On Saturday, I decided to take myself out for a drive to see color, and not men of color as I did Friday, but rather reds and yellows. And I mean leaves. I'm not dating the Wee Pals all of a sudden.
Would you like to know who my number-one fan is, over here, for thinking of Wee Pals? You're looking at her. I am so opening up my heart and letting myself in. Spread your wings and let me come inside.
It's a wonder I turned out at all, with songs like Tonight's the Night playing on my transistor radio while I sunned to make myself look 50 at 13. Say, good influence, Rod Stewart! Do you know what annoys me about that song? Don't say a word, my virgin child/just let your inhibitions run wild.
If your inhibitions are running wild, then you're really really inhibited. Why would you get her all drunk and loosening up her pretty French gown if the next step is to make her inhibitions run wild?
Anyway, back to how much I love myself for thinking of Wee Pals. To celebrate my love for me, I took myself on a long drive Saturday, to look at leaves, and I made the deal with myself that any little town that had an appealing name and/or sign, I'd stop off. I popped into antique shops like a gay couple, and I walked down main streets. I took pictures of anything that struck my fancy, which you'd think would mean I mostly took pictures of m'self.
WELL I DIDN'T. Dick.
Really, I had a fine time, and I let my inhibitions run wild. I took myself upstairs before the night got too old. Like Rod Stewart was when he was bagging that poor drunk virgin.
But here's where I made my mistake. My error of my ways, if you will. Because while driving down country roads and enjoying leaves and smiling at the FUCKING INSANE PEOPLE you find in every small town was a delight, on the way back I decided to pop in to Winston-Salem.
Okay, Winston-Salem wasn't all bad. I did see this drag queen dancing outside a store, singing to ABBA, which is about as good as it gets for me. It's the free-kitten-with-your-nose-job day that I dream about, really.
But Winston-Salem was our joint, Ned's and mine. I walked past bars where we had big talks, and restaurants where Ned got goddammit-good pieces of fish and so on. There's one bar we went to early in the relationship where I asked him who the love of his life had been. "I believe the love of my life is still ahead of me," he said, and since I was already FUCKING CRAZY about him at that point, I remember silently praying, Let it be me, let it be me, let it be me.
And it was. But now it isn't.
So. Yeah. Crap.
But I did find this tiki bar that I've never been to, and hashtag goals. So wanna go there soon! Who's in, from real life? Who's driving? It sure as hell ain't me, if there're mai tais involved.
That night, my friends asked me to go to the gay bar, and you don't have to ask me twice. Behold my gay bar makeup, but not my outfit. Although I'd make a fine lesbian, my Michigan State sweatshirt is not what I sport on a Saturday night.
I got the text that everyone was gonna be there at 9:00, so because I am super cool and all, I got there at 9:05. You know, to seem not eager.
Nine at night in gay time is like 3:00 in the afternoon for you and me. I was the SECOND PERSON in there. There was one rather terse lesbian attached to her phone, then me and the two bartenders. One was dressed as a woman with electric-blue pointy nails. Why are pointy nails the shizz now?
The other was wearing the teensiest shorts imaginable. That was it. Maybe he had on shoes, but honey, I was not looking for shoes. Holy god, he was lovely.
The two of them were chopping fruit, literally and figuratively. They were talking shit about all the other gay boys who work there, and I really should have gotten my pen, because they were hilarious, and they were killing me with their bitchy talk and I should have gotten it all down. As it was, I told them, "I don't care if no one shows up for the rest of tonight. I could sit here and listen to you two till close."
And right then is when my tenant walked in.
You know how some people you see everywhere? My tenant not only dwells, you know, in my home, she then got a job at my job, and then I see her at Target, at restaurants, and now she sees me alone at a gay bar.
"I'M NOT A BIG LEZ!" I screeched to her across the room, something that probably delighted Terse Lez in the corner. Why go to a bar if you're just gonna look at your phone all night? What could she have been looking up? Photos of her living room? I mean, go home, cranky lesbian.
Of course, she was the only actual homosexual patron thus far at a, you know, gay bar, so maybe this is what pissed her off. My tenant was there for a bachlorette party, and they'd just been to a two-hour pole dance class. Eventually, the drag queen mistress of ceremonies at the bar, who is hilarious too, insisted that the bachlorettes all get on the pole on the dance floor and show us what they learned, which was fabulous.
The bride-to-be had a large curly straw for her drink that spelled out "Bride," and it dawned on me to get one and sit alone in my house, drinking wine through my Bride straw. I'm trying to go for the Most Pathetic 2015 award. How'm I doing?
"Y'all got more dick straws?" the mistress of ceremonies called out to my tenant's table at one point. "The guys in back want all your leftover dick straws if you've got 'em."
There was a drag show, of course, and I just noticed I captured my tenant's table and some of the dick straws. Look at June, bringing it all together with her fine photography.
Eventually, my friends did show up, and I was--well. I was gonna say way less pathetic, but really I was slightly less pathetic than when the evening began. I was still a 50-year-old straight woman in a gay bar, with no love in sight and a hankering for a dick straw. So.
I'd better go, and do my real-life things, and stop telling you about my weekend, which was, you know, okay.
I've been wanting to mention to you that Kaye's house has a front door and a back door, which unless you live in an igloo, is probably the case with all of us. We got any igloo dwellers in da howse? You chillin' back at your igloo?
The point is, as soon as we got here, I took Lu and Eds right to the back door and let them out. And since then, every time. EVERY.TIME. I ask those dogs if they want to go out, Lu trots to the back door and Edsel noses the front door. Every time. He never catches on. I mean, I guess I should be grateful he knows that at least one door exists and that it goes outside. Still.
Poor Edsel.
Talk to you later, wee pals.
JOOOOOOON
