Ed. Note: I meant to post this on Monday, but I was either really busy or really drunk or really lazy…take your pick.
There was a fierce tranny in my local Starbucks this morning. She looked like a young Amanda Lepore, complete with huge red lips, long blonde hair and kicky stilettos. I’m not quite sure what she was doing in a Starbucks in Memorial at eight o’clock in the morning, all kitted out in her finest denim jumpsuit and bouffant Traci-Lords-in-“Cry-Baby”-hair — actually, I’m not quite sure I want to know — but I loved her for it. The yuppies were carefully maintaining their distance from her, which was difficult because she was lounging languidly up against the main counter, batting her eyelashes at all the men in their houndstooth trousers as they approached for their venti lattes. The yuppies were either glaring at her with disapproval — “A transexual? In MY coffee shop?!? Well, I never!” — and trying to avoid eye contact completely. Watching them squirm with uneasiness while watching her revel in their obvious discomfort was probably the high point of my day. I wanted to give her a hug and thank her for bringing such joy to a Monday morning, but that seemed inappropriate somehow. So…thanks, mysterious tranny, whoever you are.
I went to a couple of parties over the weekend, which was a nice respite from the constant renovation work we’re doing on the house. On Friday night, it was Michael’s 30th birthday bash, from which I’m still eagerly awaiting pictures, and these are the reasons why:
– It was a 1985 – 1995 themed party (to pay homage to his formative years)
– Richard went as one of The New York Dolls (we never did decide which one)
– I went as one of his groupies from Paramus, New Jersey named Stacey
– Richard’s costume (except for his wig) was entirely composed of MY clothing
– Richard had on the tighest pants perhaps ever seen on a heterosexual male
– It was pure awesomeness
Also, there was karaoke and that lovely cream cheese dip with the raspberry chipotle sauce on top that I could live off of for the rest of my life. And also a random man in his early 50s who looked almost exactly like this:
…but with a goatee, about a gallon of sweat plastered all over his shirt and a really shitty attitude. He was going around the entire party telling us “young people” how he “actually LIVED through the Eighties” and how we “have NO idea what it was like.” He was “living in New York then, man, and you don’t have a fucking CLUE what that shit was like.” Later on, we caught him swaying precariously next to the karaoke machine while some other total douchebag sang Creed. They mirrored each other in intensity: eyes closed, sweat beading on their temples, really feeling the song…well, as much as one can “feel” Creed (gah! I want to vomit at the thought). He looked to be off his manic high from earlier and onto some other completely different illicit substance. We came to the desultory decision amongst ourselves that it was mescaline, because — really — who the hell takes mescaline? The answer is: that guy.
The next day, it was another birthday party/congrats-on-getting-into-med-school party at Jessie’s house. But Jessie does not host normal parties — no, these are Polish parties, and they are the epitome of extravagant bacchanalias. You can be guaranteed that the most interesting albeit random people you will ever meet in your life will be at one of these parties. You can also be guaranteed that at some point during the night, Jessie’s younger sister, Marge, will peform her infamous “dropping it like it’s hot” routine for the enjoyment of all assembled. Never a dull moment.
Immediately upon entering, I was swept away from Richard and my other friends by Jessie’s mother, who paraded me in front of her assembled friends and demanded that I speak Polish to them. This would be fine if anyone in Jessie’s family had ever bothered to teach me anything useful in Polish. As it is, my vocabulary is limited to these phrases:
– Thank you.
– Give me that rat named Honey.
– I have small potatoes.
– You have a large ass.
– You are a male whore.
– I have no legs.
– My name is Elizabeth.
You can probably see now why I’m such a great party trick at Polish get-togethers.
So, yes, the party was fantastic. There was a keg of Ziegenbock (represent!), two enormous cakes, enough vodka to float a navy and some delicious hummus. Richard got to talk football with some Polish guys and a Moroccan gentleman who apparently owns half the nightclubs in Houston. I got harassed into shaking my ass on the “dance floor” (i.e., a dark corner of the living room next to the giant speakers). Marge showed me Unicorn Planet (how I missed that one, I’ll never know). And I had a conversation with a lovely gentleman from Peru and a woman from Columbia about the recent earthquake there — in Spanish. All in all, a good night.
Of course, we were completely useless the next day and so kitchen renovations have yet again fallen to another weekend. One of these days or months or decades, we’ll finish it. Till then…