Official website for humorist, Twitterist [it is so a word] and occasional fiction writer Benjamin Kissell.
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Jesus Had Galilee, I Have GoodWill: Angels in America(n Eagle) a.k.a. a shopping miracle
Benjamin Kissell
insert your own pithy commentary
Look, I realize it's been about two years since I wrote anything new on here let alone anything funny for you to read.
I'm sorry?
At some point [and I couldn't quite pin the tail on the donkey with it] I began to veer away from self-aggrandizing situational humor towards (what editors have told me to call) speculative fiction and fantasy with lots of descriptors and enough adjectives that Tolkien and Dickens worry about my word count [and my editors to bring out the red pen o'doom].
It wasn't that I don't like sharing my life and foibles with you. It wasn't that I disliked sharing details of my forthcoming/came-and-went wedding or the everyday moments with my husband [seriously, two years flew by!]. It's not really that I didn't think of funny things to share with you guys. It wasn't even that I didn't have it in me [I'm pretty sure I could have sat less on the couch eating pizza/casserole/tater tots and more writing OTHER things than faerie short stories and allegory pieces]. It simply boiled down to the classic aphorism: It's not you, it's me.
You see, somewhere, somewhen, I began to stop feeling all uber-narcissistic towards what I do on a daily basis [read: working some, cooking more, writing in-between kitteh scritches and laundry] and finding it enthralling to detail it in a self-aggrandizing/effacing manner.
Again, I'm sorry?
And then, this [redacted and softened around the edges] photo happened.
[edited out of the picture: the faces of two random folk and my husband who also got dragged into posing]
You see: While it has been pointed out that I would be considered "attractive" in this photo [the word "bear" may have been bandied about]; I felt, when looking at my jeans - my oh so comfy and cherished, favorite leg-lenthening and flattering jeans ... GAH! I felt betrayed and absolutely GAH! towards them. They weren't flattering. No. They were liars (and so was the angled floor-length mirror in our bedroom which reflected my legs look long and lean in these jeans); they were 'leg-chunkening and shortening because they can' jeans. No. My GAH! feeling towards all of this was my own undoing.
From sitting in said jeans and the blurring of the photo for posterity (and promptly discarding them in the laundry bin in lieu of basic black cargo knee-length cargo shorts before walking out the door) my handsome husband and I thence proceeded to the same low-price/up-scale namebrand boutique [cough Burlington cough] where we had procured our wedding vests in the search to procure a new vest for our mildly-similar-to-Newt Scamander-esque vibe to our joint crafting venture. And, for me, to hunt for something that made me feel good about myself.
A pair of miracle ego pants, if you will.
[the vest search plays no part here except that it embedded in me the desire for a specific slim-fit, skinny-leg BRIGHT HIPSTER BLUE jeans that Burlington had, but in sizes too big or laughably far too small]
Scamander-esque and absolutely squee-worthy vests in-hand and my NEED FOR NEW PANTS still burning away, we continued on to my favorite string of thrift stores [cue Macklemore's 'Popping Tags' if you get where I'm going here]: GoodWill.
Yes, at the first one we found gator shoes (those are blue) and a sweet, look-like-they-were-still-untouched pair of Converse snearkers, but the pants? The 'okay, these have possibility' pants on offering?
No.
Honestly? If I wanted to look like I rolled up into K-Mart's mom jeans section circa 1996, then they would have had me covered.
"Oh look, they come in just my shame ... I mean, size"
The second and third offerings panned out just as successfully for my miracle pants-longing as the first. By now, hungry, angry and frustrated, we agree to hit the last of the chain in the area before nabbing a late lunch at a favored restaurant. [to drown our disappointment in queso blanco? Why not?] While in the past this particular outlet had been rife with great finds, in the last year/year-and-a-half it had waned to more miss than hit; yet, we said "why the hell not?"
Because, when you're hunting for your miracle you'll take ABBA's advice: and take a chance (on me).
As we pulled into the parking lot we realized that the sunshine and Sunday sales drew in a heady crowd of post-Church-goers. Wishing I brought a taser [oh, come on - I wouldn't use it ... probably] and, despite having to resist smacking the grabby 10 year old who felt that he HAD TO TOUCH EVERYTHING WITH HIS SNEEZE COVERED HANDS and wait for the be-mulleted man to sidle away from THE GORGEOUS PAIR OF BEACH CORAL RED SLACKS I WILL CUT A BITCH TO OWN, it was an uneventful beginning. Within a few minutes I had, like before, a full armload of jeans and pants that held appeal and I was willing to take a chance on in the changing room; but, like at the previous stores, I was ready to be disappointed. (For example, the absolutely adorable pair of straight-leg acid-wash jeans that looked to be EXACTLY my style turned out to be 1) ones I had actually donated several months prior and 2) still too damn small as they wouldn't make it halfway up my thighs.)
But, oh, how I whispered a fervent prayer as I eyeballed the seven, I mean five - they only let you take five items into the changing room - pairs of pants on the hanger.
"Please, if you are a kind,just and loving god/deity/Cher, please, let me find at least one pair of jeans that A) fit and B) don't make me look like a "What Not To Wear" promo. Thank you"
And, as I slipped on the I WILL KICK SMALL CHILDREN FOR THESE PANTS red slacks they not only fit past my thighs, they ... gasp ... went about my waist and comfortably zipped! No Moose knuckles for me today, kids! [if you have to ask what a Moose Knuckle is, just urbandictionary.com that shit - oh, and Camel Toe] I was ecstatic! Wiggling my bum in a probably-more-embarrassing-than-its-worth-to-tell dance, I bumped my knee on the small bench before hanging them up in glee.
Would the denim-in-sunset colored slim-cut straight-leg slacks fit, too? Oh joy-of-joys, yes!
A thousand times, yes! They fit! And look! Oh Sweet Baby Ray's how they make my legs look long and lean in this unflattering overhead fluorescent lighting. If I look bangin' in this, I look fantastic. Period.
And now, the moment of moments: will the super-cute, super-Hipster, super-affordable American Eagle skinny-leg, baby blue jeans fit?
Like.
A.
Fucking.
Glove.
The overhead lighting dims and, suddenly, it's like I'm in my own soft-focus Angela Lansbury (patent-pending) lighting. I look sexy. I look svelte. I look ... like I'm only slightly heavier than I was when I met my husband; whom I realize is still on the other side of the changing room's door. And, just as I go to unbutton the not-tight-at-all top button I hear it. Like the silence descending upon the world as dawn breaks, I hear it:
"Life is a mystery / everyone must stand alone ..."
Oh, blessed be Madonna.
And, for a moment, god/deity/Cher with a fantastic sense of humor and timing grants me my little miracle of emporacular proportions.
Are you God?
And that, dear readers, is why I felt the need to share - perhaps overshare - and (even if momentarily) return to give you a laugh or two, too.
DESPERATELY SEEKING ... ATTENTION [how many glasses of wine will it take to get this to happen or will I give up before it does]
Benjamin Kissell
Why yes, I assume that mocking Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey is a brilliant and oh-so-time-appropriate commentary. Right? I'm totally cutting edge, here ...
I've never made a secret of my intense, full-bodied disinterest in Twilight from the get-go [think of an oak-barrel aged Cabernet Sauvignon]. I made pithy, under-my-breath comments about it to its face like some mean girl bitching about 'that' skank in school; penning snark-fueled tweets like I was Taylor Swift after a break-up [pick one - I love the girl, she knows how to write some scathing ex-songs]. As an openly gay man who has a penchant for awesome hairdos, you would think I'd be right there with the rest of the world fawning over Robert Pattinson. But, you would be wrong. In short, I did not like Twilight, its author, most of its actors, its media saturation ... and truth be told, nor was I a fan of its odd effect on the populace.
That is ... except when it came to my paycheck.
When Twilight began baring its fangs with the herds of Twi-Hards (teens and moms) my store - the now, lamentably gone Borders Books Inc. - took note. We saw the rabid fans queueing up outside of the Young Adult bookshelves hunting for copies of Twilight, New Moon and their ilk as well as the as-many-as-possible and the are-you-kidding-me weird concoctions we tossed on the shelves to tie-in to the Twilight brand.
Hell, there are (somewhere) even photos of me in white-tinged make-up and glitter posing with customers (and their mothers) as I played ring-master in our Twilight parties. [Yes, I am aware how hipster it is of me to both mock them and yet partake in their excesses ... in my defense, I'm a narcissist who loves to have an audience (as evidenced by my article "Pavlovian Responses"). ] We all played a part - audience, readers, book-sellers and even detractors - in the media and hype that became the Twilight typhoon of popularity. [How Fraudian is my subconsious; I had to type 'popularity' three times there ... the first two times I misspelled it as 'poopularity'.]
I even tried to make my way through the movies a few years back; my ex-roommates decided we should have a 2-day Twilight-a-thon in honor of the series ending. Between distracting myself with texting my friend John - who would go on to be my boyfriend fiance - and the nigh-criminal levels of wine I chugged to make it through the first 3 films ... well, you'd think I was at Gitmo the way I whined, bitched and moaned. Of course, by the second bottle (and end of the first movie) I was actually - dare we say it - enjoying the movies. I found myself texting John little gems like "drunkety juice makes plot holes disappear" as I got progressively more shit-faced and enjoying the hyper-over-acting and piss-poor rip-off writing [seriously; read Romeo & Juliet, watch Roswell and then compare them to Twilight ... you're welcome]. Of course, I woke up the day-after with cotton mouth and a sense of shame on-par with being dumped by a Kardashian.
Why no, I didn't crash and burn ... or wake up wondering if I might be Rosanna Arquette. Eventually I HAD to make a reference to the movie whose title I'm homaging for this article.
[Random Twilight Reference: If you want a good laugh, check out the wickedly-witty Jen Lancaster's twisted takes on Twilight reenactments (with toys! pets! snark!) on her original site,Jennsylvania]
Twilight is, oh-so-grudgingly-admitted, a cultural phenomenon [of course, so were the Taco Bell Chihuahua and Crazy Town ... so we're not talking the best-of here] and, like any true cultural phenomenon, it spawned everything from spoof books (National Lampoon did it right) to rip-offs and prolific fan fiction. In the rare instance of genuine talent trumping subject matter authors like Cassandra Clare shot into the spotlight - and bestsellers list - when their Twilight Fan Fic writing found its way onto various literary agents' screens [I so heart Cassie - such a sweetheart; I've yet to hear anyone speak an ill word of her].
Of course, just as soon as I'm about to forgive and forget with Twilight and its hellspawn, we're gifted with the oh-so-what-the-f#@k-ness of Fifty Shades of Grey (the ultimate BDSM fan fic of Twilight) and its omnipresent popularity.
Can I just ...
Uhm ...
I mean it's ...
Yeah, no. The tampon thing? Eww. I'll just be over here waiting until the furor over the novel/movie/everything-else-associated-with-it dies down. Go on, entertain yourselves with it - I have a good book and I learned how to wait years ago. [Of course, if wine is involved while I wait, lawdd knows what shitty things I may begin to stop hating ... perhaps even Kanye West? Nah. The amount of sweet, sweet Moscato needed to make that happen would kill me first.]
You know, come to think of it, the rampant narcissist in me keeps wondering if I should start writing Twilight Fan Fic in a get-rich/famous-quick scheme. I mean, I've no qualms admitting that I want massive attention called to my writing - even when I don't always have something deep to say. Ooh! Perhaps, I could call it 'Middle of the Day' and make it about a struggling artist and her creep-tastic stalker-esque anger-management-needing agent-turned-lover ...
'BLESS YOUR HEART', 'HAVE A GOOD NIGHT' AND OTHER SNARKY TIPS FOR THE RETAIL-MINDED [in other words ... how to say 'f#@k off' with a smile]
Benjamin Kissell
It's a lovely day in your neighborhood ... when you can tell that jackass across the street to 'f#@k off' with the sweetest smile.
When you work in the customer-service or retail industries your patience, serenity and good humor are brought into question more often than Amanda Bynes' sobriety. [I'll let the brilliant timeliness of that sink in for a few ... >pause< ... has it sunk in yet?]
Despite the fact that by and far the most prevalent customers you deal with on a daily basis are apathetic at best - neither truly offal [hehe - I crack myself up sometimes] nor wonderful - it is the complete asshat f#@ktards who stand out in your memory. Think about it ... that sweet older lady who said you reminded her of her granddaughter with your cute pixie cut made you smile? Or that exhausted businessman who said you made his day when you were able to snag him an unavailable room at an over-packed hotel gave you warm fuzzies? No, it's the jackass who told you to go f#@k yourself because your coupon-rate was "still too f#@king high" who will dominate your memory of the day.
And that? Is not cool.
It's completely unfair.
And I? Am happy to share with you a few of my hints and tips for taking the sting out of it. [Without going so far as to suggest actions which would land you in a libel-suit or arrested for jamming bananas up ungrateful asshats tailpipes whilst backing away into shadows flipping the bird ala Bitch Pudding.]
............................................
It's true. And "you're so sweet" means 'you're so full of shit you're attracting flies' ...
"Bless Your Heart" This classic Southern aphorism is a tried-and-true method to passive-aggressively toss a snarky remark at someone while making it seem like an almost compliment (or at least a 'not your fault'). If done correctly, you deliver the stinging barb with such accurate timing and saccharine sweetness that not only does the dickwaffle not realize he's been insulted, but he wonders if it may be a compliment.
"It's my pleasure" ... to help brain-dead asshats like yourself who seem to think the world revolves around you [however, you leave that last part unspoken]. Whenever you have a particularly grating customer-service situation, simply inserting this one-liner into the conversation will both possibly diffuse the custy's inherently piss-poor mood and give you brownie points (especially if they're Chik-Fil-A patrons with any regularity). [However, you lose all brownie points and go back to start when you do this with gritted teeth and a barely-contained snarl on your lips.]
"Have a Good Morning/Night/Afternoon" Nothing helps deflate an asshat custy quite like the perfectly delivered [with an unironical smile] 'Have a good morning/afternoon/night' as they wind down a "F#@k you and everything about your establishment" rant. Again, this only works when you smile sweetly and innocuously - do not show teeth. To boost the effectiveness of this, I've found it helps to tilt your head in a sympathetic and humble angle while delivering your best Dolores Umbridge impersonation.
Lifetime Movie it When in doubt, act it out ... in your head. Re-cast the 'situation-giving-you-just-shy-of-ulcer-stress' as if it were a Tori Spelling, Catherine Bell or Nicholle Tom movie-of-the-week on 90's Lifetime (television for women and gay men). Imagine that puffed-out loud-mouth with teased and larger-than-a-labradoodle fried hair, lip-liner in brown-tones, 'nude' eyeshadow and shoulder-pads the size of airport runways and your stress? Will suddenly be passe faster than Caroline in the City.
Accents. Accents. Accents I cannot stress how much fun it is to slip on an accent and use it as a shield between you and the insane people who populate our customer service industry - whether it is a foul-mouthed custy or dictatorial manager, hiding behind your best Scarlett O'Hara impression or Harry Potter affectation will give you a laugh while they scowl their nasty little hearts out. [WARNING: despite its ease, do not try and use the classic Cockney English accent - you'll just sound like you're auditioning for a local dinner theatre's production of My Fair Lady.]
Go home and read 1) Retail Hell 2) RetailHellUnderground.com or 3) Retail Hell short story collections ... or a combination thereof I know, I know - completely self-serving, but there you go. The website is a great source of commiserating stories. The memoirs by Freeman Hall are riotously funny and all-too-familiar for anyone who works retail. The collections feature stories from people just like you (and, admittedly, a few of my stories as well).
AND THAT'S WHEN IT HAPPENED ... [Despite it All (and With Profuse Apolgies to Jen Lancaster) Sometimes Pie IS the Answer]
Benjamin Kissell
My best friend Nate always says ... "Real men have curves"
If Literature is food for the mind and Art is food for the soul what should be food for the body? Well, in my case, it's been microwave pizzas, Old Bay-Crab potato chips, McDonald's and Wawa subs; which explains a lot.
I mean, it really explains a LOT.
As in, I've gained ... some weight.
I've known I'm not the svelte 154 lbs it says on my driver's license for a goodly while [the last time they updated my height/weight on there I was 5'8" and still sporting an unbridled sense of Only In Your Early 20s Entitlement and early 2000's hair]. A big "PAY ATTENTION" clue came when I had foot-surgery two years ago and the amount of local-anesthesia they gave me for my supposed 154 lbs had ALMOST NO FREAKING EFFECT ON ME.
I've grown as a person in recent years and that has gone on to include my waistline (and apparently my ass).
I could go on and on about my occasionally-sugar-heavy diet, my incredibly visceral hate for all-things-exercise and my stress-eating-inducing job ... but, let's face it: whining? Is not funny.
Instead...
DISCLAIMER / WARNING: THE FOLLOWING ARTICLE IS NOT ME CALLING MYSELF FAT OR ATTEMPTING TO MAKE YOU FEEL PITY FOR ME (OR BAD ABOUT YOURSELF) ... IT'S SIMPLY AN ARTICLE ABOUT MY STILL-RATHER-RAMPANT NARCISSISM AND NOW MILDLY RAMPANT BACKSIDE AND WAISTLINE.
"Oh gawdd - not another whining-about-being-chunkier article. How creative ..."
Picture it; Sicily, 1914 ... wait. I'm not that old. Nor - discounting family-by-marriage - am I anything even remotely close to Sicilillian [I'm about as Sicillian as Wallace Shawn in The Princess Bride ... which is to say, not at all] ...
Picture it; Fredericksburg, 2014 ... After yet another oh-so-ridiculously-long day at work sans break [Hello OSHA! *waves*] I'm homeward bound. Instead of coming home to our still-bare-from-prepping-for-vacation pantry and coercing my loving boyfriend fiance into magicking another culinary masterpiece [the man channels The Food Network and I? Shan't gainsay that], we've agreed that I should pick up dinner. Having spent the last several hours at work fighting hunger pangs and the urge to punch people coming in with delicious-smelling food I realize that dinner is a must-get-fast deed tonight.
Let's face it, there's only so much of my bitter, bitter black coffee I can drink that will curb the beast that is my stomach.
By the time I've clocked out, my stomach is practically threatening to hire scary guido-types to kneecap me if I don't get some damn dinner already. I know I could walk the half-block from our building to McDonald's [don't judge], but as 1) it's cold and raining, 2) I intend to get a decent amount of food and 3) I don't want to carry our hot dinner back to my car through the cold rain [and my aforementioned loathing of exercise] I opt to drive.
Of course my driver's side window once again doesn't work so walking into the lobby is my only option [well, cooking some random assortment of pantry-items is another ... but, no]. So, it is with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart (and possibly my stomach, too) that I pull up, park and begin to get out of my car.
And that's when it happened ...
I heard it as if it were in one of those Riddley Scott/Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Drag-Queen-style slow-mo scenes.
The sound I hadn't heard since I was a child in the late 80's when I would climb trees in sweatpants.
The sound every grown adult with any awareness of their expanding ass fears:
*SHRRIIIIPPPPPP!*
As I extend my left leg out of the car my pants decided that they've had enough: the fabric slicing cleanly apart mid-thigh in what looks like a run-in with Freddie Kreuger. I've gained enough weight that my thighs have decided to slasher-flick (literally) my pants - this is awful.
I'm embarrassed.
I'm chagrined.
I'm devastated [these are adorable American Eagle slacks from 2007 which make my legs look long and lean].
I'm ... still hungry and there is zilch chance I'm gonna be able to go through the drive-thru.
Gathering my dignity (and my pants-leg), I boldly step out of the car and into the lobby; I queue up and wait through the annoying hipster teenagers [Kids: it's 11:30 on a Thursday night - there has GOT to be somewhere more interesting than a McDonald's to hang out at] vacillate between McFrappy-crappy drinks and "I don't know - what do you think?" vapidity as I stand there and weigh [heh] whether to try pseudo-healthy or our tasty stand-by ...
All of this - from the awareness of my stomach's hold over me to my standing-in-public-with-shredded-pants - makes me pause and ask: *Am I happy and comfortable with my weight gain? *Am I ashamed or dismayed that I am no longer the twig-thin and "size-small t-shirt thank you" person I was from my mid-20's through early-30's? *Am I happy with myself?
By the time it's my turn [finally] I confidently lean forward and order - who cares if a little bit of leg shows? It's a ruddy McDonald's for crying out loud.
..............................
Also? Yes, I will have apple pie to go with our double quarter pounder meals, thank you. Because pie? Is never wrong. And I am okay with me.
[ For an awesome update on Jen Lancaster, check out the fantastic podcast interview "The Big Questions" from Oct 24th, 2014: INTERVIEW HERE]
Something to Take the Edge Off [i.e. coping with another birthday]
Benjamin Kissell
These little f#@kers SOO aren't going for .99 apiece on eBay these days ...
To declare a simple truism [and homage my love for Jane Austen wit]:
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a person in possession of a looming birthday must be in want of a cake or party. However little known the feelings or views of such a person may be on his or her first entering the birthday month, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding friends and families, that the birthday is considered the rightful property of some one or other of themselves.
... That is to say: whether I like it or not, my 31st birthday is here and whether I'm ready or not, we're celebrating it.
Keep in mind, there is a ridiculously high standard set by the bar of last year's birthday (my first with my amazing boyfriend fiance John); an 80's cartoons themed all-day costume party. We co-hosted as Skeletor (him) and She-Ra (me) - with decor in various shades of neon and crepe, vintage toys and books scattered around the living room and friends and family alike attending in costume. We had the Mario Bros., a Treestar, Rainbow Brite, Miss Piggy, Care Bears and Carmen Sandiego (from the game cartoons in the 80's). It was amazeballs. It was stupendous. It was ... a lot to live up to.
Like ... a f#@king lot.
I didn't even try to compete with it for John's birthday this year and was completely okay/very happy to let my 31st birthday slide by quietly - accepting the occasional gift and Facebook or Tweet well-wish. Of course ... well ... you knew it couldn't be that easy. Instead, I am facing down my 31st birthday [trust me, 31 is actually not that scary at all ... except that it firmly entrenches me in my 30s and I can no longer claim that I am 'just out of my 20s'] and having a dual celebration Pizza Party/Arcades of the 80's themed birthday party shared with one of my best friends. Full-on mocking the idea of maturity going hand-in-hand with age.
If you were curious, yes I was Jerome ... sans the class, skill and bow-tie.
Why a pizza party?
One could assume it's because (in theory) pizza parties are more affordable to throw than a traditional birthday party - of course, one would be wrong when said party is thrown at home [between decorations, food and recovery-from-last-minute-cleaning-via-online-shopping]. It's because we had our childhood heydays in the 80's and both my amazing boyfriend fiance John and I have rather fuzzily-warm-and-friendly memories of just these sorts of parties. Also? What was a more fan-f#@king-tastic way to have a birthday circa 1987 -88 than a pizza party at Pizza Hut?
Go on, think about it. I'll wait.
*waiting*
*still waiting*
See? Nothing. Told you - there wasn't.
And because we're not about to put the sheer awesomeness of a bunch of 30+ year old friends and family celebrating like it's 1988 on-display in the mess that has become Pizza Hut [I'm sorry, but their little Wing Street re-launch? No thank you. Give me a darkened pseudo-Italian wannabe pizza restaurant steeped in grease and unfettered teenage angst for authenticity any day] we're doing the apartment up in red-and-white checkered tablecloths, crepe paper, and as many vintage tchachkes as possibe crammed in the kitchen, living room and sun porch.
And no, before you ask, despite the fact that I MAY friggin' resemble a hipster AND I am over 21 there sure as shit isn't gonna be a giant ice chest filled with PBR or cheap wine [although the sheer pathetic-ness of an ice chest full of PBR would be in-keeping with the theme ...] we prefer to take the edge off of this birthday thing not by getting blitzed, but by celebrating it. By actively engaging it. By taking its fangs out at the roots as we mock it.
... Although, if there were to be booze, my Trashcan Blue Mopeds would be APPROPRIATE.
uhm ... yeah ... pizza party ... yepp.
[PS - if I can ever find my f#@king The Land Before Time puppets, you can bet your bottom quarter that I will have some vintage authentic shit up in this joint.]
[PPS - a Trashcan Blue Moped: Monster + cheapest-brand-of-white-wine-you-can-find + Blue House Brand Fruit Punch ... you're welcome.]
Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody - Hell, I can't do it
Sometimes, it doesn't pay to take my head out of my ass and actually listen to what's going on around me.
"You know who you remind me of?"
"Y'know, you're just like ..."
"Ooh, did anyone ever tell you you're very similar to ..."
"Hey, aren't you ..."
Growing up with a successful older sibling, I'm sure, would have enured me to comments like these and I wouldn't cringe occasionally when well-meaning people approach me with them. However, I was raised as an only child and as the comments didn't begin until I was 18 ... well, it's taken the better part of a decade-plus to roll with them.
You see, ever since I was 18 comments like the above have been an almost-daily event and they aren't unkind in their intent. These comments are, in reality, compliments as the person is likening me to someone impressive - someone who not only is the life of the party wherever she goes, but is also an award-winning presenter AND Jeopardy! Champion. In case it wasn't obvious, people compare me to my Mum.
[seriously, read the articles ... how cool is she?]
True, we do look alike. As I've commented elsewhere, our humor is the same. Creepily, our handwriting is almost identical [and no, I didn't try to forge her handwriting in school ... tho', now I wonder if I should have tried]. The way we comport ourselves and deliver casual or caustic wit is ... well, the same. Hell, whether I want to own up to it or not we even do the same little 'groove' dance. Whether you can cite Nature or Nurture, I am undoubtedly her son.
And, nine-times-out-of-ten I am flattered when this comment/compliment is tossed my way. It took a few years (after all, at 18 who wants to be compared to their mother?) but I not only came to peace with it, I began to revel in it. Why not? We make an adorable Mother/Son pair [tho', don't get me started on the 'ick factor' regarding the times we were asked if we were brother/sister or husband/wife ... EWW. EWW. EWW. I'm sorry, but the word Oedipus is not tattooed on my forehead]. Hell, back in 2012 we won a Mother's Day jewelry contest due to our AWESOMENESS (and photogenic-ness).
Pearls (hers are white, mine black), hair dye-tinted (hers a hint of purple, mine ... black) and we've both left our glasses somewhere (hers purple and mine ... black ... are we seeing a theme here?) [July, 2008]
However, when the next step is taken, that's when I glance askance at the mirror hoping to see a different face.
You see; we have always said that my Mum is her father in looks as well as brains and temperment [he often tells the joke that they had to hunt through a lot of Gypsy children on doorsteps to find one that looked like him] and ever since I grew into my face [big headed kid, let's just say] I've stopped definitively looking like my Da and, instead, I heavily favor Mum. So, if my math is correct (and no one ever claimed I was a Math-spert) and A = B = C ... then ...
OHMIGAWDD OHMIGAWDD OHMIGAWDD
I'm my grandfather.
>take a moment of silence to digest this, please - I know I shall<
Okay - now that I've crawled out of the fetal position and back to the keyboard, I think I can begin to piece this together. Why did it take until I'm practically in my 30's to put this together? [Okay, so I AM in my 30's, but, doesn't it sound less depressing/insulting to insinuate I'm not there yet when I put this together? Well, fine - go with the truth, then.]
My high school graduation (June 2001): Mum and Grandpa flank me - 3 generations of the same person [and yes, I am aware of the absurdity of my hairdo and goatee, thank you]
Please don't take this as me commenting negatively on my Grandpa - I've already probably done irreperable damage calling out my Nana for her WASP-y behavior. I love him. He was and has remained the strongest constant male figure in my life. He was Navy and Pentagon after excelling in every Physics class offered in college [again, I am no math-spert ... what's up with that?] and helped raise 2 generations of our family. He cares deeply about us; treating my Mum, her brother and myself as his three kids. We've bonded over working on my various cars over the years. Hell, he's the one who endured the most insanity while I was learning to drive in the first place.
So why the ennui? The angst? The not-quite-abject-horror at this realization?
Because I'm not yet ready to become my Grandfather. I'm happy to be the younger, gay male version of my Mum, but I'm not quite ready to grow up that much and take on the level of dependence or responsibility towards others that he has. I like being a little bit selfish (although I'm fine with maturing past the raging narcissism) and spending some of my money on impractical toys instead of a mortgage.
Can't I stay just a teensy-weensy bit immature still? Or is that too Peter Pan of me?
ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT: [aka my fashion sense stalled in the 1990's and yes, I'm aware of the amount of shredded denim this implies I own]
Benjamin Kissell
Preach it Cher Horowitz: the epitome of uber cool 1990s fashion [and by extension, what I've subscribed to ever since ...]
"Honey; it's like Dylan walking into the Peach Pit"
"Wait ... um, is that good?"
"Well, it's accurate if that's what you're asking."
This is the conversation my wonderful boyfriend fiance John and I have as we walk into our favorite 1950's retro-style Greek/American diner, Tito's. [Why yes, I realize how weird that sounds - mediterranean food AND a 1950's flair? But, it works. Trust me.] He says this not looking at anything on the walls or tvs. No, he says this whilst looking directly at me and giving me a once-over.
I'm currently sporting shredded faded jeans, kn0ck-off converse sneakers and a dark grey form-fitting t-shirt and the ubiquitous Aviator frame sunglasses - my long-sleeve plaid grey/black/pink shirt was left behind due to the sudden arrival of late spring's heat and humidity.
Despite my love of the 80's for cartoons, toys and comic books I am a 90's kid when it comes to my personal fashion.
In fact, my fashion style would best be described as an outgrowth of my surviving 1997-2000 wardrobe [you think I'm joking, but I'm not] ... including shredded jeans, plaid flannel overshirts and, of course, oversized as well as form-fitting band/movie t-shirts. Think Nirvana crossed with No Doubt combined with Natalie Imbruglia with a KabbalahMadonna touch [you know, for the spiritual depth and denim jackets].
If one had to hazard a guess, the movie Cluelessobviously had a MASSIVE influence on me [for good or ill, you decide]. Grunge? Oversized jeans with tight-fitting t-shirts? Over-sized t-shirts with cargo pants? Shredded jeans with sweaters? Preppy chic? Clueless has it all! As a consequence of seeing the movie I wanted it all, and I wanted to fit in. I was a short and skinny kid with BIIIIIIIIIIG hair who was picked on routinely so this brilliant window onto the world of 'cool' gave me insight into how I could (possibly) stem the tide of almost daily name-calls and fisticuffs.
Beverly Hills 90210 cast photo or a bunch of strangers going through my closet? Your call.
I've chosen to opt for comfort and personal style over continuously changing fashion [some would call it cheap, I prefer to think of it as cool that I can still wear many of the clothes I wore in my teens/early twenties now in my early thirties]. In an effort to 'update' I've pruned my ever-expansive wardrobe recently, donating over a third of said clothes to either GoodWill or friends [Daddy loves you, Maeghan, in his old shirts!] when I moved in with my boyfriend fiance.
Of course, this (awesome) personal style comes with a price. A label has begun to circulate amongst folks. A nickname of sorts. One which began in the mid-2000's with whispers about Aberzombies ...
Okay, you know what? I dressed like this before it was cool [and yes, I realize how Hipster that sounds ... bite me]. Even my best friend, bless Nate's heart, has been so forward as to describe me as the "grandfather of hipsters" for YEARS because of my almost ever-present combination of thick-rimmed glasses and knitted caps . It's true, I've been so used to my ubiquitous jeans and tees with splashes of plaid that I've practically stalled my fashion development and have been in a rut long enough that it makes sense to liken me to a grandfather.
I don't like your music, young people [dubstep - ewww]
I don't like the way you just hang out in cafes and whatnot instead of getting jobs or at least going places other than the nearest wi-fi hotspot.
Seriously, I'm all for tattoos and holes in heads, but ... um ... mightn't you want to remember that these things can get infected and if the state of your hair is any indiction that infection is due sooner rather than later so please do me a favor and don't come near me as I'm going to assume you're Patient Zero.
I'm totally okay with shaking my fist - and possibly a broom or rake - at you in an effort to get you to JUST STOP LOUNGING AROUND IN THE PARKING LOT SMOKING YOUR F#@KING CLOVE CIGARETTES AND GETTING ASHES AND TRASH ON MY CAR!
...*ahem*....
And that? Is okay. I'm comfortable with this knowledge. I am self-aware. I love what I wear [HAH - admit it, that was funny ... no? Just me?]. I'm also okay with having to explain that 'No, I'm not being ironic ... I just dress this way because I found a look in 1997 - three years before you were born - and have stuck with it' to random hipsters [and Hot Topic kiddies: I shopped the house down when many of you weren't even born yet and am still wearing that indie-esque swag. Of course, most of the Hot Topic kids have crossed from emo/rock/punk wannabes to full on hipsters ... so, this side-point is moot] who look at me askance.
Down to the shredded jeans and busted-ass shoes ... I've worn this exact outfit for years (you've probably seen me in it, actually and judged me harshly when you did).
To be honest, it wouldn't be the worst idea in the universe if I took a chance and probably should embrace a little change in my fashion - I could add new things to it that step outside of my comfort zone. But, unless one of you sells me out, I don't see myself ending up on What Not To Wear to make that happen.
Senior year of high school (on the left) - please note how young I looked. Also note that I still wear that olive plaid shirt (2000)
Manho photoshoot - note the shredded jeans and tight-fitting tee (2006)
Selfie circa 2008 - PLAID is totally the new black. As are rainbow scarves and Kabbalah bracelets, apparently
Ignore the blonde chunk of hair, instead, please note the STILL WEARING SHREDDED JEANS factor (plus a vest - very Blossom, yes?) (2010)
Yes, I wear glasses almost 24/7 these days; it just happens that the Hipster-style ones help cover up the wrinkles which crowd my eyes. (2011)
And how cute are we? The boyfriend fiance and I strike a pose ... and yes, the hat, the v-neck shirt scream Hipster. Bite me.
After all, to quote my friend Brittany Scott, I've "been the height of hipster fashion since hipsters were in elementary school wearing un-ironic clothing without beards or PBR."
chic is always chic ... except when it's paired with the wrong accessories.
Benjamin Kissell
Some colors are the ultimate in complimentary [and I don’t mean they blow smoke up your arse]. They are your best friends and finest allies in helping to make yourself feel and look better.
They can flatter your skin-tone: turning your pale Edward Cullen palette into a fresh-from-the-tanning-salon-Snookie-esque glow. They are capable of making your eyes pop: accenting or contrasting that lovely earthy green in your eyes, turning them from matte-finish moss to glowing emeralds. They have cache; they carry weight and help you feel like you are perfectly garbed in [fashion] armor for battle – ready for any eventuality and feeling secure and attractive.
In days past people would look at their complexion, hair and eye color as indicators of which “color season” we were: for example, your snow white skin with coal black hair marked you as a ‘Winter’ [and possibly the Evil Queen’s next intended victim, or a villain in a C.S. Lewis novel or Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale].
Admittedly, this probably ages me as 1) the seasonal color delineation has gone the way of Vanilla Ice over the last 2 decades and 2) as a kid I would sit in as my Mum and Gran discussed which we fall into, eventually joining in as a 20-something [I consider myself a Winter, but am more likely a late Fall … an Autumnal Winter Cusp?]. Shallow? Possibly. Vain? Probably. But entertaining nonetheless.
Some things never came into fashion ... I mean, I love me a sweater, but belted sweaters? And those hats? Who do those guys think they are - Carly Simon?
Fashionable color trends come and go; in the 80’s neon was king, in the early 90’s Grunge held sway with earth-tone plaids, the mid and late 90’s saw the bubble burst with the pastel palette and stark bold basics holding sway. The 2000’s? Well, I’d make some pithy comment about colors and styles in the millennial era, but to be honest most of my wardrobe hasn’t really evolved from the large selections of black t-shirts – black by itself, black with logos, black with iron-ons, black with, black, etc etc [sweet lord do I buy a lot of black tees] – with the varying over-shirts and a plethora of jeans I started wearing at 18. You’d think I were Neil Gaiman or something with all the black I buy.
You’d also think I would evolve past my ‘look’ at 22 … and yet, here we are.
I admit, I’m not the arbiter on all things hip and trendy. There is a difference between fashion and style: some of us have it … and [must not name names and point fingers] some of us don’t.
However, that being said, there is something that we can probably all agree on as a complete fashion faux pas. A color that flatters nobody: highlighting only the worst features and drawing attention to the biggest flaws …
Stupidity.
Stupidity is a color which looks good on absolutely no one.
You have a slightly offset eye? Stupidity only draws attention to it and when we see that, Margaret Cho-esque lines will come tumbling out of our mouths [“Gurrl, you should get a monacle – it’d be so coot!] You have a hyper-fake-hideously-orange-fake-spray-can-fake tan? Well, no one’s perfect. But stupidity draws our eyes to it and our sharp tongues to comment quicker about it than a Kardashian divorce.
Simply put; stupidity is that fashion accessory few can afford, yet too many seem to have in abundance.
Stupidity, despite the glaring evidence to the contrary, is gauche and tackier to match with than plaid gauchos [PLAID GAUCHOS!]. It truly is the ultimate fashion faux pas. It’s been remarked [by my mother. Repeatedly] that stupidity seems to be the only color some people seem to recognize or pair with across the fashion spectrum.
……………
Of course, bitchy will always be in style.
To quote my friend, Misty Barfly, “Bitchy, unlike stupidity goes with every outfit. It was Versace’s and Chanel’s biggest inspiration. It’s like the little black cocktail dress” always in fashion and forever desirable.
The Tao of Fabulous [where I drag my boyfriend, my mother and our friend with me as we brave a tropical storm, Northern Virginia/Washington DC traffuck, line nazis and a waffle house breakfast to follow the Tao of Jen Lancaster ... on a leg of her book tour while bedecked in pearls, pink and plaid as is required by the Tao of Fabulous] [man, I think I outdid myself on long subtitles with this one]
Benjamin Kissell
If you don't either laugh yourself into a near-pants-wetting fit (or at least cause your coffee to spill while you fall out of your chair) I'm not sure we can be friends. I mean, I guess we can ... but, I'll secretly worry you're always judging me and then where will that get us?
A quick apology in-advance: this? is going to be a lengthy article (roughly 4400 words, compared to my usual 700-ish).
Also? I realize I should have posted this back in June, but between work and ... okay, I'm just a reeeeeeeeeally good procrastinator.
That is, the root of Jen Lancaster's newest hit humor memoir lies in the edicts and strictures laid down by Martha [let the record show that I have had an affinity for all-things Martha since she became the bane of my neurotically fastidious and home-make-y grandmother's existence in the mid-90's]. Thank you Doyenne of Domesticity for helping to inspire my literary idol to new heights.
It's because of Martha's composure and regiment of straightforward dictates that Jen took on a year of Living to help make 2012 suck far less than 1) it would have otherwise and 2) than 2011 had. [For the full story, pick up a copy of THE TAO OF MARTHA at many of your fine, fine book retailers.]
In that vein, I realize that for chunks of the last 7+ years I've been subconsciously attempting to live the Tao of Fabulous. Which is ...
The Tao of Fabulous: the philosophy, and state-of-being, embodied by humor memoirist, chick lit enthusiast, snarky, occasionally-foul-mouthed, NYT bestselling author, queen of the madras plaid and doyenne of pearls - Jen Lancaster.Thou shalt wear pink, plaid, pearls and/or some combination thereof.
I take the Tao of Fabulous seriously because Jen isn't just my literary idol, she's also someone I've been lucky enough to call my friend. I may have mentioned, in other articles over the last few years, that we met through Myspace [don't judge] the week her first book, Bitter is the new Black, came out and through a series of back-and-forth e-mails we struck up a friendship. Who knew that a snarky ex-sorority girl and a bitchy gay guy would get along famously?
Cut to the obligatory 80's sitcom audience laughter/chuckle.
Ever since 2008’s Pretty in Plaid Tour I haven't missed an opportunity to see her and this year I plan on seeing her twice: once in the DC area - technically Bethesda, MD - like usual, followed by another either north or south. As her closest other appearances are Philadelphia, PA and Cary, NC and as I would sooner cut off my left pinky toe than return to PA any time soon [a long story involving family, small-towns and a distinct lack of humor] it was an easy choice naming Cary as a must-see.
Which is why my ever-patient and loving boyfriend has just walked into my bedroom to find me amidst what can be politely called a shitstorm of clothing. I’m in the middle of my room with a travel bag on my desk chair while a multitude of shirts in hues of pinks and greens surround me as well as several pairs of ‘dressy’, ‘not dressy’ and ‘distressed’ jeans. I will not be caught unawares this year [2010 I am so looking at you, that is … if I could stand to look at those photos].
“Um. Benjamin are you ready?”
“Almost.”
“Almost? Are you sure?”
“Yes, just have to pick out what I’m actually wearing is all,” I reply while I hold up a particularly vibrant pink t-shirt to my chest, folding it and placing it in my ‘possible’ pile.
“Oh, that’s all.” His dry humor tone is matched by a cocked eyebrow as he eyes the 3 large stacks of ‘possible’ piles. Okay, so I admit it – packing light is not my forte and packing for a 3-day, 2-night road trip with photo-ready clothes in specific colors and styles? Tasking me, it is.
“Yes, that’s all – I’ve narrowed it down to these 2 pairs of jeans,” I say as I set one pair in the bag and begin to shimmy out of my house-pants [read: grey flannel shorts] and into the new [splurge because I? Deserve it] grey-black jeans. “And down to these stacks of pink, green and grey t-shirts to match with those,” my hand pointing over his shoulder to the stack of dress-shirts tossed on my bed pillows. I lean in to kiss him as I zip and buckle up.
“Which go with which?” I defer to John’s eye a fair bit as he has a fantastic sense of color – which may or may not stem from his side-career as an artist. “I only need an outfit for tonight’s event and tomorrow’s and then the drive home. Oh and pyjamas. By the way, do you know if the hotel room Mum got us is a queen-sized or full?”
“Queen.” Another kiss. “You can wash anything you need to at my place when we get home tonight.” He pauses and hands me two stacks of shirt/over-shirt combination, “These work, baby. Now hurry and get dressed; we’re meeting Edie in Bethesda in just over two hours.”
Edie, one of my Mum’s best friends and one of John and my good friends, is joining us tonight for our first stop and we’re going to pick her up in the morning tomorrow on our way to Cary (Mum would join us tonight, but, as a teacher it's presumed that she needs to be there on the last day of school). A professional ballroom dancer, Edie has a quick wit and dry sense of humor – another reason she gets on with us.
I’m proud of myself, by the time I get out of the apartment and into John’s freshly cleaned out [yes, Mum, he really did clean it out for you guys] yellow battle tank – one tough and tumble yellow Nissan SUV – I’ve been able to pack all of my stuff for this trip into one decent-sized travel tote with only the snacks and water-bottle loose. I’m genuinely impressed with myself here.
I’m garbed in my sea-foam green gingham dress shirt and bright pink tee – pearls [given to me by our friend Dani] clutched and threaded through the collar which I’m debating on popping or not. I believe I pass muster.
Traffic leaving Fredericksburg and passing up through Springfield goes smoothly until we’re about 10 miles south of Washington, DC. While sitting in yet more traffuck [admit it: a funny and accurate term] – we notice that the air blowing out at us is no longer the refreshing not-as-hot-and-humid-as-it-is-outside-in-June air but on the other side of warm. Almost scalding. Looking down, John utters a stream of well-chosen expletives as we slowly move half a car length forward.
“What’s wrong?”
“The temperature gauge,” he says pointing down at it. From my side and experience – and let’s be honest, I’m never going to be known for being auto-mechanically inclined – I can guess that the shift on arrows here isn’t the usual for his tank. “The longer we sit in this shit, the hotter the engine’s getting.”
“I’m betting that’s a bad thing.”
Thankfully, John knows when I’m joking in an attempt to lighten his mood and he reaches over to grab my hand while we watch the gauge rise steadily.
……............
The good news? Pulling off the highway and letting the car rest for five minutes pushes the engine’s temperature back to normal.
The bad news? After relaxing with a bag of Funyons [how I had never had them in the first 29 years of my life, I shall never know] in a Catholic school parking lot, finding our way back onto the highway from this adorably cliché uppity yuppie enclave and finally making it over the DC border onto the Clara Barton Highway we are once again stuck in re-donculous traffuck.
Between the still fluctuating engine temperature, the steady warm rain beating on the car windows, the angst at being still a good 10 miles and 30 minutes away from where we need to be and the shit-tastic driving skills of this Maryland asshat in front of us our moods are frayed.
This jerk in a tiny little ragtop sports car has been driving down the middle of the road, half-in/half-out of both lanes and constantly is swerving to block attempts at anyone passing him on either side.
Yepp. Northern Virginia traffic sucks ass.
After what feels like 16 years [or just took 16 years off of my life] spent cursing out just about everyone around us, the GPS [who seems to enjoy interrupting me whenever I start to say something to John] and Washington DC in-general, we pull into an overpriced, well-lit, very packed parking garage and I quickly hang up the phone seeing Edie walking towards us in a cute sweater/dress ensemble. I primp while John has a stress-cigarette.
We made it.
Definitely good news.
In fact, we actually made it in good time, ahead of our projected schedule, that we were able to pick up copies of Jen’s new book, a copy of Pretty in Plaid for John, and eye the escalators for signs of the Barnes & Noble café on the third floor. Thankfully, my policy of neurotic panoramic observing [some call it paranoid-based-spying, I prefer my term] paid off when I spied a caramel ponytail topping a lovely blue’n’green striped top and knew that Jen was in the house.
Thankfully, Jen isn't caught offguard when we approach; in fact she's enthused and glad to see me - pulling me into an immediate hug - and thrilled to talk about both knitting and John. Having now learned to knit [see chapters of Tao of Martha] she understands and is doubly-so impressed with the scarves my Mum knits, as well as the one she knitted for Jen last year. Pulling John into a bear hug, she just gives me a huge grin over his shoulder as she knows about my lackluster/hillarious dating history and I may or may not have gone on at length about him in various e-mails with her since we began dating back in January.
............……
The event's gone off without a hitch … well, except that the microphone kept going in and out, they held an adult humor reading/signing in the middle of the children’s book section (fully decked out in 100 Acre Wood regalia - HOLLA!) and the handler was either mildy incompetent or masively lackadaisical [and as someone who did that when I worked in a bookstore I can tell you it isn’t that tough to ride herd]. Basically without a hitch, right?
Why yes, Bennifer 2.0 is still fucking fabulous ... AND MATCHING!
Jen was fabulous, looked fabulous and was fabulously amazing – shoring up plans for us to all see each other tomorrow in North Carolina … that is, if this fachachta tropical storm doesn’t destroy the east coast – and taking the time to chat and pose for photos with her myriad of fans that filled up the large room.
I sure hope the wet roads are better in the dark. I mean, traffic home can’t be that bad, can it?
.................
Thankfully, it’s smooth sailing back to John’s house where we collapse in a heap on the bed. I fall asleep mumbling something about DC’s traffic being the fourth circle of Dante’s Inferno.
............……
Car packed with snack food for 300+ mile road trip? Check. Car filled up with gas? Check. Multiple packs of caffeine pills, bottles of Monster Java and a very large mug of my requisite bitter, bitter black coffee? Holy-you-bet-your-ass check.
Boyfriend in the driver’s seat, Edie in the seat behind me and my Mum in the seat behind him we pull out onto the highway – her travel bag, while honed after a dozen-plus business trips to conferences over the last few years, is still roughly twice the size of mine, dwarfing it in the way-back. A fact I rag her on.
Of course, I forgot to pack a back-up pair of socks – this round to you, Mum. This round to you.
Why yes, I realize I do need to develop a steady hand when taking photos ...
Passing back and forth another bag of Funyons, a batch of chocolate and thin mint cookies and some delicious toffee Edie baked up this morning (inspired by the chapter Jen read at last night’s event in which she tackled “Easy Toffee”) we’re making good time as we head south, through and past Richmond.
How friggin' awesome is John? Also? Still blurry, I know. I know.
A-and I just spoke too soon: the rain just found and bitch-slapped us.
............……
What looms above us is probably best described as ‘God’s intestinal distress’.
Clouds roil, winds howl and the rain is coming down in sheets so strong and solid I’m pretty sure that Noah’s somewhere texting “Enuf Dude, we get it”. The storm is (of course) coming from the south. Which direction are we solidly heading? South. Jen is tweeting - @altgeldshrugged – updates on her plane/car/plane travails as she tries to make the journey from DC to Raleigh to Cary.
If mental will were capable of dispersing the rain and clearing the weather up not only would we have sunny skies right now, but the level of concentration I’m bending towards it would produce rainbow-farting unicorns. Alas, all I see is more grey; more clouds; more rain … ooh, and jerkwads without their headlights on while the rain is pouring out of the sky’s asscrack.
What proceeds as we drive down the road is a blur [literally and figuratively *sigh*] of rain, grey skies, goofy photos, more rain, a slew of inappropriate jokes and yet more rain. When we make a turn and pull past a tall copse of pines, somewhere about forty-five minutes into North Carolina, and the bright azure blue of a rain free sky greets us I may be muttering along the lines of “all rain and no sky make Homer something, something” [ten points if you got The Simpsons Treehouse of Terror Halloween Special ‘The Shinning’ reference – for the rest of you, go and look it up. I’ll wait].
Huh, who knew: North Carolina is actually kinda pretty when you’re not drowning in a tropical storm.
Maybe that should be their new advertising slogan?
............……
Our hotel is off the beaten path [and by that I mean we practically have to make an illegal U-turn to pull off the street and into the shopping center surrounded by lovely pines – this state seems chock full of pines, what's up with that? – flanking the hotel] which affords us a lovely bit of privacy and view of some lovely pine-y vistas out of our room.
Speaking of our room, I hope Mum and Edie’s is even half this nice; a large and comfortable bed, well-sized desk with – ooh, is that a plush desk chair? And, unless I’m completely nutters, that’s a fully-accommodating kitchenette. By the time I’m finished spinning in the room taking photos to document the trip [for both posterity and for you, Dani] to flop down on the bed beside John, the room phone’s ringing.
No time for romance, I guess.
YAY! Less blurry ... perhaps I've developed a photographer's hand?
I pick up on the third ring, but not before stealing a quick kiss; Mum’s voice greets me.
“Boys, are you ready?”
“Almost.”
“Almost? Are you sure?”
[Can you see a theme here? Do these people know me and my penchant for stalling and taking for-fucking-ever to get ready? One of the first things Mum and John bonded over was my habit of changing an outfit two or three times before I even leave the house.]
Throwing caution to the wind – and the perfectly chosen outfit of pink and black I was ALREADY WEARING, GAH! Why did I just abandon you, Tao of Fabulous? – I change into a cross between grunge and prep [Prunge? Grep?]: pink tee, pink/grey/black/white plaid flannel shirt, the requisite pearls and nice jeans with way-too-expensive leather boots. Still spraying on my cologne, I allow John to usher me out the door (taking long enough to note that the bathroom has great lighting for doing hair but absolutely NO fan for air circulation. WTF?).
I’m already regretting my wardrobe choice – malfunction? – by the time we’re in the car and fighting with the sassy GPSes. Mum’s refuses to believe we aren’t still in Fredericksburg and John’s refuses to a) pick up a strong enough signal for us to hunt down the address and b) do anything other than talk over me. Every time I seem to open my mouth – at this point, I’m surly when I do – the GPS’ English-accent lilt proceeds to gain volume and passive-aggressively hush me.
“We can’t be that lost, I mean the hotel’s only a mile and a half from the boo-”
“Gaining signal, please wait.”
“What the? How big does a nail supply store have to be? That thing is at least half the size of Wal-”
“Would you like to direct me to your destination?”
“I swear, if we didn’t need that fucking GPS to get us home, I’d throw it out the d-”
“Proceed to the highlighted route and you will arrive at your destination.”
If her little tinny voice could sound any more smug I’d suspect her of being a female Newman [Seinfeld reference, kiddies – look it up]. As it is, I grumpily lean back in my seat while we search for, eventually pull up to and hunt for a parking spot at the rather-full Barnes & Noble. Hrmm. I guess Jen has a lot of fans here in North Carolina. True, she’s probably not coming back for a while, so I’m sure a lot have come out to see her. We’re also not running that late, are we? Her event starts at 7:30 and it’s only 7:40 by the time the demented offspring of Hal 2000 has led us here.
............……
Of course we’re late.
Of course we’ve missed a good chunk of Jen’s reading (true, John, Edie and I had heard it last night, but Mum hasn’t). And of course it’s packed. And of-freaking-course even though John and I stand a good head taller than the majority of fans who are filling out this 200-ish packed room it’s a bitch trying to see past the Bride of Frankenstein Hippie Housewife [if I could take a photo of her without drawing attention to myself, I would, but I’m afraid she’d claw my face off before hissing down my neck-hole] and the lovely large column smack dab in our view.
How would the Tao of Fabulous have us deal with this? Poise sounds about right.
Ha! I know: it’s a good thing neither of us is a stranger to heels so that we can stand on our toes to better our vantage without much strain as we lean on each other.
............……
When we walked in and picked up our books we were all given colored slips of paper; red, orange and yellow. The lovely slips in Mum’s and John’s hands are yellow [at this point I have so many books signed for me, friends and family I could possibly set up my own store, if I were willing to part with a single one – I’m just here for the Jen-ness] which means a decently-long wait is ahead of us, if I make my guess right.
As we stand and mill around the oh-so-short-man-complex event wrangler goose steps around the audience checking to make sure we only queue up when our color AND group are called. And lest anyone here were to misstep, mishear or goof-up somehow, he loudly reminds us that he WOULD be regularly walking through the line checking our color slips.
Where last night I railed against the lazy half-assed-ness of the lady in Maryland, I am now almost crying in mourning for those halcyon days of yore. One extreme to the other it seems: lazy to uptight dick-weasel.
When John and I leave the seating area to pick up food in the café – I did mention I’m a sucker for their frou-frou coffee drinks and over-priced sandwiches, no? – he glares at us. When I walk back to the bathroom to hit the loo because the frou-frou coffee drink has already cycled through my system? He glared at me. When I threaten to take his lanyard and choke him with it, he glared … well, he would have if I hadn’t just fantasized about that last part, writing it into a quick text to a friend.
All the while, Jen – like last night and countless other stops over the years since she began touring with her second book, 2007's Bright Lights, Big Ass [probably my favorite collection of humor essays. EVER] – smiles, makes personal and intuitive talk and poses with her fans for countless photos. You can tell that despite the heat, the gyganormously wicked weather and crazy traffic, Jen truly enjoys meeting and interacting with her fans.
After waiting for the Color Threat to pass Code Orange – people came out of the woodwork to appear with that damned orange slip of paper; I wouldn’t be surprised if dickwad Line Nazi had plants hidden throughout the store just to muck with Yellows [the name feels almost pejorative at this point]– and make it to Code Yellow, the four of us wend our (sweaty) way up to Jen. [Yes, I know this is the South and the heat is natural, but we live in an age with the blessings of Central Air, please take advantage of this, okay?] The five of us chat away while photos are snapped with classic Ikon cameras, iphone camera apps and everything in-between. I sure hope the photos of me in this outfit don’t suck [they will].
See? Told you the photos would suck of the outfit ... hence only one. Heh.
Before it hits me that we’ve made it, Jen is hugging me and we’re saying our good-byes and promises for next year.
...........……
Having survived an all-too-early wake-up [I'm on a vacation road-trip, 10 am is too-damn-early] Edie suggests, while Mum and John second the motion, we throw caution to the wind (and possibly our intestinal stability) and break our fast with the ubiquitous Southern roadside fare of The Waffle House. After all, what road trip is complete without a morning filled with stomach-gratifying grease to kick it off?
Between the angry Serbian(?) man who cannot grasp the concept of tax on food, the actual queue of people dressed UP to dine here, the 20-something waitress who cannot quite figure out a bill’s total with both a calculator and our waitress’ aid and the creepy little man (woman?) in an ill-fitting page-boy wig of indistinguishable color – is it black? Brown? Animal? – there is enough going on around us to keep me entertained as I slowly come awake [aided by the bitter, bitter black coffee] waiting for our breakfast to arrive.
To say we devoured breakfast would be an understatement: despite my natural aversion to all things The Waffle House [long story, don’t ask] I happily tuck in and only leave enough on my plate to warrant a doggie bag for the remnants of John’s hash browns and my sausage and ham. The acrid taste of the industrial vat-made coffee is very soothing and soon I’m playing footsie with my sweetie while we all laugh and talk over one another about how we feel this road trip is going.
Consensus: well.
After a cadet blue sky, overcast and dull, when we left the hotel, the weather is now bright as we step out of The Waffle House; white wisps of cloud frame the brilliant blue of the pastel sky as we walk out to the tank, my fingers entwined in John’s. We have several hundred miles to go, true, but we are on our last leg of this whirlwind tour. Who knows what stop we’ll make en route home? When we make it over the Virginia state line we can hit the Visitor’s Center and make a decision where we’ll stop on our way back to Fredericksburg: Williamsburg, Lynchburg, Petersburg, another ‘burg? Perhaps the Hipster enclave of Careytown in Richmond?
The road is open and the Tao of Fabulous says to go where we will – but just to do so with flair and fabulous wit.
And pearls – don’t forget the pearls.
............……
I would be remiss in not thanking those who went with me and endured my plethora of neuroses and bitch fits [okay, a few hissy fits probably happened, too – mea culpa] up, down and back again.
Thank you to Edie Orazi for being an unexpected joy on this trip – your delicious toffee was only outdone by your fabulous company. We’ll have to do this again. Consider it a date, young lady!
A HUGE and repeated thank you to my Mum, Lori Kissell; every time we take a trip – whether it be a road trip, a train-driven escape or a cross-country flight – I find myself walking away even closer to you and loving you all-the-more. The rest of our family may be leery of playing Trivial Pusuit against a Jeopardy champion, but I’ll always be happy to play (and even occasionally win) with you!
I cannot express how thankful I am to my wonderful, usually-patient, always understanding and perennially smart-alecky boyfriend, John; you are my rock, my best friend, my wicked other half. Thank you for being the driver to my mental getaway and for your steady hand behind the wheel when it’s a literal getaway – I can’t say enough how lucky I am and how much I love you!
And a huge thank you to Jen for being both an inspiration and a fantastic friend to know the last 7 years. I still occasionally pinch myself in glee to be your East Coast Gay! When I grow up - if I have to - I want to be a lot like you: smart, funny, kind, generous ... and snarky enough to put the fear of God in hipsters.
CARRIE BRADSHAW AIN'T THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN [a.k.a. that article I trot out every few years to show I'm not a knock-off Sex And the City writer; proving it when I toss you a purposefully SATC article to show you the difference in my voice, tone and ... man, this is a long title, isn't it?]
Benjamin Kissell
"I don't know about you girls, but I can't fathom what I was thinking looking back at those outfits from seasons 1-4." "Yeah you do - we were being paid to be walking mannequins, Kim."
In my early 20's, there wasn't a cheap fad, fashionably chic course or retro neuveau tack I didn't try to stay ahead of and yet, it somehow wasn't UNTIL my very early 20's that I finally landed on the bandwagon that the ENTIRE FREAKING WORLD had been latched onto [like a hipster in skinny jeans latches onto his organically-grown coffee] - I found my love for Sex and the City and became one of the herd. And it was fun.
Don't get me wrong, I'd heard about it before then - its popularity had been as ubiquitous as the heretofore mentioned hipsters in skinny jeans are now [seriously, walk down a sidewalk or through your local mall and count them up ... you'll thank me - or be so depressed you down half a box of wine (white, not red you heathen)], however, despite its popularity I hadn't discovered how SATC related to me. True, I was a mildly-fashion-conscious gay man living in a large small-town (or a small large-town, whichever you prefer), but whenever Sarah Jessica Parker and her emaciated frame showed up on my television screen shilling for HBO's newest season of bobbleheads I took a 'Not me' stance.
That is, until I made the fateful mistake that haunted my mother for weeks afterward ... I caught the first mini-marathon when TBS began airing it [I may have subjected her to a viewing of the entire first season when I ran out and bought it on dvd the next day ... 8+ years later and I'm not sure if she's forgiven me yet].
By 2008 and the release of the first SATC movie, I already owned 5 out of 6 seasons, had a myriad of pink and high heel-themed accoutrements and had discovered a love of all things chick lit [of course, for the last part I really can lay that at the feet of Jen Lancaster, but that's another article]. I was a gay man hooked. I had a sickness and I had also discovered my love of writing in the similar dating vein as the fictional Bradshaw and her real-life counterpart (and creator) Candace Bushnell.
My humor posts about my dating life (the ups and downs) on various pages [okay, mostly my rotating Myspace pages ... don't judge me, 'twas 2005-8 when it was still slightly popular] had garnered me a slew of fans and, of course, more than the occasional comparison to Bradshaw and Bushnell. In an effort to show how different my voice was from the SATC vibe, and in celebration of the release of the film, I penned an article where I took on the role of Carrie Bradshaw in my own little community.
That article is what follows, please enjoy ... and if you don't? Well, who forced you to read it?! Oh, I did? Well, still. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride anyways.
..........................
"If I pose awkwardly in designer couture, no one will be able to tell I've been starving the entire production and would happily gnaw off the knee of the nearest Grip. Right?"
Cue the “dah, dah dah, dah dahdahdah dah …"
Fredericksburg
is a moderate city, in the picturesque riverside of the Rappahannock,
and in that city, there are thousands and thousands of single people,
all colliding in an attempt to find themselves and that “special one” they can call their own.
On
any given day, there are several hundred thousand stories going on in The City which sometimes dozes in the sun, but here we'll focus on 4 friends; 4 single ‘girls’ who just want to
make it through the day and have some fun – because girls do just wanna
have fun.
Today is a Tuesday evening and a light rain is falling
upon The City, but this doesn’t deter any of the twig-like
overly-made-up and designer-dressed girls and their friends from speeding around the area,
walking in knock-off labels and shopping the high-end stores while they totter on stalactite heels which promise future crippling.
It's on this kind of evening that these 4 friends – me and mine – decide to
meet up at our favorite restaurant and around the table our day’s
events are re-capped and gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Where we have
no qualms about our ‘kiss and tell’ stories.
.........................
Outside of
downtown lives and works Sarah, who speeds past obstacles and itinerant drivers in her stylized green sedan:
confident, stylish, a sexy brunette, she works by day in the financial
district doing banking work. Recently 21, she is the kind of confident and curvy woman that men throw themselves at and many female
co-workers eye with envy. She lives with her best friend and close
confidant, Johnny, but still finds time for her work, close
“girlfriends” and yet, more time to work her way through college while shopping like there's no tomorrow.
Past downtown, in the western suburbs we find Christany winding her way in her black pick-up truck: vivacious, energetic, larger than life, Christany is the sort of
petite blonde bombshell not seen since the days of Marilyn and Mansfield. She
may be the youngest of our group, at 19, but, don't let that fool you,
she is full of spitfire energy and wisdom, her firm convictions lend
themselves to her stalwart character and a bright future. She works in
the private sector, in her family-held company. Many have mistakenly
assumed that the earnestness and baby-blue sweetness of Christany means
she is lacking in worldly knowledge – a big mistake. Just because she
lives by the credo “a ring and a priest” doesn’t mean, she is naïve.
While
across and from uptown, Nate drives by in his smart and sensible blue compact car:
smart, kind, caring, long-minded and stalwart, at 22 he is the most
successful of our group, working deep in the corporate sector. Tall, at
6’2, his dirty blond locks, short-cut of course, are accented by his
deep blue eye, he gains and garners appreciative looks from men like a
Park Avenue Socialite collects shoes. Much like Christany, he has enough
confidence in him to light up the city, allowing others to bask in his
brilliance. Quick witted, Nate has often been the comic center of
whatever group he is in, and if there isn’t one, he draws it to him.
And
then, there’s me, Benjamin, driving from the outlying northern 'burbs to the chic bistro in my classic clunker – a powdery blue
sub-compact: at 24, almost 25, I am the oldest of our group, having seen
a sometimes-too-much of the world and yet remaining so sheltered that I almost naively
hold onto optimism (an oft-dangerous quality, or at least a
get-me-into-a-bad-situation trait). In the 7+ years I’ve been dating, I've seen so much; yet, it’s but a drop in the bucket to the drama and man-troubles available to us. At almost 5’11
(a solid 6 foot with gelled hair and couture shoes) I attract a
moderate amount of attention from men … some good, some bad, and many just plain funny.
We meet up, I arrive last, at
our usual dining spot. Having just missed Sarah (I wave at her as she
drives past me in the parking lot, called back to work without a cocktail to sooth her), I sit next to Nate in the booth.
Sidling in, I reach for the drink menu as a new and different waitress
leans in and joins our conversation in a welcome manner, enjoying the
banter. Giving her my ID, I decide to order a Cosmo, in honor of the
day, and I lean in for the commentary from my girls.
Christany,
it seems, is in-between assignations with the company, having finished a
job earlier in the evening, she is waiting for the call to head to the
next. Like is often the case, she and Nate engage each other in fierce
(but non-combative) conversation, debating everything from the case of
“nature vs. nurture” to religion. Tonight isn’t any different.
The
waitress arrives with my heavily vodka-laced pink drink, which burns pleasantly on the way down giving me a warm glow on this rain-drippy evening.
Realizing I don’t want to drive drunk – well, mildly intoxicated – I
decided to pick up an entree of “loaded potato skins” to help stave off
the effects.
While we talk and gab, Nate and Christany
trading quips and smart barbs, I fill them in on my day at work,
mentioning that after leaving retail-hell, I met up with my other friend
(the gorgeous brunette, Christine) at the movies, where we shared
popcorn, soda, and a love for the girls of “Sex and the City” (me,
appropriately decked out in pink and chic). As we chat, we also keep an
eye on the inhabitants of the bar, and even note a well-muscled young
man who brushed past us as he made his way back to the bathroom and
returned to the bar. Christany, as the least subtle of us (a feat Nate
closely follows her in and I am fast gaining on), has made mention of
his “gawgeous ass”, to which I reply in a not-too-hushed “mmm”, while I
bend my head in his direction.
Men-watching, intense
conversation, drinks and fun are our norm, and with the weather turning
mildly on us, we are not surprised when Christany receives the call to
head to her next job. Getting the checks, we pay and turn to leave.
And that is when Fredericksburg’s innate sense of humor comes to pass.
I
hug Christany, and as I turn to walk past – in my pink and grey finery, my hair not-quite-as-coiffed as I'd like –
I notice a familiar face dipped forward in conversation, one eye on
me, the other on his dinner partner. Like his hand.
My own most recent mistake. My Mr. Big.
It’s
been months - almost a year - since I cut him out of my life. Over nine
months since last I saw him. Apparently, The City decided I had a ticket for unclaimed emotional baggage that it wanted me to pick up.
Especially if I'm not having a good hair-day, asshole!
In shock, I said the first thing which came to mind: “Mother-fucking cocksucker”.
Hoping to slip away before I'm noticed, I turned to breeze past, tossing a goodbye wave to Christany and Nate. All hopes to gracefully exit the
restaurant before I caused a scene fled when I had to shove the doors open which caused the wind to catch my jacket and flip it open and into my face as my currently no-longer-gel-held hair whipped into something reminiscent of Something About Mary. Flushed with embarrassment, I realize that I'd shoved my feelings about
what had happened out of the way - zipping them closed in a Louis Vuitton suitcase which I'd been doing my best to forget where it'd been left - instead of dealing with and then getting past them.
Nate
calls these moments, 'Toldja So's' – because he usually has.
When I get home, I slough my finery in lieu of comfort-clothes and a knitted cap over the fly-away hair in my bedroom and soon find myself at my desk, staring blankly at the laptop
screen when I begin to wonder …
When we end something with someone, is
it really over? Or do they have to end it with you, too?
Can you present your ticket and release your emotional baggage with someone? Or do you both have to pick up your luggage to let it go? Does the unclaimed
emotional baggage just trail behind you; eventually
going unnoticed until it’s just a regular part of you
Deciding
not to let these questions go unanswered, I unblock Big’s screenname from
my Instant Messanger long enough to see that he was online. Hemming and hawing, I take a swig of my coffee and begin to type a direct and simple message.
Of course, he immediately responds.
Politely
engaging him in conversation for a few minutes from there I realize he
hasn’t changed at all: he's still a selfish and petty, self-centered
little boy in a grown man's body. He tells me all about the cute new guy he's been
seeing (the slim, effeminate boy with cashmere and express jeans he had
his hand on at dinner) - whether he thinks this will bond us or brag, I don't care to know.
It's clear that the baggage has been picked up and discarded on his end.
Deciding that the healthiest thing I can do is to end all contact between us on a clean and honest note, I decide to be blunt and tell him that I
know all about his cheating and the lying that he thought he'd hidden from me and that he needs to be more selective in his
trysts. And then I hit the 'Block' button and lean back in my desk chair.
As I sit there, my knees at my chin and my
computer screen glowing in front of me, I begin to glow in turn. Smiling
to myself, I feel the cold weight of the anger I’d been carrying around
since the end of me and Big lift off. My smile is genuine, for the
first time since his caustic words at the end of us I don’t
hate him.
I don’t want to avoid him, forget him or hate him. I just want to move past him.
Of course, this means Nate was right. Again.
In the end, though, we have to claim the emotional baggage - whether to keep it with us, or to hopefully let it go on its merry way and our part in packing it so heavily. Sometimes all we need is a little self-confidence and the temerity to go through with finding the answers.
That ... and some really good friends with cocktails.
A FASHION INTERVENTION ... STAT! [how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child ... or outfit]
Benjamin Kissell
Popped collar: check Oversized quintessential 80's hair: check Ubiquitous 80's model staring off to her right at the hideous outfit the photographer wears while he shoots a 'high end fashion ad': mother fucking check.
Uhm, don't get me wrong, I absolutely love shit from the 80's - if my collection of He-Man, She-Ra, the Thundercats, Jem and Rainbow Brite toys [oops, I mean action and collectable figures], shirts and paraphanalia are any indicator.
And when it comes to 80's fashions I've been known to rock an izod in classic pastels [if I MUST wear a polo, those are the ONLY kind to wear, right Jen Lancaster, Stacey Ballis and Caprice Crane?], I'll pop a collar and wear straight-leg jeans or even the odd fuschia cut-off sweatshirts on occasion - ala Flashdance [yet, burn the photographic evidence]. In theory I don't have a problem with 80's fashions - I even laud some of them - despite the Hipster perversion of seemingly everything I love.
However, there is a distinct line between 'love for', 'trapped in' and 'can't escape from' ... Sadly, I don't think that the pleasant and lovely woman this morning understood this theorem - if her outfit is anything to judge by.
........................
Walking through the entrance lobby to my building I spy a small crowd of folks milling about, including an early 40s mother who catches my eye and I stop dead in my tracks.
Me: >silently gawpping in her direction<
Patently Unaware Fashion Victim: >smiles broadly and sweetly as she carries a brilliant blue and white gift bag [with glitter and pearl accents, thank you] across the room, looking for someone<
Me: >drags jaw up off the floor in order to not look like the highly judgmental and bitchy queen that I am<
Patently Unaware Fashion Victim: >opens her eyes widely and smiles even more beatifically as she nods at me; acknowledging my stare<
"Good morning," I say as we pass - her smile is warm, her glow is genuine and her eyes ... oh, her lovely cornflower eyes what evil doth transpire here? Electric blue shadow with hints of purple tint frame her lovely and smiling eyes from lashes to brow. Oh no, no, no, no, no.
And is that - Oh dear, sweet Jebus it is! - a denim scrunchie in her thick, almost-crimped, chestnut hair. And are those [*shudder*] blown out poodle bangs? Madre de Dios - who does she think she is; Tonya Harding circa 1989-1994? All she's missing is the Sun-In coloring. Should I warn any nice girls in the room named Nancy to watch out?
Thankfully, I've almost never eaten by this hour of the morning and there's only so much black, black coffee that can threaten to come back up.
I'm about to ... Whoa! Shitballs: Is that an over-sized and heavily pilled off-white sweater? It's loose in all the wrong spots, giving her petite frame the false impression of a ponch-belly and the sleeves are so loose and bell-clapper-y I fight the urge to ask her to throw her hands up in the air like she just don't care to see if they catch the breeze like sails. Geeze, this sweater looks like it hasn't pulled its way out of the graveyard of shouldn't-be-worns since 1986. At least its cuffs match the denim in her scrunchie and the up-turned cuffs of her acid wash jeans. This woman doesn't just think she's Stacy's Mom: she still thinks she's Stacy.
I shall spare you, dear reader, the full-fledged image as the combination of these pieces is enough to stun you into stone in much the same way as Medusa's glare, however ... the pieces look a little something like this:
Hair by Doctor Frankenstein Jeans by Dolce and You Gotta Be Kidding Me Sweater by Cosby, Bill Cosby
I look up into her sweet face as we pass [admittedly, to not look directly at her outfit]
and return her heartfelt smile and I feel a twinge of something
somewhere south of my appendix. Could that be ... is it possibly ...
guilt for judging her from one [admittedly scrutinizing]
glance? I know I am far from the paragon of fashion or style virtue,
something about wearing a lot of the same clothes since the early 2000s
and even one or five pieces from the late 90s. Do I actually have the
right to judge another for this sartorial time capsule? Her outfit may
be trapped in a fashion disaster hell [I believe that would be Dante's 7th Circle] but since when does that give me the right to judge her as a person?
As a fashion disaster, sure - she's free game. This newfound warm-fuzzy guilt-stuff doesn't mean I'm gonna stop judging her clothes.
C'mon, I'm
still me [bitchy, acerbic and snarky]: I have to look at the damned
outfit, don't I?
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".
"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:
"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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