "Pookie," or worse, "Pook," and even on special occasions, "Pook Stain" (nice, right?)  I am "Pookie" to my parents, my sisters, close friends of my sisters, and even to my nephews, at home and in public without fail. In fact, it is so ingrained in me now, that I don't even realize that I'm answering to this silly nickname from across the grocery store or in the middle of a nice restaurant. It no longer even occurs to me to be embarrassed about my funny "name" like I once was.

I hardly remember how it all began, calling me by a nickname, but "Pookie" does not exactly fit me, at least I don't think. When I think of someone who might better fit the name, I think of a preppy, pastel sweater-wearing (draped over her shoulders, of course) big-haired blonde, southern socialite who has a trust fund and even as a grown woman calls her dad "daddy." This is most definitely not me. My dad would laugh if I did, or he'd squirt me with the tiny water gun he always has closeby to keep cats off the table or to show his "disapproval" of a particularly obnoxious belch or bad word one of the rest of us might share.

As much as I can tell, my sister started calling me this long-enduring nickname for the very reason that it isn't me. As I do a bit of soul-searching, I will have to get the real story from my sister, but I think the name stuck because of my very dry sense of humor (a quality given directly to me from my dad.) "Pookie" is not a name you would give to a nearly six-foot tall woman who may wear a pastel-colored sundress with the appearance of warmth and friendliness on the outside, but who is wearing head-to-toe "goth" black and silently judging you on the inside. Only my family knows the real me, the girl who has always been more introspective than outgoing, more mature than naive, more "Mrs. Robinson" than "Elaine," at least on the inside.

I've long given up on the hope that my unfortunate nickname would go away. I now realize that I will probably someday be the oldest, wrinkliest, most sarcastic "Pookie" in "the home." But I've also come to love my name. To me, it is a wonderful and nostalgic reminder of where I come from, the people (my family) who've known me on my best day and my worst and that I'm still the same girl I've always been, even though I now have (gasp!) responsibility. So, now I'm going to go pay bills and with new inspiration. I may even sign the checks "Pookie."

Drag Queen Bingo

As someone who works in fundraising, I try to support as many charities as my "non-profit" salary allows. The charities that generally appeal to me are those that advocate for animals, those that fund research for diseases that have affected my close family or friends and those that support the "LGBT" community. As an experienced fag hag, I have always supported gay causes (by dating some of their "members" before they came "out" and attending more pride parades than your average homo) but I also try to lend my financial support when I can.

Last night, Drag Queen Bingo! The event raised money for the Louisville Youth Group, a support group for gay teens. The concept is not a new one, I've heard of other cities having similar events with much the same success as this one. For those who are not familiar, it is what it sounds like - gays, hags (like me) and other supporters play Bingo (just like any ol' Catholic affair) but the catch is, instead of "Father John" or "Sister Mary" calling the game, it's someone infinitely more fabulous (and exceedingly better dressed!) Last night, the "callers" were a couple of elegant "ladies," local celebrities from Connection's very well-known and well-attended (by both gay and straight audiences) drag show, Terri Vanessa Coleman and Hurricane Summers.

Unless you live here, it's hard to believe that Louisville, Kentucky boasts a surprisingly large and generally "accepted" gay community. There are lots of gay-owned businesses, gay-friendly social groups and events and some of the best gay clubs (including the biggest, Connection) of any city this size. I guess it's really not that unusual that we have such a large population of gay residents in the metropolitan city, because if you live in Kentucky and you're gay, where do you go? This is, afterall, the state of rednecks and pick-up trucks (I'm not talking about the lesbian kind) and the location of the movie Deliverance. But, despite the city's gay-friendliness, I still frequently warn my gay husband "Corky" not to get hate-crimed when he's venturing down a dark street or going somewhere uber "straight," like the state fair or (gasp!) Walmart. (How many gay men do you know who shop at Walmart?)   

So, as you can imagine, Drag Queen Bingo was a hit! I even won a game! Actually, my gay husband won but refused to raise his voice (and lower "himself") by yelling "bingo." Also, he wasn't wearing the cutest, butt-emphasizing shorts with which to show off his booty from the stage where winners go to claim their prize. So, I gladly took the honors, marching up to greet Hurricane and pick up my winnings (a $25 Mastercard gift card.) The highlight of the evening, however, was the attention Ms. Summers showered on me, calling me a "pretty thing" and commenting on my "perky boobs." Believe me, this is a compliment matched by none! A man, um... "woman" who knows her D-cups and has maybe even shopped for a couple of her own, recognizing a good set. I will proudly accept that admiration.

The Incident

Disclaimer: I've decided to share a funny story that is highly embarrassing. The rule is, after reading, you can't look down on me. You can't look at me differently. And you can't judge. I only tell it because it's really funny, and your laughter is more important than my humiliation.

So... a few of my closest friends and relatives (I mean only THE closest who already know the story) have asked me whether I would be sharing a particular story of mine that is more than a little embarrassing. As a habitual "over-sharer" who knows no "T.M.I." I eventually came to the conclusion that everyone (I know you do) has a story, an embarrassing story, a story about shitting their pants... and so, I share mine.... Yeah, I'm going there...

I had only worked at my previous job for a few months before the big "gala" fundraiser. As a representative of the company, of course I had to attend the high-profile event in town with the "who's who" of Louisville. I hadn't been to many formal affairs in my professional career but managed to dig up a former bridesmaid dress that would serve as the perfect ball gown for the debut event.

Dressed in my beautiful gown and feeling like a million bucks, the event went off without a hitch. Although not a natural "socializer," I managed to make small-talk with some major donors, got to know some loyal volunteers a little better and took full advantage of that blessing, the open bar. However, I did not, unfortunately, have the opportunity to enjoy much of the buffet dinner served to attendees of the opulent event.

When the event's agenda was complete and only a few party-goers remained, I politely excused myself from that long day. I was finally able to relax on my drive home. That was, until I felt a somewhat familiar pang that made me just a little more urgent (panicked) to get to my final destination. So, when I arrived at my condo building I pulled into the service driveway where I hurriedly turned on my emergency flashers and set the car in "park." As I scrambled to get inside to the privacy of my own home, I could not find my keys! Rushed and panicked to find the keys, I listened for the familiar clank in my purse... But, it was too late... I shit my pants... in my ballgown...

Desperate to do something (anything!) to conceal my "accident" (until now, when I tell all via blog,) I casually walked down the drive to my condo building's award-winning landscape garden. There, I'm mortified (obviously not enough to keep from sharing) to say, I covertly shook the offending turd loose from my gown. But, as I sheepishly made my way back to the car, I realized that in my haste, I had left the keys in the running car!

So, I let myself into my condo building and guiltily snuck into my apartment to destroy the evidence and forget that unfortunate, scandalous evening. Much to my dismay, however, Mother Nature would NOT let me forget my unforgiveable, embarrassing offense...  See, the turd from my fancy ballgown on that infamous evening mocked me for at least six months from its landscaped high-traffic location where I had last left it. That son of a bitch lasted in the ornamental grasses through rain and shine, snow and sleet, humidity and drought. And my humiliation lasted for at least three times that amount of time! 

But, despite my incredible embarrassment, I share my story now partly because I recently moved out of the condo building where I single-handedly caused the ruination of the landscape committee. Also, I don't keep "secrets" very well. And if you don't have a story (about dirtying your pants or something equally as embarrassing,) you're just not human. And you're lying...  Now, we will never speak of this again.

My Family Tree

Like a lot of families who eventually settled in the Midwest (and particularly my hometown in Illinois,) my ancestors are an even split of both English and German heritage. As farmers in the early to mid 1800's, both "sides" of the family came to America looking for a better opportunity in the rich farmland of the area near where my parents actually live now. While my family tree has both very English names, Bird and Hall, it also has VERY German names as well, Heitzman and Klaustermeier.

Despite the even split between two cultures, everyone in my immediate family will probably tell you, we most resemble our German heritage in appearance -we are a "robust" bunch, freakishly strong, particularly us "damens," and we have a special fondness for cured meats (summer sausage) and strong brews - ok, that may just be me- but also our work ethic and stubbornness. Afterall, a favorite saying (more a proud motto) in my family is "you can tell a German, but you can't tell him much!" (Truth be told, I've heard this saying applied to Irish and Italian as well, so I guess it's an equal-opportunity generalism.)

Fortunately, my dad has done a lot of research about our family roots, and I've been lucky to travel in the last couple of years to the areas where my family originally came from in both England and Germany. And, without a doubt, I feel very strongly connected to my roots in Germany where people most look like me, traditions are more familiar (they eat meat and cheese for breakfast!) and where I feel like I could very well be sitting in my grandma's or great-grandma's living room. When I was travelling there, I even noticed that some of the houses looked exactly like those of my relatives, including their spotless, clean-swept porches and tidy, obedient flower gardens.

As someone who appreciates history but mostly looks forward to what's to come, it's a comforting feeling to know your "roots." I never would have understood this if I had not travelled there (in both Germany and England) myself. I'm so grateful to my dad for having understood this long before I did and for doing the hours of research in order to find this information.

Come to find out, our family tree boasts no exciting drama (except maybe a couple of horse thieves in the early 1900s and my current immediate family) and certainly no European royalty (although we/I may occasionally act like it.) But it's incredible to learn more about the hard-working, aspiring people (farmers and factory-workers) who took that big leap and started over in a foreign country (America) with nothing at all. At the same time, it's also heartwarming to know that despite the distance and years our family has come, we still see and identify with the distinct characteristics of our ancestors' home lands.

So, perhaps my fondness for the German language (with its "fahrt" and "weiner"and such) is not because of the cheap giggle it brings to the "teenage boy" in me, but because of a centuries-old, deep-seated connection to my heritage............  Nah, it's because of the "fahrt" and "weiner"!

Crazy Cat Mom

I have two beautiful, spoiled cats who are like children to me. Wait, before you get the thought in your head that I'm THAT woman, the crazy cat lady wearing a muu muu and shaking her broom at the neighbor kids, I'm way ahead of you. I won't be sporting any bumper stickers like, "Proud parent of a calico 'wildcat'" or "My cat is smarter than your honor student" (only because I haven't found a place that sells them yet, but that's beside the point.)

Today, I was woken up at 4 a.m. by the feel of soft cotton balls lightly touching my face. In my dream, I imagined fluffy pink powder puffs floating through the air, a peaceful scene relaxing enough to keep me in a deep slumber a little while longer. But then, the touch of those cotton balls lightly touching my face hit with just a little more pressure than before. Soon, those light, heavenly cotton balls were tapping my face heavily and insistently... and with sharp, flesh-slicing claws outdrawn! My damn cat was waking me up, like she does every morning, way too early by sitting on my chest and repeatedly smacking my face (not my arm or chest or back, as if to politely jimmy me awake) with her paw. The reason for the obnoxiously early wake-up call? Breakfast, of course. Henri, my regimented feline daughter insists on being fed very early. I would understand if she had, perhaps an early meeting or wanted to get a head start on her day...

I realize that I indulge them, which is nobody's fault but my own. But I also realize that my feline kids most-likely don't understand the concept of sleeping in or the need for rest because I have a big day ahead (I hope they don't, or else they're in trouble,) so there's no reason to punish them for waking me up. So, when they go back to bed after they've had their early breakfast and their bellies are full, and I have to get up a few hours later with a foggy head and sleep in my eyes, I don't hold a grudge.

This morning I got up at the crack of dawn to feed my spoiled babies then woke up hours later to get ready for work. But when I was attempting to drag my weary bones out of bed, I bounced the mattress just a little too hard for their liking and woke up my two sleeping beauties. I got the nastiest-looking, devil eyes half-opened, not-even-lifting-my-head-from-this-pillow scowl from two cats you ever would see! A look that says, you have personally offended and most definitely insulted me with your mid-morning disturbance. If you have a cat (any cat) you know that look... It says, "I love you, but I will cut you..."

But, I love my cats just as they are. Sure, they're spoiled, demanding, they know what they want and will accept nothing less, but how else would I know that they're mine? They are, afterall, their mother's "children."

Actual Family Recipes

As long as I can remember, the kitchen was the center of my family. Growing up, the five of us lived in a modest ranch-style home in a typical neighborhood. And the kitchen was the place (like a lot of families) where we spent most of our time, doing homework at the table, talking about what happened at school that day and either baking elaborate recipes or cooking fabulous meals.

My mom is an excellent baker, and whether it's a large project or small, she loves the hobby of it so much that she actually bakes something just about every day. Some of my earliest memories are of scooting a kitchen chair over to the counter, wearing an apron and helping mix up a batch of chocolate chip cookies (Toll House recipe, of course.) I am the youngest daughter and the last to go to school, so I was home during the day by myself with Mom. And it felt like I was chosen for special duty when serving as Mom's "cookie assistant!" Each of us (my sisters and I) had that same experience helping Mom in the kitchen. That might explain why even today each of us swears we are still Mom's favorite. Also at an early age, my sister caught the cooking bug, scouring cookbooks, trying challenging new recipes and eventually taking over cooking a lot of our family meals. Still today, when she is staying at my parents for a period of time, she is the "manager" of the kitchen and no one challenges her over that role. She also makes the best schnitzel this side of the Atlantic Ocean (the best is still Margit's in Graz, see earlier post, "Life As An AIMS-er." I have to say, my other sister and I like to cook but mostly prefer to leave it to the "experts." However, all of us love food, love to talk about it and appreciate good cooking.

When one or both of us (my sister, the other out-of-towner and I) is in town for a visit, Mom always asks us to send our menu requests. Unfortunately, I'm the one who gets to visit least often, so I usually have lots of requests and a very specific list for those family favorites I miss so much when I'm gone. Also, a big part of every visit home is planning dinner ("supper," as we call it in the Midwest) every night and going into town to shop for groceries. Since I don't do much of the actual cooking but really appreciate the process, I love going to the grocery store and picking out the ingredients.  For one, it's on Mom's dime, but also because it's a bonding experience for the women in my family. It's what we do everytime we're together, without fail.

Eventually I hope to share some of our many favorite recipes we love (except I have NO love for "Bridal Luncheon Salad." Jello is dumb and gross.) and with all of the special and very descriptive names Mom has given these dishes. For instance, there's the nasty "Bridal Luncheon Salad," an offensive, pale green, foamy, Jello concoction that seems to show up at every family special occasion whether you want it to or not. There is also "Copper Pennies," the name that sounds like it would be a "treasure" to eat, but let's be honest, cooked carrots are no treasure. Another decadent recipe that is delicious despite its name, "Bean Sludge," nacho dip made with beans that does, in fact, look like something you'd pull out of your bath tub drain. "Poop Cookies," or "Chocolate Drop Cookies" as they're known in normal families. Thinking about them actually makes my mouth water, which goes to show you just how ingrained and commonplace Mom's revised less-than-appetizing name is to our family.

I'll be making a trip home to visit my family in a few weeks, and I've already started my list of requests (no Jello!) I know that Mom will come through for me. While I'm there, I hope to pick up a few more recipes (and stories) from my family's cookbook.

Grandma's Words, Part 2

After posting "Grandma's Words of Comfort" about my grandma's unfortunate knack for the Freudian slip, a few family members kindly reminded me of a few other classic Grandma moments. Again, my point in sharing is not to embarrass or poke fun at Grandma (well, maybe just a little) but to help describe her as the quirky octogenarian she is and a big part of the long line of eccentric women in my family.

One of the funniest things in the world is to hear my grandma to cuss. Now, on any given day, it's not out of th ordinary to hear the rest of the family demonstrate our four-letter vocabulary, but Grandma usually saves such language for only the most dire circumstances. One such time, was when both of my sisters, Mom and Grandma were on a very long roadtrip to take the violinist sister to school in upstate New York. The smart travelers decided to break up the arduous 14-hour journey with a stop at a motel along the way, however, it was anything but restful for ANY of them. Along with her wacky sense of humor, unfortunately Mom also inherited Grandma's amazing habit of snoring. We're not talking polite, occasional gurgling of the throat. This is full-on lumberjack, aint-no-one-sleeping-through-this log-sawing, and no one does it like Grandma! The next morning, after attempting unsuccessfully to sleep through the racket of Grandma's snores, all three weary travelers got ready to be on their way again. Irritable and exhausted, Mom and Grandma went down to the hotel lobby for the "Continental" breakfast they were promised on a promotional sign inside their room. Minutes later the defeated travelers returned to the room with no success in getting their meal. Mom calmly told my sisters that they weren't able to get anything to eat, because it was only 6:30 and breakfast wasn't served until 7:00. Disappointed and hungry, my "innocent," little old lady grandma then uttered the phrase that still haunts her (and makes us giggle) today. She very unexpectedly said, "And all I wanted was my f*ckin' danish!" Grandma?!! The "f-bomb?"

When they stopped laughing at Grandma's dramatic display, my sister (who seems to have a way with getting through to people,) left the room and quickly returned with enough "f*ckin'" danishes for everyone.

There are also the instances when Grandma utters a cuss word without intending to. One honest mistake is her regularly referring to a nearby restaurant Lotawata Creek, as "LaTwatta Creek." Although an unintentional slip, no one was surprised to hear Grandma turn the name of a harmless family establishment into something of the more X-rated variety. Now, she wasn't born yesterday, and although it's not something you normally hear from an 88 year-old, Grandma does know what that word means. And she was partly embarrassed, but mostly amused, when her mistake in pronouncing the restaurant's name was pointed out to her.

Grandma, Grandma... we wouldn't want you to be any other way. I'm certain that those "traditional" grandmas, the ones that knit and make jam and who tell bedtime stories to their brood of eager grandchildren around the fire (I'm picturing Little House again...) don't have nearly as much fun as we do!