Shady Verandas Are The Only Fun Kind
[throw some shade, throw some shade
throw some glitter make it rain ... let's have a kiki]
Benjamin Kissell
"TGISB" "Huh? What's TGISB?"
"Thank Gawdd It's Saturday, Bitch!"
"At least you know your grammar; now shut the fuck up
and have a cup of T; hold the shade."
To throw shade ~ adv./adj. "to make a witty and catty remark to individual(s) while casting aspersions about the legitimacy and capabilities of a particular person - specifically used in reference to drag queens." [in other words: bitch will cut you with her words!]
..............................
Here’s a riddle – what do cranky octogenarians, Anti-Abortion Activists and Drag Queens all have in common? They tend to book-end my Saturdays with stress and laughs. Thankfully I have some amazing friends who know how to help me de-stress and put it all into perspective [and possibly more than a few drinks on my tab] while we sit and bitch ... err, kvetch after our Saturday night drag show. [And yes, most of them are in boy clothes yet still in-face while we do this ] The only downside to these 2AM chats post-drag show is that I work Sunday mornings at 7AM.
Sitting outside with my friends in the still-t00-damn-chilly night air [why yes, Spring, I assume you are ignoring Puxatony Phil like the rest of us] we sit wreathed in fur, feather and leather coats tossing out witicisms and criticisms about our day and the shows in general. I quirk my eyebrow and turn to John, my amazingly patient - and snarkily brilliant - boyfriend, before I begin to break down my Saturday for them.
Oh the shade of it all ...
............... Morning ...............
>RING RING<
“Thank you for calling [REDACTED], this is Benjamin – how may I help you this morning?”
“Excuse me young Miss,” a voice filled with gravel and senility is on the other end of the line.
“Ma’am?” I throw as much masculinity as my Surrey-affected voice will allow.
“Yes, Miss, I was calling to ask about your price for a night.”
[Despite the urge to tell the old bag that she couldn’t afford me if I were of that inclination and snark to her that this YOUNG MAN would be placing her old-ass on hold, discretion, manners and coffee won out – instead I sighed and tried harder to sound masculine.]
“Our rates are [REDACTED] a night, although we do offer discounts through AAA and AARP,” I start but am swiftly interrupted.
“That’s too God-Damn much,” her voice – which had been saccharine senile but a moment ago – is now cranked up to crotchety coot. The sound of a thousand un-filtered cigarettes choke through her sudden rasp. I can picture her standing on her porch and waving a shovel at passersby … which would be more of an insult if I hadn’t done the same thing recently to the chain-smoking Hipster dick in the parking lot of my apartment complex.
[Seriously dude, use a fucking ash-can to stub out, don’t just toss your butts where I park.]
“And why didn’t you offer me the Senior Rate? I’m 80 God-Damn years old!”
“Ma’am,” I try to salvage my politeness which is hanging by a delicate thread, here. And fail. Instead I fall back on the patter, "if you have a coupon for the lowered rate, we accept that as a walk-in, otherwise I'm terribly sorry that our rates do not meet your needs."
>CLICK<
She hangs up on me with the force of an angry toddler.
The next (and thankfully last) four hours of work pass by in a blur of rude, rather incompetent and particularly spiteful folks - and those are just my co-workers most days. The end-of-shift highlight of a Frog looking directly at me as he let loose a very wet belch ... just left me with warm fuzzies [and a need for a vat of Purell].
............... Afternoon ...............
To say I bolt for the door when I leave work at the end of my shift is a bit of an understatement - I'm a grey-green streak as my car zooms out of the parking lot with nary a backward glance. [I swear, I didn't hit that small family of picnickers, but if I had ... they would have deserved it.]
I'm already halfway home when I seem them. Lined up like they were waiting outside of Wal-Mart on Black Friday in hand-me-down pants, next-best-thing-to-thrift-store sweaters, cankle-length denim skirts and an array of hats that would make even the stodgiest English Matron glance askew. Who are these guys, the Charge of the Tasteless Brigade?
Not a single smile flickers on their faces, children in denim and flannel onesies and gaudy bright blue sweater-sets cling to their mothers and siblings in something resembling obstinate denial of the fact that they've been set out here: hide behind mommy and it won't be real.
And then I put two and two together; those aren't atrociously large handbags in the women's hands - those aren't ill-fitted ponchos on the men and teens - no, those are drab signs they're holding. I'm pretty sure that when I'm near enough, even with my windows rolled-up [have I mentioned that Spring is still nowhere to be found?], I'll be able to hear their words. I'm also pretty sure that I don't want to.
By the time I've pulled alongside this March of the Tackily Dressed, I can hear them clearly and angrily denouncing the evils of the modern world: the Hellfire and brimstone awaiting those of us who practice sex outside of marriage [practice? I used to all-but be a Gold Medal competitor, fucktards] and the most colorful (of the color-less) posters and signs they hold up are giant-block-letter vitriol on abortion and the sanctity of marriage.
Because yes, my want to eventually marry [and have EQUAL rights under the law] my boyfriend will totally invalidate your cult-based marriage. *eyeroll* [Oh, don't look at me like that - anyone who has that kind of single-minded dedication to wearing denim skirts HAS got to be in a cult. Or at least is lacking the common sense and fashion gene ... and that's as-good-as.]
After I pick up my jaw, while simultaneously holding back derisive one-liners and choking-laughter at their simpleness and hideous couture I make sure my back window is rolled down enough so that when I 'accidentally' turn up the volume on Madonna [Girl Gone Wild] singing out "Girls they just wanna have some fun/get fired up like a smoking gun/on the floor 'til the daylight's come/girls they just wanna have some fun" they have the best chance of hearing it and toss off a wish-it-were witty piece of advice over my shoulder: "If you want to be taken seriously, stop dressing like you stepped out of a thriftstore denim nightmare from 1986".
I am, after all, a giving person by nature.
.........................................................
"Man, this tuck is killing me - I think my balls are checking my colon for polyps."
"Maybe - but, gurrl, your make-up is flawless."
By the time I finish describing my day before coming to the show this evening, I have John snickering beside me and the various half-un-made queens high-fiving me as we laugh together. Not the usual scemario while chain-smoking outside of a drag show-hosting sports bar, but, then, I don't really smoke [hi Mum! I just chill outside with the popular queens] and never will again [if the fear my roommate and boyfriend both possess of my Mum has anything to say about it], but it sure is one helluva fun way to end the night:
A cuppa T and two lumps of shade.
..............................................................
"One drink, two drink, three drink FLOOR!"
[what happens when I don't have an implied limit on my tab ... I tend to double-fist (or even triple) drink]
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