Category Archives: Art

This Way to the Pink Flamingos Please.

One night my better half says, “Oh yeah, next week I have a dinner engagement.”

Oh, okay….whatcha doin?

“My company is a sponsor for the Pink Flamingo Awards, so I”m going to go.”

My response….blink blink. Blink blink.

Pink flamingos?

You didn’t think I’d want to go?

A. It’s an award show

B. There’s pink flamingos

I say, “Okay so can you bring a date?”

He says, “Well yeah.

Okay then…I’m coming.

He then advises me its to support the local LGBT Visitors Center and they’ll have Drag Queens.

My jaw hits the floor.

AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO TELL ME ABOUT THIS SOONER? Hello? How long have we been together? This is right up my alley. These woman are fabulous!

To double check, I ask if this is a dress up event. Yes. Wear a dress.

Perfect. Got the perfect black dress.

He then says, because up until now, I’ve had a shit day…..you could wear one of your wigs.

Stop the train! REALLY!

GET

OUT!

I immediately ran to the box where I keep my wigs.

I knew exactly the one I wanted. Got it out. Got my comb. Brushed it out. Tried it on. Was delighted.

So excited.

The Wednesday arrived and the plan was hatched….meet at the Miami Convention Center at 7:00PM and enjoy the night. Silent auction, dinner, cocktails, award show – oh my! Whoop, whoop!

5:30PM I call the Mister and tell him I’m heading over to our company gym to shower and get my wig on. He says, “oh that’s too early, might as well wait.”

Okay, well you know what? Don’t listen to a man, when you know how long it’s going to take you to get ready. What the hell do they know anyway?

They know bubkiss.

They’re a PIMA. (Pain. In. My. Ass.)

I thought he might be right. So I waited until 6:10PM.

Went over to the gym.

Jumped into the shower.

Did my make up.

Put almond oil all over my arms and legs so I have not only a nice scent but subtle glow to my skin. Perfect!

Add the perfume and then take my black dress out of the cotton garment bag.

I pulled my grey and black shoes out and my satin handbag…finally, it was time to get dressed.

Please note: At this point in the evening’s program, we have a problem Houston…

It all went to hell in a hand basket and we were in the express lane. And the express lane was free of charge tonight. Of course.

Knew it. Should have went with my gut. Why? Why, listen to a man when it comes to getting ready?

Unless he is a Drag Queen or a prima donna – they’re clueless. PIMA!

I am so unimpressed at this point.

There I am, half dressed in my cute black dress with not a soul to be found in the ladies locker room and the
fucking zipper on the back of my dress is stuck. I don’t just mean stuck as in I’ve gained a lot of weight and it won’t zip. I mean like it’s frozen and not going to move an inch.

There’s a good five inches to go before it’s zipped up to the top – which would be mid back.

My hands were previously oiled, so I wash them yet again.

Nothing.

I pull the dress down as far as I can.

Nothing.

I try and turn the dress around to the front to shimmy the zipper.

Nothing.

I pull the dress up higher and try to pull the zipper up.

Nothing.

I try squeezing the zipper together.

Nothing.

I contemplate going as is.

Not happening.

I ponder wearing my sheer black and white polka dot shirt that I wore to work over the dress.

(only if I’m desperate) And that’s not really an option.

I contort my arms to try again to pull the zipper up.

First, left arm over. UGH!!!

Then the right arm over the top…..

Maybe if I turn just a little.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I wait and hope a female walks in.

Tick tock.

Nothing.

I think about going out into the gym. It’s a guy at the desk and think…..He could zip it. What if he can’t? Okay that would be embarrassing.

On the way to the awards I could stop somewhere and buy something, which is a good idea.

But then I’d have to get OUT of this dress and I can’t do that either.

Well what the hell?

I stop and look at myself in the mirror. Sweat, is pouring down my face. I’m a total mess. Is the air conditioning on? TURN ON THE AIR CONDITIONING!!! THE ALASKAN IS DYING IN HERE!

You have got to be kidding me.

Maybe the sewn in slip is bunched up and I start patting down all the layers.

NOW! How about NOW!!! Arms go up and over to work the zipper.

I try and pull the dress up as far up to my arm pits again.

Nothing.

I rest my sweaty forehead against the mirror.

Fuck it.

I pack up my bag.

My plan is to go as is and my better half is going to have to figure it out in the parking lot. Mental note, pack black duct tape in the car next time.

I am pissed…..I don’t have time to brush my teeth and what is even worse…..

I
don’t
have
time
to
put
on
my
wig.

I have to go. I wash my hands and do a final makeup touch up. By makeup – touch up I really mean mop my face with paper towels. I return to get my bag and try one last fricking time with this damn zipper.

Just kidding! Zip! Tah-dah! No problem.

Are you kidding me?

For the love of Pete.

I get to the car and it’s 6:50PM. Zip over the Causeway to Miami Beach. The air conditioning is on FULL ARCTIC BLAST and I arrive at the Convention Center just in time for cocktails. I throw on the fascinator I made for a Titanic dinner in Juneau….and while it wasn’t my wig I got enough compliments, so I was happy enough.

We arrive and head immediately to the bar. I’m busy texting a friend about an item I bidder on him from the Floppy Rooster….I stop suddenly and when I look up we’re behind not one but TWO Drag Queens. Lady one, later advised the crowd she was NOT a Drag Queen but a transgender, which was fine. She was lovely. Reminded me of someone I know. The other one. Well, I admit…………startled the hell out of me. One of those, I couldn’t help but stare, but not stare for fear she’d call me out on it. Nope, no picture needed. Thanks!

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It’s a Bloody Hickie!

Okay that came up at a dinner with good friends a few weeks ago.

“….a bloody hickie!”

Hold the dogsled…a what?

These friends live thousands of miles away from me.

When I heard they were coming to town and asked if dinner was possible, I nearly burst into tears I was so happy.

True.

They are kind.

They are genuine.

They are real.

It does my heart good to know when these people are coming…a big sigh of relief washes over me. No matter what chaos my little row boat is facing. No matter if I’m riding an ostrich of insanity. If I’m having a week of walking the fire of idiotic nonsense. It’s going to be okay, good people are on the way.

I can be me. No judging.

Arriving to dinner in rubber boots, jeans, fleece jacket and messed up hair – this crowd would have said, “hell yeah!”

It’s comfortable.

Like going to the beach on a Sunday. It calms me. The sound of the ocean. Floating on the water. Watching the waves. Looking for fish. Aaahhh.

But most importantly….back to the bloody hickie.

Why do people do what they do to themselves?

I drive down the highway and there are billboards….upgrade your breasts. Lift your butt! Tuck that tummy. They offer photos to show proof.

The problem?

The original boobs looked just fine to me.

The original butt. I don’t know which one I am supposed to like – they both look nice. One is thiner than the other. Isn’t that what we want?

No.

This is Miami.

Well, hell. Give me a break.

I’ll give you the tummy ads. They need those.

Why don’t they put the men up there with 40 pound man boobs? Hello? Plastic surgeons! You are missing an entire market!

You don’t see a snap of a man’s ass up on the billboard…with the tag, “Lift it high, lift it proud!”

Have penis sag? Not a problem. There’s a solution for that, let us show you how.

Something isn’t right.

Our bodies. Costumes we wear on earth. (can’t wait to see my angel outfit….or at the rate I’m going I could be collecting some horns.)

Okay so over the last few weeks I’ve had two zits on my collar bone.

Yep. Front and center. Right there. About 2 inches apart.

I have made up a story about them. They’re from a piercing gone bad.

“Yes, I’d like to have my collar bone pierced please….Mr. Tattoo Man.”

Maybe not all piercing professionals are tattooed, however the one that did my……well, he was well tattooed.  In Vegas.

Since I’ve been staring at these two bumps for what seems like eternity, I’m now actually considering a collar bone piercing.

I mentioned it to my other half the other night and he nearly spit up his wine.

But then I ponder the eternal question…………………………………………..WHY?

Why have my collar bone pierced?

Okay 7 ear piercing? Fine. Nipple piercings? Possibly.

Tongue? Too painful, but okay for oral excitement…if you can get through the piercing….good on you. No. Wait. Good on me!

Have you seen this guy? Okay, watch the link. FANTASTIC.  And oddly sensual.

The oddly colored hair doesn’t interest me. Everyone does it. No challenge. Nothing bold about it. Meh. Like a hairball on the carpet.

Zombie Boy? Well now he’s something. (Hint: see the link above)

It started with boobs. Fake books. Woman needed (and still want) bigger boobs. Ok, I’d go one size larger. But what happens if you want to return them?

Fake eyelashes? Eye lash extensions? Odd. There’s a Group On currently…if interested. Do men get eye lash extensions?

Hair extensions. Which, if you’re going to wear them, I don’t want to see the little strips of tape. Get a lesson on how to wear your hair! MEN – warn your woman if her tape things are showing. (Yes, that is the technical term thank you. After all, your woman is a reflection of you!) And what do you do when you’re getting ready to roll around with the hottie? You have to have a disclaimer: “Excuse me but my hair isn’t real?” Otherwise, he may pull out a chunk and we’re into a horror story in 20 seconds flat! But how do you even bring that up in a conversation? I know someone and I asked her that question.

Yep. That’s basically it. Hey….something I need to tell you.

Really? At my age? In that position? I have other things I need to worry about. News flash……the hair on my head isn’t one of them.

Of course, I have been tempted many times to try extensions.

If I had to confess about them to my romance cover novel superstar….I’d say something like….”Unlike those you see in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, I may not have a glass eye, peg leg or octopus whiskers….but my hair is fake.”

Ear lobe disks. That’ all I’m saying.

If I could get something done to my physical self…..I’d ask for height. Run Forest Run!
As a shorter person with top shelf grocery aisle issues, I’d be fine with 4 more inches.

Four inches can do a lot more than you think.

Just saying.

Hard Bodies Apply. Yes, You!

When I lived in Juneau, Alaska…… strip clubs, porn shops and Hooters restaurants were not readily available.

Occasionally one of the local bars would host a “topless poker tournament” and of course a friend and I couldn’t help ourselves. We went.

The same bar flew in “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” Again, we couldn’t help ourselves and we went.

Twice.

These same “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” Also came to town as the ring girls for the sponsored UFC style fights. I, of course, went to those (and sat right next to one of the judges…ringside.)

Needless to say, these woman were a disappointment. I think the topless dealers were mothers of ten, who breast-fed until the kids were able to form full sentences.

Their nipples were dragging on the felt.

Who enjoys that?

The “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” While cute – in their early 20’s….were not anything you would expect to see in say….a strip club.

They had paunchy beer guts.

They had cellulite.

THEY WERE IN THEIR 20’s!

Girls in their 20’s are supposed to be trim and tight. Then again, this is Alaska. There is a reason, besides the cold, we are covered up in wool and rubber clothing 11 months out of the year.

Some time in between these adventures in Juneau we had a tourism convention in Anchorage. Leave it to me to pour everyone into a cab late one night and head over to the strip club in Anchorage: The Bush Company.

Yes.

Yes, I did.

It was a lot of fun.

The women – were “better.”

Not Vegas standards.

Not even midwestern standards.

Definitely better than topless poker tournament dealer in Juneau, Alaska standards.

We bought a couple of lap dances for various members of our party – those people know who they are….ahem. Of course, we picked out the best looking dancers in the lineup. I was not one who received a lap dance – thank you.  I don’t need that drama.  But appreciate the gesture.

Now I am living in Miami where very little is left to the imagination.

VERY.

LITTLE.

Here is my latest issue. Which was discussed at length today with my “kinder and gentler Mister.”

As we were driving along….there pops up a Hooters. Now, one of our missions on this earth is to find the best chicken wings. Granted, at home we are vegetarian / vegans. Out of the house we will go for fish or chicken wings, a pizza now and then. On a really bad day I will call home and tell him, “I need a cheeseburger…..meet me at …..”

THAT is my weapon of choice.

CHEEZZZZEEEE burger.

Just dip me in the blue cheese, and let me lick myself clean really. CHEEEZZZZZZEEEE burgers are my weakness.

Last meal on earth?

CHEEEZZZZZZZZEEEEEEE burger.

At any rate. We go past the Hooters, which I have been to numerous times before throughout my life span.

What is the deal though? Why is it…you get a Hooters with the woman in the shorts and tank tops.   Really?  I’d like a well-built man to serve me some time. He doesn’t even have to serve me a meal – just bring me drinks.

The Mister says, “Yeah it’s called Chippendales.”

No.  It’s not.  What I want doesn’t exist.  I don’t want the dancing and the grinding….that’s extra nonsense that detracts from the beauty of the body.

It’s embarrassing for him and for me. I don’t need that agony. Thank you. Or else he’s gay.  Or he has a girlfriend who is stalking him outside and the whole thing goes to hell in a handbasket in 17.4 seconds.

NO thanks.

Women have beautiful bodies. Soft curves. 

Men have hard bodies by nature. They are strong and protective creatures. I don’t want to see a man who pumps enough iron that he can pull a tractor-trailer – that to me isn’t attractive. You know the “Arnolds” of the world.  I don’t want to see the veins popping out of their necks.

That isn’t hot, sexy or anything in between.

I want a well-defined, nicely built man with a charming personality to serve me a drink.

Shirtless.

With abs.

And those nicely cut muscles along his hips……those ones…… you know the ones I’m talking about ladies.  Those muscles …..as a man would say, “hips I can grab on to” muscles.

M E O W.

Men have a plethora of bars, strip clubs, peep shows, restaurants …..all hosted by exotic women. Barely clad in anything resembling a uniform. Let’s not even get started on the magazines.

MEN!

You know exactly, what I’m talking about here.  You go into the club.  The ladies greet you.  A gorgeous woman give you whatever you ask for.  She smiles and asks how has your day been?  Hair is being flipped.  Eyes are wide.  Lips are licked.  Oh my.  Totally interested in you.  Cleavage is exploded, oh so sweetly.  Innocently.  A touch on the forearm or thigh.   Yes, whatever you want.  How was your day – oh that sucks….so tough.  A laugh and giggle.  Another big smile.  Can I get you a drink?

Jameson – check.

Double vodka – check.

Budweiser – check.

Chicken wings – check.

Completely and totally into you.  Whatever you say and ask for can be yours.

I WANT THIS!

Yet in reality…

What do women get?  Jack shit.

Certainly not the same level of peep shows, bars, strip clubs, restaurants or other establishments…hosted by nearly naked men. I am sure they are out there, but not nearly to the same degree. It’s no wonder women are going after the pool boys!

Why is that do you think? Men are visual animals no doubt.

The Mister says this is because, “Men aren’t going to feel comfortable going into a woman’s version of a Hooters.”  Yeah well you  know what men?  You need to buck up and grow some thick skin and get into the game.  Woman have had to fluff and puff, pull and tuck, nip and inject themselves to mold themselves into what you find sexy and gorgeous.

Grow a big hairy pair and get some fucking confidence in yourself and get out there.

You know who has confidence in themselves?

Europeans.  One word:  Speedos.

If you need the name of a great waxer, let me know.

Or, could it be that woman simply don’t have time for the lusty skin bullshit?  We simply have more important things to do? Would we rather spend our time elsewhere? We never gave that type of establishment the type of recognition it needed?

Or are we voyeurs behind masks of annonineminty? What the hell?! Imagine, if you will. …. If we were cut loose in a sex club. I’m just saying.  Chaos and mayhem.  Would you be the one hiding behind the curtain or jumping into the swing?

Look at all the bacholorette parties every year and the must have requirement: the for-hire male stripers. THAT says something. Open an old fashioned phone book and look up “escort” try and search for MALE. You’ll have to wade through 25 pages of female before you can find anyone sending out the boys.

You can pick out men with hookers more easily in a bar than a cougar with a pup.  WOW!

Honestly.

Whatever the reason, ladies, we need to be enjoying the view. Pure and simple.

Every day, I pass by giant billboards for mens entertainment clubs: Tootsies. Scarletts.

I pass by sex shops. There’s one the name just make me laugh every damn time, “The Sexy Box.”  Yeah, well, the only time it was busy was right before Valentine’s Day. The other I’ve seen billboards and have driven past is “Hustler.” You’ll be glad to know….they also sell….”couples” gifts. Well, thanks.

I’ve been in sex shops. The one thing I regret is I didn’t buy the penis straws when I saw them. Seriously. Saw them in Juneau – didn’t buy them. Now I wish I did. Damn.

HA!!

Ladies, The boys are going to “the bar” to watch the game. To meet the boys. To discuss a business deal. Yatta yatta yatta. Whatever, that’s fine. It’s their inner caveman coming out. Let them go and oogle. Fine.

Well you know what?

We may only get the pleasure of the ridiculously bad PlayGirl magazine. The yearly calendars with firefighters or the Chippendales. But….there is a great photographer out there….check him out.

Michael Stokes…..find him on Facebook  and his book on Amazon.com:  http://www.amazon.com/Masculinity-Michael-Stokes/dp/386787428X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347800523&sr=8-1&keywords=michael+stokes Amazon  Amazing.  It’s time to stand up and say

Yes, please, I’ll have a martini…make it a double.

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Bigger Boobs Please

nature-heart17

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone!

The “Kinder Gentler Side” and I went to dinner tonight at a local fish market.  Now before you get the wrong idea, it was one of those restaurants where you can buy your fresh fish at the front counter and then if you so choose….you can opt to dine in the restaurant in the back.  It was quite nice.  The best part….

They don’t rush you out to get the next couple seated so they can make their next $300.

In January, we celebrated our 9 year anniversary and went to Joe’s Stone Crabs – a hugely popular restaurant up on South Beach.  We had heard wonderful things about it so we decided to go for our special night out.  The food was nice.  The down fall?  From the moment you sit down they’re pushing you out the door.

No good.

If I am going to spend nearly $300 on a meal, I want to enjoy the meal.  This isn’t a Happy Meal.  We won’t go back.  It wasn’t enjoyable.  To be rushed from the moment your ass hits the seat to the time your dessert port comes – they should be embarrassed.  They may turn 600 tables a night but you know what?  If I’m paying that price for a meal, I expect it to take longer the 45 minutes.  I expect the wait staff not to push me through like candies on a Lucille Ball conveyor belt episode.   To me, it was a scam.

Tonight, we went to Fish Fish in Aventura.  It was great from the moment we walked in to the moment we left.  2.5 hours.  Our appetizer didn’t run crashing into our salad, which didn’t slide screaming into our entree.  It was fantastic.  It was a leisurely and enjoyable evening.  I was delighted.

Of course, tonight was also Valentine’s so you can imagine….the spectacle.  I saw it all.

Lots of jeans.

Young ladies in short dresses.

Middle aged ladies in short dresses.

Older ladies in short dresses.  Go Nana.

But you know what?  THIS is Miami.  If you’re a woman and you have a pair of legs, chances are, you’re wearing a dress.  Double chances are you’re wearing a dress that is a little ridiculous for you.

Miami is all about butts, boobs and fake…fake….fake….fake.

Fake what?

Lips.

Butts.

Boobs.

Hair.

Nails.

Cheeks.

Eyelashes.

Yes.  You read it….eyelashes.

You name it…..it’s probably fake.  There’s so much silicone on the escalator at that mall that it actually jiggles as moves towards Earth.  The damdest thing I’ve ever seen.  Woman are fighting the jiggle only to replace it with silicone jiggle – cause it’s so much more effective and “healthier.”

Well…. and you don’t have to do anything to maintain it of course.

Damn, I could have had a V8!

Or by this time a 48GG.

I digress, which is so often my problem.

Tonight, I saw all shapes and sizes.  Lady, please.  Don’t wear grey stretch pants.  Not now.  Not ever.  No.  The oversized black, v-neck tee shirt with flashy cowgirl type belt – DOES NOT HELP YOU.

Same goes for you sister, with the oh so small nylon white tank top.  If it’s cutting off the circulation to the upper extremities – and your neck and face is a permanent purple color….that is a danger signal…..not a mating signal.  It’s not attractive to anyone.  Not to mention having to look at your four rolls of fat.  

Michelin pictire of Michelin Mann by carlfbagge

I thought the makers of the Michelin Man advertising campaign only created the one that came with a penis.  Didn’t realize they also created one with a vagina.

Which leads me to say, men….if you don’t look good with a shaved head – don’t do it on purpose.  There are some guys who can pull it off and they look good.  Others figure, why fight the battle of loosing their hair so they decide to shave off whatever hair they have left.

The problem is… if you don’t look good, you appear like penis looking for it’s body.

Just saying.

(See, I digressed again.)

There are a lot of fake things here in Miami.  I’m sure there are lots of fake things in LA, NYC, Fargo…(ok, maybe not)….and other high profile cities world wide.  Juneau, Alaska – not so much.  Sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming.

Take for example, the other day I was at the Bobby Brown make up counter getting new colors and this young girl goes walking by who was gorgeous.  I admire gorgeous woman just as much as any man does.  I admire gorgeous men just as much so don’t get the wrong idea.

She was Amazon tall, helped by her 5 inch heels.  Long blonde hair.  Beautiful.

Then she turned around

Collagen-Lip-Injection-Freaks-1

WTF?  She needed to use one of those old fashioned phones that had an ear piece and a seperate mouth piece cause those things you call lips have their own zip codes.

It looked like she was wearing a pair of those wax lips you got as a kid.  Apparently her lips doubled as a bird perch while she was out in public.  They were enormous!  Who thinks this is attractive?  They were done up in a frosty pink.   It was ridiculous and she was barely 24.

Of course, my self esteem, all 5’2 of it,  just shot through the roof.  Thank you.

Boobs.  If I were to get something fake.  I’d get bigger boobs.

True.

I’d like to upgrade to grapefruits.

The couple that came into the restaurant last night and sat down at the table next to us – she had a boob job.  She walked past us and I gave Eric the “OMG WTF….look at this” look.  I couldn’t help looking.  Even after they sat down, I couldn’t help looking.

Her chest was so out of proportion to the rest of her body that he had to hold her up under the arm pit.  Mind you, I’m not even talking about a petite girl either.  She was a “big boned” girl to start with.

She wasn’t grapefruits.

She wasn’t watermelons.

She wasn’t even human head size.

She was mamoth.

Little green dress, low cut.  Which I get.  Show those behemoths off.

Trust me, I like to flaunt my oranges as often as I can…I get it!Every good artist knows if you’re going to show off your artwork, you need a good frame.

This girl….thought she was all that and she wasn’t even the olive in her martini. Her bra didn’t even fit right.  The band was so tight that it cut her boobs in half.  So it looked like she had FOUR boobs.  To top this off, there was the neck line of her dress….another line on her boobs.

There was so much silicone and boob bondage going on that she appeared to be a pregnant cat with swollen tits.  Stop it!

Just.

Stop.

It.

All I could think about is the man with her:  Tell me…you honestly think THIS is attractive?  Really?  Honestly?  She has to rest them on the table.

Girl.  Did you look at yourself before you left the house?  Did you get dressed in the dark?  OMG what the hell?

Did you seriously think this was HOT?  What magazine said buy yourself boobs that belong on an elephant and then stuff them into a bra made for a mouse….men like that.

Really?  I’m thinking every issue of Cosmo would advise against that.  If they did, it was in an article referring to bondage and they meant using red silk and satin ropes and ribbon.  Not for dressing up on a night out on the town.

I would much rather see the soft curves of a slightly exposed boob and the bounce and jiggle as a woman walks.  Not some mashed up mess inside the dress with sloppy spillage over the neckline.  It’s so unflattering.  Does 25 gallons of silicone even bounce?

I don’t care if you have treated yourself to a 46GG and think you are the most exotic thing since Marilyn Monroe.  You appear to be a cartoon. They’re disproportionate to the rest of you.  Did you consider that before you bought those missiles?

WAIT maybe that is what they are!  She’s actually a secret weapon of destruction.  25 gallons of liquid nitrogen.  Better yet, maybe they’re bullet proof and she’s a body guard.  Like Wonder Woman but different.

Nope, I bet she’s a fisherwoman and they’re her floatation devices.

She’s obviously not a stomach sleeper.

What would one do with those when you turn 75 and decide you don’t want to carry 20 pounds worth of silicone any longer?  By then your skin has sagged. So what?  You put groceries in there when you go to the store?  Secret hiding place for valuables?  What?

Wait!  I got it.  That’s where you will sneak in snacks to the movie theatre!

It was just absurd.

Don’t even get me stared on eyelash extensions….

Seriously.

Really, This Is Dressed Up!

The other day I was walking through our grocery store, Fred Meyers.  If you aren’t familiar with the store, you can literally walk in one side and buy your produce and deli items….exit out the other side with your new firearm and ammo.

I would say “fresh” produce but that would be a big fat lie.  Due to the travel time to Juneau, Alaska nothing arrives fresh.   Recently I’ve started to use asparagus as bows on gift bags….bendy and decorative… yet can be recycled into the evening’s meal.  You mean peppers aren’t supposed to be wrinkled up?

Anyhow, I pass by a guy talking on his cell phone and hear him say:

“I’m tired of dating girls that dress like men.”

Welcome to life in Juneau, Alaska.

I smiled to myself and reflected on all the cute clothes I have in my closet.  Strike that.  Closets….multiple.  God bless Macy’s and my dear friend Ginny….who keep me looking cute.  Big relief to know I’m not in the, “dresses like a man” category.  Then I realized, I was wearing my Carhartt jacket.    Well hell.  It’s warm.  It’s purple.  At least I wasn’t wearing my Carhartt pants at the same time.

In Juneau, dressing up means wearing your freshest flannel shirt, cleanest Carhartt jeans and newest pair of Xtra Tuff boots.  By newest, I mean the ones without the duct tape.  You could walk into any wedding, funeral or religious service wearing a combination of the above and fit in perfectly.

Sometimes, I can’t help myself.  Just have to do it….be a normal local.  Please note, my humorous foot attire for a winter ball I attended a few years ago.  Don’t worry, I did bring my heels and changed into them after the photo.  Only in Alaska…  And yes, quite a few Alaskan brides have had their photos snapped wearing these oh so attractive boots.

Honestly, you could walk into the fanciest restaurant in town and nobody would blink an eye.  Actually, that’s a lie.  Some people would blink an eye and would be shocked.  Those would be…

Tourists.

They’d be wondering what the hell was wrong with you.

Certainly they came to dinner in their linen pants (because it’s summer and doesn’t Juneau have summers like everywhere else in the world….warm?) and breezy resort shirt while reviewing travel guides and local tour brochures.  Here you come with your lover and look like you just got off a fishing boat.  The tourists are dumbfounded while sitting there all prim and proper, looking down their noses at you…. saying under their breath: This is a linen table cloth restaurant and they let anyone in here – can you believe it?  Those people look like they just hiked in from the back woods.  Must be a homeless sympathy meal.

I’m serious.

Recently, I was talking with a friend who had visited Alaska for the first time this year.  They commented on all the reality shows featuring Alaska now.  You name it, there’s a show about it.  Yep, people still mine for gold, fish for crab, drive on ice, get arrested, mush dogs and survive on the bounty of Mother Nature.  My friend commented how apparently some of the people in Juneau were obviously living off the land.  Because they resembled the people in the reality show:

Tough.

Scary.

Hard-core.

Only in town to stock up on supplies before heading back out to their cabin hidden away inside the forest or out into the sea for the next big catch.

Hate to break it to you my friend, those are just the regular locals.  Scruffy around the edges.  Yes, it’s true, even the women are scruffy.

I didn’t think much about the attire of our locals until I overheard that guy’s phone conversation.  Then I began to seriously look around at the people near me.  For example the other evening we went to a concert in town.  “Break of Reality.”  They were exceptional by the way.  Before departing the house, we both changed into nicer attire.

He wore a nice sweater and jeans.  I had on a cute top with jeans and heels.  As we sat in our seats, enjoying our glasses of wine I took a moment to survey the fashion scene.

What color flannel did you need?  We’ve got it all covered.  It was a virtual sea of flannel shirts.  Red.  Green.  Blue.  Mustard.  Black.  Amazing.  Quite a few women were dressed in what you’d normally wear to participate in outdoor sports.  Fleece tops and black cotton exercise pants.  Really?

On the other hand, there are people that show up to business functions and you can’t make up what they’re wearing for professional attire.  Recently I attended a function where a lady, who I was unfamiliar with, arrived wearing:

Purple sparkly sweater.

Sparkly black stocking.

Mid-calf black boots.

>> drum roll please <<

Black spandex exercise shorts.

Crap, now we must have an Alaska reality show about “What the Hell NOT to Wear.”

Yes, I will take that glass of wine now, thank you.  Did she even pass a mirror on her way out of the house?  What magazine said that was the new look for the 2012 winter season?  That’s at the polar opposite of wearing your pajama pants out into public.  And by public, I’m saying you’re where other people can see you, not just on your front porch waiting for your dog to piddle in the morning.

Since we don’t have a mall – there are no make up counters.  The concept of enhancing your features is akin to suggesting you reuse toilet paper. WTF?  Luckily, the salon where I get my hair cut has a great make up line and my hair stylist did my make up on my last visit, while my hair was “processing.”

There was another lady getting her make up done next to me.  She was amazed at what a little eyebrow definition can do.  I told her, the one thing I never leave the house without are my eyebrows!  Thank you colored powder and pencils!

Note:  It is the one facial feature I can choose to create every day.  Angry eyes.  Crazy eyes.  Shocked eyes.  Thin, thick, inverted V shape….endless personalities to choose from every day.

At the salon, I bought new foundation, eye shadow, eye liner and lip gloss.  The lady next to me was paralyzed with fear about the idea of purchasing an eye brow pencil.  “It’s just so dramatic.”  No, it’s just enhancing what you’ve got already.  Just like if we lived in a warmer climate, I’d be wearing tank tops that show off my boobs.  Similar, but different.

I am a girlie girl.  I like to get manicures and pedicures.  I like my hair to be done.  I like the color pink, fluffy things, glittery things and sparkly things (which could also qualify me to be a magpie…)  I enjoy dressing up and was probably living back in the day when corsets were a regular fashion necessity and Marie Antoinette was eating too much cake.

I’d wear giant dresses with crinolines and trains, silk stockings, button boots, powdered wigs and painted lips every day if I could.  Ruffles, pleats, layers and layers….oh my.  I’d need a separate carriage just for my dress when going out on the town.  Which leads me to the Wearable Art Show.  It’s the biggest fundraiser for our local arts council, raising tens of thousands of dollars.  For the last 5 years I have designed and modeled an outfit on stage.

Each year, my outfit gets bigger and bigger.

And let’s not forget my love of huge fake eyelashes, wigs and the 6 inch acrylic hooker heels.  Yes, I did purchase my last pair in a porn shop in Vegas.  They’re perfect!

Needless to say, it is that time of year where I have to start creating my next fashion statement.  So many people want to know the who, what, how, why….about this process, I thought I’d share my process with you through my blog.

I have a few videos of my performance from the previous years on You Tube – hope you’ll check them out and see what a great treat is coming up this February!  I can’t wait.

http://www.youtube.com/user/littleminxyAlaska/videos?view=0

Currently, I’m pondering my design.  As always, it will be a dress.  As always, made from throw away items.  And I’m thinking Marie Antoinette will be making a come back this year.  As for the style, I’ve got my history of fashion books down and tabbed…ideas are swirling around in my head like a vodka and tonic……

Put on your seat belt….we’re ready for the countdown!

Lounge Lizard Queen

For a big night on the town, here in Juneau, Alaska…we planned to have a nice dinner out and then head over to the show. When I told my mom a few weeks ago the Femme Fatales were back in town, she jumped for joy and said, “let’s get tickets!”

If you aren’t familiar with the Femme Fatales, it’s a draq queen show. The proceeds go to the local AIDS program. I love draq queens! They’re fearless, have a sense of humor and are slightly intimidating at the same time. Good for them! They also have great theme music.

Mom said she wanted to go to Zootopia for dinner. (Again, the name has been changed to protect the guilty.) I had checked, earlier in the week their Saturday dinner hours. The sign on the door said Sat: 4:00 – 10:00PM. Perfect!

Side note, I can count on one hand how many times I have dined at Zootopia. It’s too expensive and the service is slow. If the food is stellar, I don’t mind expensive but when the service is slow and the food unmemorable….that’s a double whammy. I’m paying your wages and you can’t manage to get my food out while it’s still hot? I’m not paying for rubber lamb – it’s not rocket science! I know this because, yes, I have been a waitress in a previous life, thank you.

But….Mother, insisted she had been here recently and had great food, service and a pleasant experience.

We wanted to arrive at the drag show early to get good seats, so we planned to eat about 4:30.

I want to be close enough to the drag queens that I don’t have to strain my neck but far enough away they can’t grind on me. Close enough they can put their head in my chest if they lean back, but far enough way they can’t sit on me.

Second row, second seat works perfectly for this! My better half, Eric, came with us and he, for obvious reasons, got the aisle seat.

The three of us walk up to Zootopia and open the front door. Nobody else is inside the restaurant. An older guy hesitantly walks up to us and gives us a perplexed look as to what we’re doing there.

He asks if we’re there to eat.
Ah yes. This is a restaurant right? Or is it a front for a gambling lounge and we haven’t provided the password yet?

He advises us they don’t open until 5:00, but if we’d like to sit and have a drink then by the time we’re finished we could order.

For clarification, my mom says, “so we can order dinner?”
The guy confirms and shows us to a table.

Okay, when we walked into the place and my gut turned on the “this is a mistake. Warning! Warning! Warning strobe light” we should have turned around and left. It would have saved us time.

But no.

We sat down.

At a table that came complete with dirty table cloths.

I’m not talking crumbs either. Full on oily stains and crusted over white shit that looked like dried up phlegm.

Well okay, let’s go ahead and see what happens. The young waitress comes over, completely dressed in black, like all hip wait staff are these days. She puts down, what I assume are menus, on our table and proceeds to pour three waters. I ask if she has a wine list we could look at….mistake number one.

Uppity waitress looks at me and says, as she’s pouring another glass of water:

“I can only do one thing at a time with one arm. The menu is right there.” And she starts to pass out the food menus.

Wow, really? We all exchange glances. I very graciously thank her for the menus…..all of them.

She departs the table and Mom says to me….the wine is expensive. I tell her most are by the bottle. We’re talking $40 and upwards. We continue to look through the wine menus and the angry, self-righteous waitress comes back to take our drink order.

I advise her we’re going to need another minute. She advises us that:
“If you want to order salads and spreads we can do that for you.”

Eric verifies what she just said and we did hear her properly:

Correct: we can’t order dinner until 5:00, but if we wanted to order salads and spreads off the menu, then the chef could do that. She said, “anything fresh like gnocchi is going to take until after 5:00.”

And before I could get it out of my mouth the surly waitress says, “He needs to change the time on the door.”

Well duh. Really? Now there’s a smart idea.

Eric, putting on his “getting ready to throw down” New Yorker attitude politely advises her we have somewhere to be at 5:30pm.

Hold on tight cause here we go….

Waitress: Oh? Where’s that?

Eric: The Baranof. For a show.

Waitress: What show?

Self: The Femme Fatales

Mother: Well, is there somewhere else open?

Self: The Gold Room at the Baranof.

I honestly think this waitress thought we were making stuff up so they’d be forced to feed us. Seriously? We have other options in this town. Watch us as we get up and leave…..

Needless to say, I won’t be back and will advise my nearest and dearest to do the same. Good customer service can make a world of difference. I suggest they start by putting their actual business hours on the front door.

So we left, ate at the Baranof and watched the draq queens walk by to the show room.

The show was a lot of fun – of course. I knew one queen….which was exciting. It was his first show. He performed to Madonna’s Vogue. See, good music!

My mother knew one queen as well. We’ll call him Roxie. He was the one responsible for getting this show started 15 years ago as a local fundraiser. I saw him perform 15 years ago and he was stunning. Gorgeous, couldn’t believe it was a man, stunning.

15 years, drugs and alcohol have aged Roxie into what I can only describe as an iguana in drag. Frightening. Gives whole new meaning to the term, “lounge lizard.”

I knew this queen was Roxie because the bartender greeted him as I was getting a refill at the bar. Immediately I sat down next to Mom, in the show room and told her who I just saw in the bar….

Hold on, the train is leaving the station and we’re gonna wreck.

One of the first performers of the evening…Roxie.

Teased, teased, teased, honey blonde long, ratted up wig. Long, tan dress with a slit up to the forbidden fruited area and beyond. Super cute leopard print high heels.

I’m thinking, whatever happens, don’t make eye contact. Scary. Imagine, Mick Jagger from the Rolling Stones, dressed up in drag.

After the Roxie performance, he continued to wander through the audience….showing off his legs and black underwear. Was that supposed to be a turn on? If so, I missed the switch.

Finally we arrive to the end of the show. All the performers are up on stage. Roxie leaves behind his seated leg kicks and crotch exposure routine and joins the group up on stage. She nearly nearly falls off into the laps of the front row. Luckily the queen behind her grabbed her by the waist and reeled her in like a fish.

We’re picking up speed and about to crash. Ladies and gentlemen, please put on your oxygen masks and assume the crash position. If you have a crash helmet, I suggest you put it on immediately.

The show concludes with a fabulous rendition of “We Are Family.” Everyone leaves on high spirits. Except for Roxie.

On our way out, Roxie is seated in the bar area. Mom wants to get a picture with him. It’s my suggestion we’re just happy with a snap from a distance. Kind of like, “don’t poke the lions” at the zoo. No, she insists.

Well Roxie, although unable to keep his eyes open any longer, or his skirt pulled together, eyes Mom and realizes he knows her. This isn’t going to be pretty.

I get my camera and try to get it focused on the two of them. He keeps wiggling in his lounge seat, trying to find a good picture position for us. Mom puts her arm around him and pulls the trigger.

Roxie screams:

“DON’T TOUCH THE HAIR!
YOU FUCKIN’ BITCH!
NO PHOTOS!”

Mom jumps about three feet and lands on me. I immediately turn us around and the three of us are bolting out the hotel doors.

Eric’s asking, “What did you do? Touch the wig?”

Apparently she nudged the wig when she put her arm around Roxie.

Damn, nearly gave us all a heart attack. Kind of like when you are walking through your house and your family member leaps out from behind the door, scaring the shit out of you…when you least expect it.

I nearly soiled myself.

I Won…I Won…I Won….I Won!

It doesn’t take much to make me happy….

Tell me I’m “East Coast Beautiful” – whatever that means.
Let me be right about something for a change.
Write on my FB page that I never cease to “amaze you with my creativity.”

Or let me finally win a place in the annual Wearable Art Show!

Finally, my fourth year and I managed to eeek out a third place win on day two! Yahoo!

Yes, I’m from the east coast, so there’s always that competitive drive that rumbles from within, however it isn’t like a blaring siren for me. You know what I’m talking about.

There’s the women, who at a baby shower, will buzz in to answer the Baby Jeopardy questions faster than an Amway representative can ring your doorbell with desires to talk to you about how you too can make millions.

Or the women who nearly knock out front teeth trying to get the stupid bouquet at a wedding. Really, you want to get married that badly? Wow.

The east coast is filled with what I call the “one-uppers.” That’s one of the reasons I left. I was exhausted trying to keep up with the Mary’s, Lisa’s and Cindy’s…..let alone what would have happened if I stayed, got married and then had to compete with the Jone’s, Smith’s and Wilson’s!

In the cheetah race of life, I’m more like the silent fox who waits on the side to pounce when the moment of opportunity aligns with my emotional well being and sense of humor. If Mary bought a BMW, good for her…but I’m completely happy with Norman, my fire engine red, Toyota Yaris….he’s a bad ass in my eyes. I’m not planning on being identified by the car I drive….it’s a car!

My perfect house is a cute Cape Cod somewhere, near the water, with a deck overlooking a private backyard, with fire pit, lots of trees and birds. I’m more concerned with having room for wild rabbits, porcupines and deer or bears than I am with if my yard is bigger and better than Matt and Kate’s next door. I don’t need a 5 bath, 7 bedroom mansion with gated driveway. I really want peace, quiet and privacy. Besides I don’t have to dust and clean….peace, quiet and privacy…

What matters most is if I enjoy my little world. If my world is happy, then I am happy.

So for four years I have applied my creative talents to this fundraiser art show – because it makes me happy. My creations have taken upwards of six months to create. The art shows cause me to go through the 3 S Program. I know you’ve been through this program as well. The 3 S Program: Sweat, Swear and Stress. Amazingly enough I think the rate of hair fall out has dropped dramatically since the conclusion of the event.

2010 Wearable Art Show

It makes me happy to create a vision. What annoys the hell out of me is when everyone isn’t treated on a level playing field. Hence the competition drive kicks in and I start to yell like a banshee. You see, each year a design is entered by The Wood Man. His designs are fabulous. Fabulous to the point of winning INTERNATIONAL Wearable Art awards. Yes, first place in the INTERNATIONAL Wearable Art Show.

You’d think he’d be given a private spotlight in our local show – to showcase his masterpieces – because they are quite stunning. However, no….he’s just another artist in the show, along with the rest of us struggling peons. Somehow, that’s not right.

The struggling peons should show with the other struggling peons.
We shouldn’t have to be crushed by the INTERNATIONAL winner and flatted like a stick of gum under a paving truck on a hot summer day. We have no chance when lined up next to the Wood Man.

So again, this year, I take my most fantastic self and design to the show. All along thinking: what is Wood Man doing this year? Just once let me fly past him like a lioness on a hot pursuit of an antelope dinner.

2011 Wearable Art Show

2011 Wearable Art

The show was fantastic! We raised thousands of dollars for the local arts center. I was having a ball of a time. My outfit included confetti cannons being shot into the crowd. I had a headpiece that was worthy of a Vegas show and an starting outfit that could have walked along with the Philadelphia Mummers.

Finally, I spy the Wood Man’s creation. Really? That can’t be right. Where’s the wood? What happened? Is that wire? Huh.

You can imagine the mayhem in my house on Monday night….after learning I placed third for the Sunday show. Cat hair was flying, heels were kicking up, small pets were scurrying for cover and shots of chocolate vodka were on high demand in celebration as I ran around yelling, ” I WON I WON I WON I WON!”

Sadly, The Wood Man did not place – on either day.

Did I mention? I WON I WON I WON!