So very tired. So much debauchery takes all my pizzazz, I tell you.
Actually, there was very little debauchery this weekend. It was very surreal, if anything.
We had a bit of a conundrum at Chez Weetabix on Friday night. Mom had begun painting the kitchen on Friday with what was supposed to have been White Orchid but somehow we ended up with Plantation White, which is apparently a fancy word for Urine.
I hate yellow. Thus, another trip to The $100 Store (aka Home Depot, but so named because it is a law that every trip will cost me at least $100, even if I only go in for light bulbs), where we walked out with three gallons of Ultra Pure White and another gallon of Ralph Lauren River Rock, which, due to its special designer foo-foo paint properties, is specially designed so you use four times more paint than normal to achieve the desired look.
I took Mom through Starbucks on the way back. I have an illness, I realize this now. A nice steaming cup of $4 coffee was the only way I could assuage my irritation over my home improvement woes.
Then, I took off for Milwaukee, making the 120 mile trip in 93 minutes, because I had to pee. Damn that bladder, anyway. Then I went to my new favorite mall, which was teeming with yuppies and their children. I ended up parking in what might have possibly been Illinois, conveniently the farthest possible point from the Eddie Bauer store, and hoofing it through swarms of women wearing DKNY and kicky eyeglasses. I, however, was already attired in my Rock Star clothing (well, not the pleather pants, because I just couldn’t see driving down wearing pleather while sitting on actual leather seats’ it just didn’t make sense to me) and felt very conspicuous, like a hooker at a nun convention.
I don’t think nuns actually have conventions, but work with me here.
I made it over to the Eddie Bauer store and picked out my lovely retro gigantic clock. I loved it even more than when it had been beckoning to me from afar. I stood in line to check out, grumpy that I would have to walk through the crowded yuppie infested mall back to Illinois where I had parked the Monte. I was grumpy that there was a woman with Meg Ryan hair and a Spiegal wardrobe arguing with a Eddie Bauer clone employee that the sage green bathmat DID NOT exactly match the Eddie Bauer sage green bed sheets. I wanted to scream ‘What the fuck do you care, bitch? Do you sleep in your fucking bathroom? When is anyone going to hold up the sheets to the bathmat and say ‘My goodness, these are just a hair off when viewed in natural daylight!’ because I was imbued with a whole hard core personality to go with my Urban Flava clothing. I had this strange urge to get my head bobbing from side to side and possibly hold up my finger and say ‘Mmmmm hmmmm’ in a manner that implies that I had numerous homies who would be very happy to pop a cap in their white asses, aiight?
After watching the sage green debate for several minutes, I grew disgusted and hot, unused to wearing so much unnatural fibers. I also began to have doubts about my gigantic clock. What if I bought the clock and then saw a better clock at Pottery Barn? Or my new very favorite store Restoration Hardware? I plunked the clock down and decided that I’d check out the other stores and if I didn’t find something I liked, I’d pull my car around to the Eddie Bauer store, parking illegally outside the door in the pickup area, and if anyone had a problem with it, I’d give them some hard core bling bling attitude.
Aiight?
You know, actually, I’m not entirely certain what bling bling even means. I’m so beige.
I ended up doing just that and now have a very large clock in my possession. And it was good. And there was much rejoicing in the streets.
Then, I drove down the street to a nearby superstore type thing to pick out a digital camera. The ones I was interested in were out of stock. They directed me to another of their chain, on a completely different side of Milwaukee. I managed to get myself there without too much difficulty and picked out a Kodak digital camera as well as the various digital camera accoutrements. Then I pouted and had Jamie, the Car Stereo guy relieving the Camera guy for his lunch, put it all together for me, or I threatened that I would call him from my cell phone in the parking lot and make him walk me through putting it together. The hardest part of the entire procedure turned out to be opening the blister pack that the extra memory came in. But Jamie handled it like a trooper. And I took his picture. Jamie rocked.
As I was leaving the parking lot, Mary Kaye called my cell and let me know that she had left her apartment key under her doormat for me and asked what I wanted to do that night, aside from Rocky Horror at midnight. I was pretty open, so she suggested that we go to the party of her coworker at a ‘really cool bar’. Ok, whatever, I’m pretty easy going.
I met her at her apartment and she took one look at me and said, ‘I don’t see any pleather!’ She then became a Fashion Nazi and demanded that I swathe myself in unnatural fibers from head to toe. She also assessed that my Doc shoes were not glam enough but since I had brought no other shoes and my feet are larger than hers, they would have to do. I whined about how hot the pleather was but she took a hard line and demanded compliance, stating ‘It’s not easy to be stylish!’. I sighed and gave in to her Rock Star clothing demands. Never argue with a fashionista, especially not one wearing calf-high glitter go-go boots.
We met up with her girlfriend Angel, and then set out upon what turned out to be a forty-five minute trek out of the fricking county to Germantown, in search of this party. After being amazed by the weirdly themed town (things are all in German! It’s so’ themey!), we finally found the bar in question. We walked in, looking stylish and hip and urban, and found that we were in what was essentially a really lame sports bar. Frat boys were playing Pac Man and Gallaga. There was an overhead television, showing’I kid you not’ figure skating. We walked in and found that Mary Kaye knew only the birthday boy and some folks who were leaving. The food that was so ballyhooed was cheese, sausage, and some cut veggies with dip. Mary Kaye and I each had two Blind Russians in quick succession and were immediately tipsy. We were so bored, Angel and I actually contemplated whether the icicles outside were real or just decoration (they were real). Eventually, we fled and spent another half hour driving back to downtown Milwaukee, listening to angry lesbian music the entire way.
They decided that a certain bar they knew would be fun, so we went there. Mary Kaye again played the little game where she didn’t want to tell me that it was a gay bar. Actually, it was a lesbian bar, to be specific. We went in and were met with the strangest sight. It was country music night at the lesbian bar, you see. Women were line dancing with other women. Men were two stepping with other men. (I couldn’t really take a picture of it because I didn’t want to get my ass kicked, but here’s an artistic interpretation of my reaction)
It was surreal. Country music is just so straight-laced, so missionary position. I have a stereotype. I realize that stereotypes, whether positive or negative, are not really an open-minded thing and sexual orientation is simply a characteristic, such as eye color or liking Brussels sprouts. If I noticed that many people with blue eyes had a contagious laugh, there would be no scientific basis behind that. I wouldn’t expect all people with blue eyes to have a delightful laugh. Some of them may bray like donkeys. I accept that. My brain understands that. And I have another stereotype that is this: gay people are inherently cool. Not cool because they are gay or in spite of the fact, but rather, they just seem to be a lot cooler than most folk. I’m not entirely certain why, but they tend to be so. Or at least the gay people in my life, anyway. They dress nicer. They’re hip, baby. They’re with it. They are the opposite of square. And they generally listen to cool music. They usually don’t don humongous Yosemite Sam ten gallon hats and two step to ‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie.’ And while I’m not saying that country music is not cool (which, by the way, IT ISN’T!!!) it’s just terribly’. I don’t know’ missionary position and voting Republican.
I’m so going to get my ass kicked by the Gay Pride Garth Brooks Fans for Pat Robertson contingent.
Anyway, we fled Country Night at the lesbian bar. Back in the car, Angel and Mary Kaye name another bar and we went there. Another lesbian bar, this one packed to the brim. I’m beginning to doubt the existence of any actual straight bars in the Milwaukee area. We stood in the middle of the room and were jostled to and fro by various lipsticks, butches, and gym teachers. Mary Kaye and I maintained our tipsy level but it was rather hard in the completely busy bar, where it took ten minutes to get a drink. I was sweating my ass off in my pleather pants and finally I declared that I needed pizza. Because I had naught to eat all day and if I was going to have another drink, I would have been knocked flat on my pleathered Hootchie Mama ass.
We went to a pizza restaurant near the Rocky Horror theatre and chowed on some fabulous sausage and mushroom pizza. Then we drove two blocks to the theatre (it was awesome having Angel drive us as it was very cold and she would just drop us off at the door and go and park the car). There we waited for an hour for it to start (because the midnight showing doesn’t actually start until almost one o’clock for some reason). Angel and Mary Kaye made out during the entire show. The cast member who played Dr. Everett Scott kept coming over and talking with me, at one point even caressing my face. It was a strange dynamic, being the obvious third wheel. I think he was totally turned on seeing two girls making out and figured I must be a party girl too if I was hanging out with them. Anyway, the Rocky Horror experience was awesome and honestly, more men should wear corsets and garters. It’s very hot. (Come on, did you really think I’d take a picture of them making out? Pervs.)
I didn’t get any pictures from Rocky Horror though, because my batteries, which had been in the camera for an entire three hours, had died and I didn’t think I’d need replacements THAT FUCKING NIGHT.
So after much driving and car shuffling, Mary Kaye and I went back to her apartment. I took the sofa this time, having driven her to it two weeks ago with my intense water buffalo snoring sounds. Her evil cat nestled below my ass as I slept and I was afraid to move lest she bite a very tender portion of my anatomy. Ever since the ass splinter incident, I’ve become very nervous about my fine round tush. Once pierced, twice shy and stuff like that.
We slept for what was approximately fifteen minutes when Mary Kaye’s alarm went off. She had to go sing in Lesbian Choir. She graciously let me sleep while she took off. I woke up, took a shower, packed up my crap, and watched what has turned out to be a traditional ‘Behind the Music’. It was the Cher episode.
Mary Kaye came home from church and we went to score some lunch at a microbrew pub downtown. It was a very strange place. Mary Kaye ordered a chef salad and was served this strange plate with ham, pita bread, pesto, mustard, cheese and a forty-two bean pasta salad. It was the ugliest lunch I’d ever seen.
We then went in search of cheaper glam clothes in the ghetto. When we found the place, I actually thought that the store was closed, judging by the actual pile of garbage in the doorway and the many bars on the windows, but apparently both features are permanent. There was actually garbage INSIDE the store too. It was unreal. ‘You dropped your plate.’ Mary Kaye joked with me, stepping over a paper plate about three feet into the store, complete with residue of some tasty meal long past.
We found that the ghetto version of the Rock Star store did not have the plethora of cheap glam duds that the Downtown version had. If anything, things were more picked over. Mary Kaye tried to think of a word and then waved it off, going into a dressing room to try on a studded pair of lowrider jeans. Suddenly, she yells from the dressing room ‘Desensitized! That’s the word I was thinking of!’ And I then received accusatory looks from every soul sister in the joint (which was everyone else but Mary Kaye and myself).
I ended up not making any purchases. MK bought a pair of track pants for $3. We then hopped back into the car and went to Krispy Kreme, where I scored several dozen doughnuts for the crew back in Green Bay. We then had a discussion about the ‘Bootilicious’ song. She was laughing at a coworker who thought the line was ‘I don’t think you’re ready’ I’m just chillin&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-. I explained that I had originally thought the line was ‘I don’t think you’re ready for six thirty’ but then I figured that they were saying, ‘I don’t think you’re ready for Dest-on-y’. She said that it was really ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly’ which apparently is a sexual euphemism that I never would have imagined in a million years. I wonder if people in the forties had these conversations about Frank Sinatra lyrics. After all the glam music and angry lesbian music, I’m going to be on a steady aural diet of Squirrel Nut Zippers and Diana Krall. I do have to admit that she did turn me onto this new song that uses the Price Is Right theme song. I’m all over that thing.
All in all, it was a very fun weekend spent with one of my favorite people. She reminded me that we’ve been friends for fourteen years, which is half of her life. Incredible, when you think of it. Because I’m older than her, she won’t be able to make that “half-life” claim on me for another two years.
Then it was time to depart. Before I left the city, I stopped in one of my favorite cemetaries and snapped a bunch of pictures. Then I made my way north once more. When I returned home, Esteban was helping our friend Phil demolish his century old kitchen which apparently was wired with electrified wire coat hangers and was about a breath away from going poof like a box of tinder. He’s going to help him again tonight. He’s such a handy man. Meanwhile, our own household dysfunction continues to rage on, but the bathroom is a lovely shade of light taupe, which has nary a tinge of yellow to be found. The kitchen is still being seen through Urine colored glasses, but that will be fixed as soon as I can empty all of the cupboards so they can spray Ultra White upon every surface imaginable. I envision a kitchen that will still be bright when I turn off the lights.
All the better by which to see my gigantic big ass clock.
Some other pictures:
Mary Kaye’s tastefully decorated apartment, with one of the three cats (Frantic)
Razzie… the cat who wants me dead
Here Razzie is trying to kill me as I watch a music video… I took a picture for proof
A picture I took of Mary Kaye when she was 18 as part of a photography art project
Ok, when I have unlimited photo ability, I tend to go a bit overboard and think everything is photo worthy.
Even Mary Kaye’s Disco Toilet Paper dispenser.
The cemetary stop (I still like to be arsty with a camera):
This bench was the only one in the entire cemetary which had oxidized… the rest had rusted. The thing that attracts me to cemetaries is the fact that they almost seem as though the world is black and white, so this really jumped out.
I really thought it was cool obviously.
This cemetary has incredible statues
This one actually had a reasonably fresh bouquet of flowers.
My absolute favorite Angel statue
