This Is My Face

I had another post in mind, but then the cat threw up, and I had to clean it. Now I’m thinking something entirely different.

1. My hair has never again been as long as it was in my senior picture
2. The next year, I cut it
3. I wore makeup, though, for about another decade
4. Then, for some reason, I stopped wearing makeup altogether
5. I might wear a touch of Deb’s mascara, etc for a wedding or a big event
6. And then I look nicer, and people comment about it
7. But I don’t like it
8. I look younger than my age
9. People tell me that allllll the time. I heard it yesterday
10. I think it’s because I don’t wear makeup
11. (I do use all the other stuff, though, which I think is most important: gentle cleanser, clarifying lotion, moisturizer. Twice a day. I’ll bet that surprises you, doesn’t it, Reader?)

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Aunt Ed

You know, Reader, I’ve spent a few of the past days feeling under the weather, and on the way down the stairs this morning I heard myself making Aunt Ed noises (in Texas, this is pronounced Aint Ed). Aunt Ed was one of my three old maid, great aunts—my father’s mother’s sisters—Aunt Ed, Aunt Bird, Aunt Molly (Aint Ed, Aint Bird, Aint Molly…you have to say it right or you’re talking about strangers…you’re not talkin’ about my great aunts. Interestingly…when a Texan says “my great aunts” she’ll say it regular…like “my great ants.” But when using it to specify one great aunt by name, she’ll use “aint.” Got it? Good. Now we can go on).

They all lived with my father, his parents, his four bothers, and all the lost people my grandmother took in to live with her. It was a wild house full. Later, lost old people moved in to replace all the sons who were killed or moved out. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but it seems to me that all of this will eventually explain to me the person I am.

Aunt Ed (Aint Ed) made the absolute most delicious sugar cookies. She was quite a baker. Like most of the women in the family, myself included, she was stocky (Aunt Bird was skinny). Eddie (yes, that was her real name) made a constant “Eh-hem” noise. “Eh-he-hem. Eh-he-he-hem.” This morning I came down the stairs, and I sit now at this kitchen counter, making that same throat-clearing noise. Amazing how we carry our histories in our bodies like that.

Aunt Ed made those sugar cookies (below is the recipe, but be forewarned: They’re not soft and sissy sugar cookies…they take teeth), and she made that eh-hem noise; Aunt Bird was the family storyteller; and Aunt Molly literally went mad.

Know what I think, Reader? I think they were all gay. Three old maid lesbian sisters living their entire lives together in the same house; I’ve always thought that’s why Aunt Molly went mad.

Aunt Ed’s Sugar Cookies:

1 c. sugar

2 c. flour

½ c. shortening

1 egg

½ teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon vanilla

2 teaspoons orange juice

Form into small balls and place them 2 inches apart on a greased cookie sheet. Flatten each ball with the greased bottom of a glass dipped in sugar. (In other words, put Crisco on the bottom of a glass from your cabinet. Then dip the bottom of that glass in sugar. Then, with the bottom of the greased and sugared glass, press each ball of dough until it looks like a cookie. You’ll occasionally have to reapply the Crisco, and you’ll have to reapply the sugar for every cookie.)

Bake at 400 degrees for 10 minutes.

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Spandex No Longer Has a Place in My Closet

Levi's (without the spandex)

No more women’s Levi’s for me. Ever.

Last year I lost my mind and bought some women’s Levi’s. Don’t ask me why—I have no idea. But the Levi’s I bought have spandex in them. I don’t even know what spandex is, but it oughta be outlawed. It’s unnatural. I HATE these jeans. Jeans should not be stretchy. I’m uncomfortable every single time I wear them.

It’s my opinion that no self-respecting gay woman should wear spandex (and, believe me—I’m a self-respecting gay woman).

Hey. I wonder who’s idea it was to put spandex in women’s jeans in the first place. Maybe it was a ploy to help us lose a little self respect…it reminds me of corsets. And pantyhose. Ridiculous contraptions. Well, I’m rebelling.

Do you see those women on those horses in the blog header up there ↑? They’re all rejoicing that I’ve come back to my senses.

I’m heading back to the men’s department. I’m going to Sears. I may buy a new table saw while I’m there. It would be odd for a woman wearing spandex to buy a table saw. I can’t wait. Soon, I’ll look and feel like my old self again. Ahhh. :)

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What Kind of Respectable Gay Woman Doesn’t Own Either a Pick Up or a Hitch? Not My Kind.

This is my car. This is my car with it’s pretty new hitch. This is my scooter-hauling thingy attached to my new hitch. What you can’t see is my rusted-out muffler—which started dragging on the ground on my drive home from the hitch place. (Oh, I have a shiny chrome ball, too.) Yep. I can now haul all kinds of shit.

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Lesbian Cocktail Attire

I recently received an invitation to a 50th birthday party. And, let me say right off the bat, I really like the couple throwing the party. A lot. I meet them for coffee and for breakfast, and we visit. They’re smart and accomplished and funny. They also have a boatload of money and live in a really big house. And most of their friends have some bucks, too. That has nothing to do with why I like them…but it has something to do with why I can’t possibly attend the party—their invitation reads “cocktail attire.”

I mean, it’s a cool idea to have a little party where your friends are all dressed up. The problem: My dress-up clothes aren’t all that different from my work and church clothes. Which are a lot like my play clothes, only ironed. We always know when an event carries a little more weight than others because we iron the wrinkles out and a little crease in. I think it’s hilarious.

I told this story at work, and everyone there immediately Googled “lesbian cocktail attire.” And “Ellen.” I mean, we are a team of researchers, right? We can figure anything out. And there are a lot of gay women out there who wonder what to wear to a nice party. Or a wedding. We looked at the pictures.

I just have to say that you can spot a lesbian at a cocktail party no matter what she’s wearing. And that’s not a bad thing. Frankly, I really like being that woman.

I long ago stopped wearing dresses. I know the exact moment I came to this decision, and I’ve not looked back. Me in a dress is not right, and I’m not compromising on this one. (A few years ago, after they returned to live in Texas, my mother tried to talk me into taking one or two of her fur coats. I swear, she could not understand why I wouldn’t be dying for one. Mother, I said, do you have no idea who I am?!)

Anyway, I just sent my regrets on the birthday party. I do look really cute in some pants and a shirt I got at Nordstroms, but I’m not sure the orange Keens I like to wear at this time of year would go over well among the heels.

Lesbian Cocktail Attire

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Women Want Me, and Fish Fear Me

We have not yet turned on our air conditioner.  And it’s hot. And last night there was only fitful sleep. I’m not exactly sure why we postpone this each year…although there’s something really nice about having the windows open.

We played golf yesterday, and it was one of those humid days that simply sucks the fluids right out of you. I mean, all of our shorts were sagging; I rolled mine up to get a little more breeze. Mary (of Mary and Tommie) said something about naked golf…oh boy, that would be something ugly. I sweat so much yesterday that the adhesive keeping the tube from my insulin pump inserted in my abdomen deteriorated. We drank water like fish. And all we wanted by the end of the round was a big salad and iced tea (Well, I also wanted pizza).

As we were putting our clubs back in the car, two gay women we don’t know were getting their clubs out of their cars. How do we know they are gay? You just know. Anyway, another gay woman drove up and sat on the edge of her trunk and started putting her shoes on. We all sort of nodded to one another in recognition.Then, one of them said to the others, “Women want me, and fish fear me.” We all just cracked up together. I would like to have played a round of golf with that group.

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No Self-Respecting Gay Woman in the World

In anticipation of my week at the ocean, I got my hair cut yesterday…it had become a little shaggy and wild around the ears. The woman who does my hair has done it for a number of years, but I always come out of there looking goofy. This time, because a number of people have suggested I give it a shot, I asked Dena to make me look like Ellen. Well, today I don’t look any more like Ellen than I did yesterday. You know…hair all feisty and messed up and casual—to go with the tennis shoes and those  funky dance moves.

My hair is always all messed up, but it’s also always straight and flat. My whole life it’s been this way, so why on earth would I think one day it’ll look like Ellen. It doesn’t matter. I just put some kind of helmet on it everyday and sweat away, and what hair can actually hold up to that? On the other hand, my scooter-riding friend, Laurie, looks really good when her helmet comes off.  She looks a little like Ellen…maybe cooler. She is kick-ass cool.

Maybe Dena—the hair stylist—doesn’t get “gay.” Yes, I want to look gay…I am gay, so let’s just get frank about it. But I want to look gay the way Laurie and Ellen do…like, I can wear a helmet and when I take it off I’m gonna look like the coolest person in the world, and you’re gonna want to hang around with me until the cows come home.

So, Dena left these longish little hairs right around my ears…I’d call them “tendrils.” What the heck?! No self-respecting gay woman in the world would head out of town with tendrils, so I’m cutting them off today myself.

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