Straight Up Now Tell Me
I was feeling particularly bad about myself, midday Saturday. Every now and again I have these days where I look at my life in its current state and my response is a wine bottle, straight to the lips. If that sounds dramatic to you, it is. That's the result of being an only child. And a Leo. And three years of high school theater.
The only non-condiment in my fridge was a bottle Sky Dog wine, purchased for $5.99. If you're not familiar, the label has a DOG attached to a ROCKET on it.
The perfect compliment to my mood - fermented grape juice with a twist-off top.
Somewhere between half-full and half-empty, I got a text message from Bess: "What are you doing tonight?"
Those five words were the only encouragement I needed. I was not going to lie on the couch and watch eight hours of the Anthony Bourdain marathon. I need a goal again. I need a drive again. I need to feel my heart coming alive again. Before the parade passes by. (Streisand, 1969). I was going out.
Okay, I had just downed a bottle of wine. So first, a nap. But then, out.
Bess suggested a glorious idea: why not head out to the Indy's reknowned gay bar, Talbott Street? Yes. But what to wear? Talbott Street plays music that's all, ugh-tsss-ugh-tsss, and the bulk of my wardrobe is more, I don't know - Peace Train? Buried deep in my closet was a brown, lingerie-inspired top that got me free drinks in college. I threw on jeans and a sparkly peach scarf. That would have to do. Most of my prep was devoted to my hair, as there was a good possibility of running into my stylist, whom I would NOT have see me with disheveled tresses.
I met Bess downtown and we caught a cab to the bar. I smiled like a giddy school girl -- there were no "dudes," no "bros." After stocking up on libations (red-headed sluts + vodka-water, splash of lime), we headed into the lounge for the drag show. We squealed at the Stevie Nicks impersonator, and danced our hearts out to the Paula Abdul medley (when's the last time you heard Rush, Rush? I'm guessing last decade?) The following also may have been uttered: "If someone breaks out with Judy Garland, I'm going to pee my pants."
Then it was off to the dance floor for Mariah Carey remixes and shimmying under strobe lights. I was oozing happiness. There was glitter falling from the rafters. We checked out men grinding on platforms and wanted to be best friends with every one of them. In the middle of my fag hag fantasies, I felt a tug on my arm. "Are you a straight girl?" he asked. He explained that he had brought his friend, the only straight guy in here, and he was feeling uncomfortable. [Really? With his Lakers shirt and Budweiser? Really?] He pulled his friend into our dance party and disappeared without a word. WAIT A SECOND! I thought, as the gangly dude clumsily attempted to twirl me. I AM NOT BABYSITTING YOUR STRAIGHT FRIEND! THIS DEFEATS THE WHOLE PURPOSE OF US COMING HERE!... HEY! You may NOT put your hand awkwardly on my hip. Do not pass go. We slinked on over (yes, slinked, like Mick Jagger) to the other side of the bar and danced until I could no longer feel my feet. Bess shouted over the blasting techno: "I seriously think we're gay men trapped inside straight women's bodies!"
TRUE.
So my day pulled a 180, going from Sky Dogg wine to the finale of THIS:
You know..on the inside.
The only non-condiment in my fridge was a bottle Sky Dog wine, purchased for $5.99. If you're not familiar, the label has a DOG attached to a ROCKET on it.
The perfect compliment to my mood - fermented grape juice with a twist-off top.
Somewhere between half-full and half-empty, I got a text message from Bess: "What are you doing tonight?"
Those five words were the only encouragement I needed. I was not going to lie on the couch and watch eight hours of the Anthony Bourdain marathon. I need a goal again. I need a drive again. I need to feel my heart coming alive again. Before the parade passes by. (Streisand, 1969). I was going out.
Okay, I had just downed a bottle of wine. So first, a nap. But then, out.
Bess suggested a glorious idea: why not head out to the Indy's reknowned gay bar, Talbott Street? Yes. But what to wear? Talbott Street plays music that's all, ugh-tsss-ugh-tsss, and the bulk of my wardrobe is more, I don't know - Peace Train? Buried deep in my closet was a brown, lingerie-inspired top that got me free drinks in college. I threw on jeans and a sparkly peach scarf. That would have to do. Most of my prep was devoted to my hair, as there was a good possibility of running into my stylist, whom I would NOT have see me with disheveled tresses.
I met Bess downtown and we caught a cab to the bar. I smiled like a giddy school girl -- there were no "dudes," no "bros." After stocking up on libations (red-headed sluts + vodka-water, splash of lime), we headed into the lounge for the drag show. We squealed at the Stevie Nicks impersonator, and danced our hearts out to the Paula Abdul medley (when's the last time you heard Rush, Rush? I'm guessing last decade?) The following also may have been uttered: "If someone breaks out with Judy Garland, I'm going to pee my pants."
Then it was off to the dance floor for Mariah Carey remixes and shimmying under strobe lights. I was oozing happiness. There was glitter falling from the rafters. We checked out men grinding on platforms and wanted to be best friends with every one of them. In the middle of my fag hag fantasies, I felt a tug on my arm. "Are you a straight girl?" he asked. He explained that he had brought his friend, the only straight guy in here, and he was feeling uncomfortable. [Really? With his Lakers shirt and Budweiser? Really?] He pulled his friend into our dance party and disappeared without a word. WAIT A SECOND! I thought, as the gangly dude clumsily attempted to twirl me. I AM NOT BABYSITTING YOUR STRAIGHT FRIEND! THIS DEFEATS THE WHOLE PURPOSE OF US COMING HERE!... HEY! You may NOT put your hand awkwardly on my hip. Do not pass go. We slinked on over (yes, slinked, like Mick Jagger) to the other side of the bar and danced until I could no longer feel my feet. Bess shouted over the blasting techno: "I seriously think we're gay men trapped inside straight women's bodies!"
TRUE.
So my day pulled a 180, going from Sky Dogg wine to the finale of THIS:
Click to viewYou know..on the inside.