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.