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.