GBF or BF. Have you had your fix?

Most modern women understand, desire, and often time envy the GBF or BF.  That is, the Gay Best Friend or Best Fag. Today, I ponder this phenomenon.

For those who enjoy a BF and give into its powerful drug, fall into two categories. If your BF’s a twink you’re a beard.  If your BF’s a bear, Levi, or leather you’re a Goldie-locks (sp?). In my ideal, I would have a bear.  Well, unless you’re Dan Savage.  I’ll be your beard, Dan. I am your beard.

Anyways, what is it about the BF/Beard or BF/GL relationship that is so effortless for both involved.  I have a theory. (don’t worry, I’m not becoming a scientist, sluts.)

For the girls, we are transported to  place and time where snobby, bitchy, slutty and hilarious are acceptable personlities and everything you strive to be. A place where judgment is in the way you greet someone.

 ”Hey. What’s happening here? What’s going on? Why are you wearing that ridiculous cardigan?”

A place where you play “dress-up” and “music video” or “dance party.”  A place where you can binge drink and eat for no good reason and never lose you’re figure (because you’re also smoking and starving yourself for weeks in between). A place where your best friend comes over to drink, bitch about people, watch tv and then pass out, not to awake until the next morning.  At which time you will eat donuts or sausage cheese biscuits and then pass out.

I don’t know what’s in it for the BF, but I suspect it’s an exact copy of the girl list. Except for one addition. A place where you don’t have to pretend you get bonners for girls.

And where is this place? Are you eager to move in? This place is where I suspect all the popular kids were in 7th and 8th grade. I was not in the group. I was an outsider. For me these two years were fucking horrible. Life changing, to say the least.

But, for the popular kids, I imagine  their average day full of drama (of their own making and control), full of bitchiness, full of posturing and definitely full of fun. Is this place many of us never experienced.  And at some point, likely around 19-22 for girls, they grown out of this phase (men never grow out of this phase- straight or gay). Society now frowns upon us for such behavior, ladies.  We’re either forced to give these behaviors up (lazy sluts) or we’re forced to move it all underground and share with a choice few (fun sluts).

That leaves the fun sluts (men and women- most men, straight or gay, are fun sluts) to find each other.  Hopefully you will find a fun slut at one point in your life. Lucky for me, I’ve met many a fun slut.  Some have been closeted or just shy, but who isn’t at some point. No matter , we  have a blast.

That’s all.  Have a blast, sluts.

Bea, I love you.

If, in 50 years, some young person ask me where I was the day Bea Arthur died I would say, at GayBingo with my cross dressing dad.  It was kind of fitting.  As the news came in through text messages, the Queens honored Bea and lifted our spirits with song and dance. 

I was looking for things to commemorate the moment and found a Golden Girl necklace from etsy.com. Sad news hookers, the necklace sold out. 

Other GG paraphernalia include GG playing cards, GG lapel pins, and GG pendants. All at www.etsy.com.

Here’s a clip of our friend, doing a parody of Sex in the City.  She’s with other lovely ladies… Mona from Who’s The Boss, Sally Struthers and Mrs. Garrett.

Don’t be Jealous of My Boogie

This is what I’m listening to and watching today.  DWI (deal with it)

 

http://wow.wowtv.tv/episodes/rupaul-jealous-of-my-boogie

 

I’m totally into RuPaul and the drag world. I’m thinking I need to infiltrate this world, get in, get dirty, and become these hookers bitch. Think of all the things I’ll learn.

I’ve already started to pick up the lingo. You know, like “That slut is giving me shade.” and “This sno-cone makes my world go ’round.”

Oh, rainbows and unicorns.

These Queens make my world go ’round. Maybe this is how me and dad will connect. If fact, I think I’m going to plan a weekend around a drag show. He needs a Queen mentor, he’s flailing in the proverbial straight wind. He’s left to his own demise.  He has no help, no make-up tips, no witty one-liners. He needs some guidance.

Get ready to be jealous of my boogie.

Is anybody else watching this?

I am and I’d like to know who to discuss this show with.  I’m sure my sister is catching every episode.  I think I’ve missed a few, so that will be a weekend project for me.  The skinny on this show…It’s a Top Model for drag queens.  And, appropriately, RuPaul is the host.

 

Some of my favorites are Bebe Zahara Benet (with the top hat) and Ongina (with the orange traffic cone).  Last week they battled for their life, the two of them were up for elimination.  They had to lip sync for their life, and they did.  Their song was “Stronger” by Brit Brit and Bebe sang and danced her weave off, literally.  Ongina was told to sashe off the stage.  Translation, she lost.

Mom. Strongbow. Sassy Chicks. Strongbow. Bread. Strongbow. In the Womb. Strongbow.

What a weekend. I spent most of my precious weekend with my mom.  She had big plans for us, which included a lot of work in the garden.  The good news is that a chilly weather front came in on Friday evening and ruined her plans for gardening. The bad news was she had a Plan B, like she always does. She told me to come over whenever I wanted and we would have some chili. Easy, I can do that.  I get anxious when I go somewhere and we don’t really have planned activities.  I’m okay if we sit around and watch TV, that’s an activity to me and I thought that’s what I would be doing.  Watching TV, playing with the dogs, eating chili and watching more TV.  My mom is the same way except she doesn’t think watching TV is a legitimate activity, she needs a fucking curriculum. So, my mom planned some activities for us.  First, she buttered me up (really she tricked me) with the enticement of unlimited Strongbows. We started out drinking.  So now I’m thinking I drink, I watch TV, I play with dogs, I eat chili, and watch more TV and drink.  I had two within an hour and she hadn’t finished her first, so I finished it for her.  Then as we finished up our lunch, she tells me that she has a craft project she needs my help with.

My mom usually needs my help with reaching things up high or reaching for things behind the refrigerator.  She thinks I’m tall and have incrediably long skinny arms.  I’m not tall, 5′6″, and I absolutely do not have long or skinny arms. 

But, help with a craft project…after two and half Strongbows, I was actually interested in seeing this craft.  I envisioned something robust or tall that she needed my help lifting or to staple flowers to the top. Not the case.  She had read an article in Woman’s Day or Redbook about a fun Easter craft.  We were about to make SASSY CHICKS. I won’t go into the details of making these little creatures, but I will tell you this.  They are about 1 inch tall and my mom plans to attach them to hats.  Hats, yes hats.  She plans to attach them to straw hats for herself and her dog Tigger.  Don’t worry, she knows exactly how she’s going to do this, because she’s done this before, for a Pooch Parade.

 

 

 

Craft time finally wrapped. Which was surprisingly quick.  Even a little drunk, warm as my mom calls it, I was able to create four sassy chicks in about 30 minutes.  Our next activity was baking bread. She has a new toaster oven, so we needed to try out some bread recipes.  We made whole wheat with raisins, sourdough with raisins, and Irish soda bread with raisins and cinnamon.  That killed another two hours, but any activity with food involved is fun.  Of course, I had two more Strongbows.  Yes, by now I’m drunk. And yes, by now I’m drunk with my mom.

As we sat down to eat our bread, two pieces of each, she says she has a program she wants to watch me me.  At first I thought it was going to be some Joel Olsteen re-runs, but no.  It was a program called, “In the Womb” and yes, it was about babies in the womb.  Because it was recorded she was able to pause, rewind, and fucking slow-mo that shit.  I don’t know if you know what happens in a womb, but it’s pretty much in slow-mo naturally.  So, watching this shit in slow-mo was more boring that my drunk self was ready to deal with.  But, in true form, to deal with this boredom I started snacking on our fresh baked bread and drinking more. Two hours later, the “In the Womb” program was over.  Here’s a clip, if you’re curious…

 

 I needed to “cool off” as my mom said, before I could leave so we watched some recorded “The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.”  My mom said, “He’s hilarious, even for a Scot.” 

p.s. to catch Roy of Sigfried and Roy in a skeletor mask- tune in to 20/20 this Friday.

Globtrotters vs grandaughter…my g-ma chooses Globetrotters

My dad is blowing me off to hang with my g-ma…his mom. No big.  But, I haven’t seen my g-ma in about 17 years!  Usually I don’t even know when she’s in town.

My dad is taking my g-ma and her husband to the Harlem Globetrotter concert- his words.  He was quick to say that he couldn’t afford to take me to the concert, but wanted to give me the courtesy of a call to break our dinner plans, scheduled for the same time as the concert.  Well, the Globetrotters are playing right next door to where I work and about 10 miles from where I live.  I asked if she would want to grab dinner before the concert so we could see each other and that’s when my dad sighed.  He told me to not get my hopes up. She was only coming in to town to see the Globetrotters, but he’ll run it by her.

I’m not going to get my hopes up.  I’m not going to take it personally.  And, I’m certainly not going to be upset.

I will drink.

Piss off Globetrotters.

My new style—Modster

It’s Mod with a little Hipster, but tidier. I’m still working through this and feel free to comment with your suggestions. From this point forward, I’m working towards this style.  This will get easier as I get thinner.  They don’t make cigarette pants in hippopotamus size.

Modsters wear:

• bright colors
• pencil skirts
• shift dresses
• tailored pieces
• buttons
• headbands
• belts
• cigarette pants
• fabulous shoes
• nothing flouncy
• red lips- when appropriate

Modsters are:

• ladylike
• well groomed and put together
• never over accessorized
• when  in doubt, choose classic over trendy

places to be inspired…

DadaDress

Fred Perry

ModCloth

Modster home: 

Chiasso

Can I stick it in your ear?

boy:  (while checking himself out in a full length mirror, he brushes his fingers through his hair and as he tweeks his nipples, says)  ”Can I stick it in your ear?

girl: (while sitting on the boy’s bed and brushing her long blond hair while she stares, admirably at the young shirtless boy, ask)  ”Stick what in my ear?”

boy: (looking over his shoulder, and turning his chin to the floor, he replies) “My penis.” (yes, he said penis)

girl: (still brushing her hair) “What? Well, okay.”

This happened to me. I was the silly  girl. And why either one of us thought sticking a penis in my ear was a logical question is absurd.  It’s clear he just wanted to know what it would feel like. He was always telling me about all the places he wanted to try and stick his penis.  But, me.  Why would I say okay.  I couldn’t have thought it would actually fit.  And if I thought it might fit, I wasn’t scared that it would fucking hurt. We weren’t even stoned when this happened. We were just dumb kids.

The things he did to me boggle my mind. The things I let him do to me.  After he broke up with me (I still have a hard time with that part, that he would break up with me is proof of my ridiculous and pathetic state of mind at the time.) I cried a long time. Then I felt sorry for myself and then I exploited men in an attempt to pump up my self-esteem. Then, for years, I hated at all men. Through all that learned a lot of lessons about myself. I learned a lot from that asshole about accepting myself.  I learned that boys lie, and friends will too.  That my voice is worth hearing, and that whoever I’m with will should want to hear it sing or talk or whistle or mumble.  I learned that I want someone to love me, but I also want to love someone back.  I don’t want to rest in a relationship that is tentative or complacent towards love. To really love someone with your heart and soul is breathtaking. I learned to laugh at myself.  But, best of all…I learned to be myself.

That may sound cliche, but its true.  I had lost myself, into oblivion.  Little by little he took and destroyed the original me.  All that made me unique was erased.  But, like a little trooper I picked myself up and tried to move on.  I took a lot more drugs, and remember I hated men for a long time.  But, then I started to feel a little more empowered and started to get into my dad’s music collection. I listened to Barry Manilow, Bette Midler, some John Denver sprinkled in with a little Elton John, Cher and the Temptations. I remember a time, when when my empowerment was slipped and I was feeling exceptionally shitty. I smoked some weed, put on some Whitney Houston, and started crafting (deconstructing clothes and playing with make-up). As I listened to the record (I’m not old enough to have actually purchased a record player or records, cassettes were the music method of my day, but my parents had a record player and my dad loved him some Whitney.  He still loves his Whitney) Anyways, as I listened, the song “Greatest Love of All” clicked on. As I’m playing dress up and performing music videos for myself in front  of the mirror, I started to cry realizing how true it is “that learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.”  Just as I darkened my lipstick, my bedroom door flies open and my dad is singing in the doorway.  One arm up and the other fist clinched and pounding at his heart. 

I looked him up and down.  And thought, that’s my dad standing there with his hip cocked and his little peach colored shorts being way to short. My eyes wandered down to his red tennis shoes when I noticed him walking towards me. He came sauntering in my direction and making hand motions for me to stand up.  With make-up running down my face, I stood up and we sort of danced poorly to the rest of the song. We had a blast. He dipped me, I dipped him.  While, this sounds sweet and was actually what I needed at that moment in time. You should know that my dad didn’t do this to cheer me up, that was a wonderful and unusual side effect of his behavior.

He busted in on my room because he was in the mood for a song and dance.  He heard Whitney and he came running. I love this side of my dad. He’ll never know how much that meant to me on that day.  As I’ve learned to love myself and be myself I’ve started to love other people for themselves.  

…Okay, this is getting so cheesy that I want some mac-n-cheese or cheeto-s.  My vote is cheeto-s!!!

who’d you rather…

A: Creepy Crawler, notice his home-made hat

 

A:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

B: Harry Yuckyballs, you don't want to see the front. It's worse.

 

 

 

 

B: