My feet hurt all the way up into my womanly parts.

So last night's Christmas-drag-mandatory birthday party was a blast -- once I finally picked an outfit. I'd previously purchased this plum evening-length thing with a clingy metallic bodice, but it wasn't fabulous enough. Then during yesterday's errands I stumbled upon the perfect top: a clingy winter-white fake-cashmere sweater with fake marabou around the neck and wrists -- the perfect foundation for the woman who has no clue what her clothes say about her. I also got some kick-ass heels at DSW: black suede with demure straps and wicked Cruella points. Keith lent me a saucy black skirt and I added a hideous glass-grapes-with-angel-head ornament on a chain and a poinsettia napkin in my wig, and Heidi Holes was all set to spread Christmas cheer as only she can.

So about 12 of us tottered into Pepper Lounge in our heels and fake bosoms last night and just took over the place. It's funny how everyone wants to chat you up when you look like a tragic hooker with a bad case of linebacker shoulders. And after much eating and drinking and picture taking, some of us tottered off to Sidetrack to show off our finery, and we all eventually crashed at Keith's to de-drag and rub our tired feet.

Who knew Heidi and I would have so much fun? Who knew heels that look so fierce could make your feet hurt like they've never hurt before?