I watched a biography on RuPaul yesterday.
There is nothing I can say to follow that up. It just is what it is.
I’ve become one of those old people that I couldn’t stand when I was fourteen. I always wanted to smack those people, saying ‘Blue Oyster Cult is so OVER’. Get with it and listen to some Clash, ok? Get beyond your shag haircut and look into some Dippity Do.’ I wanted to throttle them with neon jelly bracelets and lace socks.
I made a mix cd set for a friend this weekend and realized that most of the songs I put on it were no less than ten years old. And I still think they’re cooler than anything that Eminem puts out.
Every time that commercial comes on for That 80’s Show, my head swivels around like a jointless Darci doll. If grooving out to Madonna’s ‘Dress You Up’ is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
If I ever need to be in a horrible yet non-life threatening car crash, the type which necessitates being brought into the emergency room where people named Howard need to look at my underwear, today would be a good day.
Not only do I look tres cool in my kicky new glasses, black trousers, Docs, black hooded vest and acid green turtleneck, but my lingerie is acid green as well.
But no, I’ll need to go to the emergency room when I’m having my period and am wearing old hideous bottom-of-the-drawer underwear. And my doctor will be Daniel Day-Lewis. Wearing buckskin, like he did in Last of the Mohicans. And then I will cry big sad tears because I can only maintain that cool chick persona one day a week and then it’s back to Wal-Mart mama whose kids have permanent Kool-aid mustaches and thinks Hamburger Helper is the epitome of fine dining’ who would pronounce ‘epitome’ as ‘eppy tome’. Or something like that.
But at least I look cute today, anyway.
Does anyone even remember those Darci dolls, the mutant Amazon Barbie wannabes? Mo and I each had a Darci. I had been shopping with my Mom and pointed out that I really wanted a Darci doll for Christmas and Santa actually brought me one. I was so happy. But then I noticed an identically shaped package under the tree with Mo’s name on it. And felt entirely screwed over. What good was it to have a cool fashion Darci doll, who was humongous and couldn’t even wear the Barbi clothes, but was neato because she was unique when stupid Mo got one too and instead we now had identical mutant twin dolls? Mo screwed up her Darci’s hair and then swapped her Aqua-Netted Truckstop Beehive Darci with my Smooth Lustrous Late 70’s Hair Darci. That’s because Mo has always had a touch of the Evil. I didn’t care. Somehow the gnarled hair seemed to fit her ugly stepsister persona anyway. My Barbies didn’t like her. They whispered about her behind her back. My Mo Better Darci would go to work as a chemist, having her fashion model dreams dashed by her tragic hair accident, and come home to the townhouse to find dirty dishes in the sink, plastic shoes, permanently curved and too small for her feet lay scattered around the house. She’d sigh. When Ken would come over, though, he preferred the company of Darci because she could bend in places Barbie couldn’t. Ken wasn’t dumb. He might have had only a plastic nubbin, but he knew that flexibility was important.
No wonder that guy in Alabama thinks I’m a freak.
But at least my underwear matches my shirt. That’s all I’m saying.
