Flashback Friday: Bow Ties And Billowy Pleats Edition

This—THIS!—is what I thought was acceptable attire for setting foot in Washington DC's Kennedy Center to see Tyne Daly in the 1989 revival of Gypsy. (Early non-linear side note: You never forget your first Gypsy. And while I don't l-o-o-o-o-o-v-e the show like other card-carrying-Platinum gays, I still love Tyne Daly as Rose more than any other women I've seen in the role since then. And that includes Patti. Because she's never met a vowel she couldn't chew into a meaty, puddingy, distractingy triphthong.)

Anywho ... THAT OUTFIT ...

Nothing says "I sit down to pee" quite as efficiently as a bow tie. I taught myself to tie a bow tie when I was in high school, while all the other kids were doing more useful things like—oh, I don't know—hanging out with each other and forming meaningful friendships. I thought my little Madras plaid bow tie made me look so throwback-non-conformist hip 'n' cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one my gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like the much-ballyhooed-about-to-be-launched Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. And as we all know, efficiency is the DNA of questionable fashion. You can't see it clearly here, but I also had a coordinating Madras plaid watch band. As in a bow-tie-matching watch band made of sweat-absorbing-and-quickly-gross fabric. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! I somehow decided it was totally-probably-sexy-cool to wear it with the watch face ON THE INSIDE OF MY WRIST. Because WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? And let's not overlook those voluminous pleated khakis—not that we could ever tear our eyes away from the uncharted galaxies of animal-balloon space they occupied around my wispy little goblin hips. They were from The Gap, see, and I'd had a bit of an inferiority complex as a younger person that—and I am not making this up—made me feel not cool enough to shop at The Gap. I'd literally walk by it at the then-fancy Westdale Mall and feel awkward and panicked and a little bit resentful. Do not fear: My therapist has been alerted. Anyway, one fateful day I scrounged up the courage to wince timidly into that Gap and find the men's section (which in the gender-bendy '80s wasn't clearly delineated to me as I entered the store) and immediately found these dream pants with all their essential dream details: classic khaki coloring, heavy cotton poplin (a natural fiber! in the '80s! I KNOW!) (also: like every socially awkward fashionista, I knew what poplin was as a young gaylet ... and why it was more laid-back-casual-and-therefore-better than twill) (also: twill is for librarians who aren't allowed to sit with the other librarians at lunch), voluminous pleats, super-dramatic taper, securely tacked ankle-strangling cuffs. TOTAL MEGA COOL-KIDS FASHION. And I'm pretty sure I was wearing my white suede bucks with red fake-rubber soles with them. Because PLEASE BEAT ME UP I'M SUPER '80s GAY.

So let's review:

Face-swallowing glasses + perfectly puckered plaid bow tie + inside-out sweaty watch + pleats with their own ZIP codes + legs tapered in the shape of super-pointy ice-cream-cones = man who goes to the theater to see angsty-gay-anthem-filled musicals with his mom. Every time.

Monday errands

1. When I make a friendly, chatty Jake JokeTM to you, Mr. Menards Return Desk Guy, in the course of our business transaction, it is customary that you actually NOT look at me as though I had just punched my arm down your throat, grabbed your vestigial tail and yanked you inside out. The Bare Minimum Of Customer Service Handbook CLEARLY AND UNAMBIGUOUSLY STATES that you owe me a wan smile of acknowledgement.

2. Dear extremely handsome guy behind the Menards paint counter: In your obstinate refusal to make eye contact with ANY customers, you missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have me ask you to show me your caulk.

3. I got a haircut that is both au courant and Hello, Dolly! period-appropriate.

4. If you’re missing your pastel ear plugs, they’re by the cart return in the west-side Menards parking lot.

I’m going to make “harder to find than the peanut butter at the west side Walmart” a common phrase in the popular English lexicon if it’s the last thing I do

(It’s by the tea. Because why put it by the bread LIKE IN EVERY OTHER GROCERY STORE IN THIS AND ALL OTHER GALAXIES?)

Also: I accidentally hit the wrong button at the gas pump and now my car is purring along on way fancier gas than it’s used to. I’m already scorning all you gutteral commoners and your sad little budget gas.

Books I have recently purchased, in alphabetical order:

• Debussy: Favorite Piano Works
• DO NOT LAUGH IT’S FOR BUILDING DEXTERITY AND TECHNIQUE YOU PERVERTS
• Gershwin: Three Preludes for the Piano

There will be light

My prize liquid-mercury lamps—the only good thing to come out of a dumpster-fire rebound relationship when I found them on one of the little shopping sprees we took together because at least when I was using my credit cards I was interacting with something capable of sustaining a healthy, mutually meaningful, not-shit-crazy-psychopants relationship—are finally out of storage and placed where I’ve long been envisioning their deep-glimmer awesomeness against my new rich-people-blue walls.

And ... meh.

Maybe it’s the relentlessly cruel sunlight screaming through those tiny windows that’s killing the mood. Maybe my freshly Liquid Golded shelves need to tone down their competing shimmer with a healthy layer of dust. Maybe the lamps need a few little knickknacks to tower over in an act of passive-aggressive alpha-lamp dominance.

So ... the four important takeaways here are: 1) another bedroom wall is finally touched up and inspected and back to being hidden behind furniture, 2) I got more crap out of my storage unit, 3) meh, and 4) all this hard work is HARD.

Walgreens run!

ONE: The good news is our smoke detectors are capable of blasting sound to every corner of the house.

The other good news is it’s not a house fire that alerted us to this fact.

The bad news is (at least) one of the batteries died in (at least) one of the smoke detectors scattered around the house and its little chirpy alerts so effectively broadcast that news that we can’t pinpoint which one (or ones) is (or are) doing all that GODDAMN CHIRPING.

So ... it’s Everybody Gets A New Battery Day!

TWO:I just had the neurologist appointment that I scheduled three weeks ago at the height of my headache nightmare, and he officially undiagnosed my occipital neuralgia and told me I’d just experienced a plain old boring migraine. Which is so unglamorous that it robs me of the sense of exotic purpose to which I’m entitled. Anyway, he said that for now I should just keep plain old boring OTC migraine medicine on hand to stop the next one (because apparently there will be many more next ones) when it starts and to call him if things get worse.

THREE:No trip to Walgreens even counts if you don’t leave with a package of Chips Ahoy!

In the midst of all my heartless, unsentimental purging of once-beloved shoes and clothing

... I may or may not have just ordered some pride apparel I totally don’t need.

Our revels now are ended,

... but not before I stopped by our friendly neighborhood Dick’s Piggly Wiggly (which is apparently now Tammy’s Piggly Wiggly but I’m a Piggly-Wiggly-giggly little middle-schooler so I’m gonna stick with Dick’s) to stock up on klarbrunn—which sounds so European! without garish American capital letters even!—sparking water. (I heartily recommend the blueberry/passionfruit flavor. That is if you can find any; I just bought the entire stock of it.)

Now I’m back on the road with my Broadway podcasts and my cigarette-lighter-radio-broadcast-thingie and my carbs coma and my birdie videos and my happy memories.

And my full tank of gas this time.

Three things I’ve done tonight:

1. Photographed a tree:

2. Split a hosta:

3. Purchased a gorgeous new tablesetting and grippy placemat for Bitch Kitty to replace the ratty old plastic bowl she kept pushing next to the litter box and presumably filling with poop dust every time she buried a treasure:

Happy birthday to my mom!

Happy 78th birthday to my tirelessly awesome mom who--not to make this about me after only nine words--has made it her personal mission to coordinate doctors, dole out ever-changing (seriously--they have a history of changing pretty much every week, though they seem to have leveled out for the time being) prescriptions, endure hours of medically related on-hold music, battle insurance companies, dig deep into online drug-interaction research, and sometimes just pour orange juice and fold laundry for her eternally grateful--though sometimes exhaustedly unable to show it--big ol' bipolar son, who undeniably couldn't survive this train ride without her.

When she's not enjoying that little hobby, she's a devoted grandmother to the--and I swear I'm being empirically objective here--smartest, awesomeist, above-averageist, talentedist children ever to exchange inappropriate texts with their compulsively corrupting uncle who once again managed to make this tribute about himself. She and my dad are also emotional and moral and eternally inspiring community pillars who waste no time securing donated coats or shoes or furniture or shelter or food or transportation or bipolar-caregiver emotional support for sometimes complete strangers who desperately need it. In that vein, she also sometimes brings unnecessary butter to my sister's house; buys my dad an ever-expanding library of V-neck sweaters in a gradient palette of dark dad colors; dotingly acquiesces to our relentlessly bellicose cat's increasingly finicky tastes in wet food, blankets and inconvenient places to vomit; and occasionally indulges herself in post-season vests from the Talbots clearance rack. She loves her family unconditionally and we love her unconditionally back, even though she dances with her wrists out and puts onion salt in everything she cooks.

Last year she celebrated being a 40-year breast-cancer survivor, and I'm posting this picture from her everyone-had-to-wear-pink 30-year survivor celebration not because we all look young and attractive in it--but now that you mention it, I guess we do--but because it radiates the profound joy she brings to her family, her community and everyone she comes in contact with. Except the cat, who demands that her tuna be prepared only with the white sauce from the pink can, which is laboriously difficult to find.

Does the world really need 13” of receipt for a 24” level, Home Depot?

Leg Day in cheap, ill-fitting track pants is more miserable than Melania on Smocking Hamburder Night

I’d like to think my pants are all bunchy in all my uncomfortabunchy zones because of my mighty man quads and cantilevered cantaloupe calves, but it’s really because I was a big Clearance Clarence who was reeled in by the racing stripes. These stupid pants are tailored for cartoon ostrich legs, and they’re literally compromising my manly squats.

But they have pockets!

In other news, my Graffiti Wonder Woman shirt hasn’t sparked a single conversation about which is the definitive cast recording of Sondheim’s Follies. (It’s a tossup for me between the OBC and the Papermill Playhouse. Any other opinion is invalid.)

Things I’ve accomplished today:

• Had my first formal voice lesson in 30 years, and already determined some bad habits I can start working on unlearning
• Went to Target and bought only what was on my list
• Did my first leg workout since I started running last spring ... and freaking KILLED my legs without sacrificing proper form
• Accepted a very romantic marriage proposal from one of my 934 freakishly hunky gym crushes as all the rest of the guys in the gym struggled to mask their jealousy through forced smiles and wan applause*
• Attended a Full Monty line bash where I remembered more of my lines than I’d expected
• Sat down and actually played the piano for the first time in months as an overture (for lack of a less obvious metaphor) to my New Year’s resolution to practice with specific regularity
• Made it to my 11th day without having Diet Coke
• Wrote a blog post that doesn’t use the word “boobies”
• Oops
• Didn’t kill anyone intentionally
• Did some laundry without expecting a gold star on my chores chart
• Boobies
• Oops again

* This one is a total fucking lie

The last Elf bow has been bowed and Elf the Musical is now but a cotton-headed dream

We struck the set tonight as our final goodbye to our bejinglebelled adventures, and I have to say that the $6.99 work gloves I bought this morning at Walmart instead of having my oil changed there because nobody ever came to the check-in desk to see why about 10 of us were standing around waiting was the best $6.99 I’ve spent on myself in a very long time; I came home from strike with a satisfied exhaustion and no splinters or cuts on my elfin-soft hands.

Now on to my next theater adventure!

I fugue otta go shopping today, don't spend till you're Baroque

Sitzprobe (noun)

1. A seated rehearsal that merges orchestra, vocals and body microphones for the first time in the production of a musical; 2. A vaguely naughty-sounding German word that though it may seem so at first reading doesn't really lend itself to clever sexual innuendo and don't even think you're going to come up with the elusive and brilliantly definitive "probe" joke because millions of very talented and clever and profoundly disturbed actors and singers before you have exhausted every last possibility a thousand times over; 3. THE COOLEST REHEARSAL OF EVERY SHOW OF YOUR LIFE PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE; 4. I'm sportin’ my emergency new merlot-at-twilight-hued hoodie I just bought at Target because it’s damn cold today and I proudly but stupidly wore just my flimsy new Disney race shirt when I left the house this morning; 5. That has nothing to do with Sitzprobe but I didn't have any other place to fit it in today; 5. WE HAVE SUPER-NEW, SUPER-TECHY, SUPER-COOL, SUPER-LIGHTWEIGHT, SUPER-SLENDER, SUPER-SUPER NEW BODY MICS; 6. It’s too bad Andrew is always so boring and plain-looking:

I’ll take Things I Won’t Be Buying At The Galena Kitchen Store for $690, Alex ...

When you accidentally buy everything you’ve been storing in your Amazon shopping cart ... and the box finally arrives ...

When you’re shopping for fresh produce and your band name finally reveals itself to you, YOU JUST KNOW

New grey-blue countertops bring with them the responsibility to buy a handsomely coordinated enameled blue caulk gun

But let’s not kid ourselves: I’m telling you this only so I can say caulk gun on my blog.