Doo Wah Diddy, Diddy Dum, Diddy Doo.

I was brought up in the 60's and 70's at the height of the feminist movement. I was taught that women can do anything that men can do and that women are NOT to be treated as sex objects. It really wasn't that long ago that women had to tolerate sexual harassment in the workplace. There was no labor board to run to, the only choice was to "put out" or "get out". When I was young and cute, I was proud to be a part of the vocal minority who stood between evil and the innocent. I campaigned for gender equality and pity help the employer who DARED look anywhere below my chin when speaking to me. I pretty much scared the crap out of all of them, and sexual harassment was not an issue I ever had to deal with.

Fast forward 30+ years, I would love to be sexually harassed and can't find anyone who wants to harass me. I no longer have an ass you could crack an egg on, and my beauteous TaTas decided to run for the Southern border years ago. In my mind's eye, I fondly remember the group of construction workers who once sang to 20-year-old me as I walked past in a pair of cut off shorts: "There she was, just a'walkin' down the street--singin' doo wah diddy, diddy dum, diddy do...." I recall smiling at them, until I remembered I was supposed to be offended by that, and I put an appropriately dour expression on my face. That memory is but a delightful hairy dustball amidst the furniture of my mind. If there were a politician who lobbied on a platform of bringing back sexual harassment, I'd vote for them. If there were a fast food place that would promise to sexually harass me at the drive through, I'd drive through and through and through some more. If I could find an employer who would promise to pinch my butt at the copier machine every now and then, I'd freakin' work for free.

Oh, yeah, OK. Hear that noise? That is the sound of all my 20 something female readers, cocking their rifles ready to shoot me. THEY don't want to be sexually harassed and an attitude like mine is setting the woman's movement back 50 years, yeah, I hear ya. Easy for THEM to say, they haven't lost "it" yet. I understand though. Now, more than ever in the history of women's fashion, women dress more and more provocatively in the workplace, but expect less overt attention for it. (Don't miss my point here, if they are dressing that way, they want the attention, they just don't want the drama that could come with it.) On that note, I"m thinking that I should just stop talking now. "Never miss an opportunity to keep your mouth shut", I always say. "A closed mouth gathers no feet", I always say.

The truth is, I embrace my inner granny. I realize that I HAD my turn being young and cute, and that not everybody gets a turn at being either of those things. We woman who are over 50 may not have "it" any more, but what we got instead is so much better. We now must take a turn at being wise and wonderful elders of our tribes. Still, a wolf whistle every now and then would be nice.

Sue Cassidy, 52 and fabulous.

Part 2 in a series.

Be Careful What You Ask For. Part 1 in a series.

I recently had a bit of a writer's block, so I put out the call on facebook for blog ideas. I was thrown a few and picked the first one that jumped out at me, "Why I Love Drag Queens", and I discarded the rest of the suggestions. Upon reflection, isn't that the literary equivalent of "cherry picking"? Any writer worth his/her ink should be able to write about any topic, however difficult or mundane. The suggested topics:

James MacLean: What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their son's and daugthers being in Iraq and Afghanistan. I would be most interested in hearing that as California has always been referred to as the most free thinking state. (This from a man who wears a kilt in his profile picture. Who'd a thunk he'd be more than just a pretty face?)

Sandra Vallez: how cute she is, (her favorite topic)

Alex Cassidy: Why You Love Drag Queens

Janice Hansen: Mani/Pedi/Spa experience

To that end, I've decided to take each topic and write a separate blog as a series. It doesn't matter if I know nothing about it. If you can't dazzle 'em with brilliance, baffle 'em with bullshit, my grandma always said.

I'll start with James MacLean's thought provoking question regarding Iraq.

Blog Title: James MacLean: Talking to Americans

Many of my blog readers are Canadian and are familiar with Rick Mercer, the TV host with the funniest show segment on TV, called "Talking to Americans." It features Mr. Mercer talking to Americans on the street and asking them questions about Canadian history, politics, current events. The answers are priceless. Here is yet another Canadian with a big question for Americans: "What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their sons and daughters being in Iraq and Afghanistan?

I took to the streets, armed with a tape recorder. The first person I encountered was Miss South Carolina who recently moved to California to pursue a career in world peace. Knowing she is used to answering the tough questions, I said, "What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their sons and daughters being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" Without blinking an eye or missing a beat, she replied, "I personally believe that U.S. Californians are in Iraq and Afghanistan, and like, places, such as because some people out there in our state don't have maps; and our soldiers, like, such as in South Africa and the Iraq and everywhere like, such as, Afghanistan and i believe they should, our soldiers should, help Iraq and Afghanistan and the Asian countries, so we can build up the future. And bring about world peace. Thank you." I thought, "Wow. Smart. She didn't even have to THINK about that answer." I was off to a great start.

The next person I ran across, literally because his high heel was caught in a crack in the sidewalk, was Drag Queen Extraordinaire, Lady Vajayjay, a well known drag queen here in Southern California. Lady Vajayjay's male self, Vic Carmona, was discharged from the navy under the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy, so his and her political commentary was definitely something I'd like to hear. "Lady Vajayjay, What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their son's and daugthers being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" "Mother F**kin', spike heels!!!! How can I be my fabulous self when I keep falling in the sidewalk cracks! I'll bet those strong, handsome boys over in Iraq and Afghanistan don't have to deal with cracked sidewalks. Oh, GIRL.....can you IMAGINE walking in heels in the desert? Makeup would SO melt in the desert sun, but I'm SO PROUD of those big strong soldiers over there fighting for democracy and the american way. I just want to french kiss a soldier right now..." Ok. This was going well.

Certain that I saw Lindsey Lohan, I ducked into the 24 hour nightclub and found her starting a fight with the disc jockey. "Excuse me, Miss Lohan, I"m talking to Americans with an important question from James MacLean. What is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their son's and daugthers being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" She looked at me with her hair in knots and her mascara smeared and said, "I am happy to see California's sons and daughters fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. If it weren't for my father, Michael Lohan, they wouldn't be there. My mother voted for George Bush, so it is her fault too. And Samantha Ronson? That Patrone swillin' bitch, it's her fault that I'm not over there fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan myself. I'm too busy fighting HER skank ass self, I don't have time to be fighting there. Now get out of my f**cking face before I f**cking slap you with my oversize f**king Hermes Birkin Bag, Bitch!" This is great and THIS is why our soldiers fight, to defend our right to talk like that and to carry $10,000 purses.

I decided for my last interview, I'd have to find someone with some political street cred, some gravitas. I needed a political heavyweight. Just as I was about to call Oprah, I spied Barack Obama in front of the local mosque. "Mr. President, what do YOU think is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their sons and daughters being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" He stood tall and looked me straight in the eye (which is how I knew he was telling the truth). He replied, "That is the true genius of America, a faith in the simple dreams of its people, the insistence on small miracles. That we can say what we think, write what we think, without hearing a sudden knock on the door. That we can have an idea and start our own business without paying a bribe or hiring somebody's son. That we can participate in the political process without fear of retribution, and that our votes will be counted -- or at least, most of the time." People on the sidewalk started to clap and then I realized that he hadn't answered my question. I tried again, "Mr. President, with all due respect Sir, you didn't answer my question. What do YOU think is the overall opinion of the great people in the State of California of their sons and daughters being in Iraq and Afghanistan?" Once again, he squared his shoulders, and looked me STRAIGHT IN THE EYE, making me wonder if my eyes look like teleprompters. He replied, "America is a land of big dreamers and big hopes. It is this hope that has sustained us through revolution and civil war, depression and world war, a struggle for civil and social rights and the brink of nuclear crisis. And it is because our dreamers dreamed that we have emerged from each challenge more united, more prosperous, and more admired than before... YES. WE. CAN." At this point, the sidewalk assembly has grown and everyone was crying. Unlike our current administration, I know when a fight is over, I know when to leave the ring. Actually, I know better than to climb in the ring in the first place, if it ain't my fight. I put my tape recorder away. I just love talking to Americans. The End.

Cancer Isn't for Sissies.

Cancer Isn’t For Sissies

Posted by Breast Cancer Angels on November 16th, 2009

I know this photograph is hard to look at, but cancer isn’t for sissies.

This photo was taken some years back after my youngest sister’s mastectomy following her diagnosis of inflammatory breast cancer, a more rare and more deadly form of breast cancer. What I love about the photo is what it tells us about HER.

Always a free-spirited sort, the crystal pendant was a symbol of her new-age leanings. The dog tags, which belonged to our deceased uncle, an air force chaplain, symbolized her “foxhole conversion.” Facing possible death, she wasn’t quite sure where the truth lay as far as an afterlife went, but wasn’t taking any chances.

The crystal heart was her attempt to feminize what was left of her body, having survived the ravages of surgery, chemo and radiation. Most people don’t ever get to see what a chest looks like after a mastectomy, which is why I shot this photo. Well-meaning, they say, “just be grateful you’re alive …” and will not allow the survivor to grieve the loss of their breast. Yet, when people look at this photo, they recoil with horror and when I ask them what they are looking at, will say, “It’s a man’s chest, who has had surgery or an injury…” Think how that makes a young woman feel, she has to look at it every day and be reminded of what she used to look like before the doctors hacked, slashed and burned.

One of the many lessons I learned from my warrior-sister’s cancer journey was to shut up and just listen and to recognize that they will go through all the stages of grief over this loss, and on their “angry” days, they should be allowed to feel anger without someone minimizing their feelings by saying, “just be grateful you are alive.” Maybe they would understand the anger a bit more, if they could look at this photo.

A cancer survivor CAN be grateful and angry at the same time. Allow them that if that is what they need.

Really.

Sue Cassidy, Huntington Beach

Photographer, Sue Cassidy

Today I Speak Of Salad Tongs and Salad Bongs.

I've always enjoyed being a stay at home mom to my kids. Now that they are grown and have their own lives, I really miss the time I used to spend with them. Never mind this "quality time" bullshit, I miss the "quantity time." The long afternoons spent just hanging out doing not much of anything, but having fun nonetheless.

The two youngest boys, 20 and 22, are still living at home and I approached one of them the other day with an idea. "Scott, we are both busy these days, but I'd like to be more intentional about making time to do things together. What do you think about us finding a hobby that we could share that would take up a couple of hours per week?" He thought about it for a second and said, "What did you have in mind, Mom?" I had already given this a great deal of thought and was ready with an answer. "Well, when I was young, MY mom loved to grow things. We always had beautiful house plants and flowers and a garden. She actually owned a flower shop before she got married. I think it would be fun for you and I to do some gardening together." Scott had a bit of a smirk on his face when I suggested that and I know why. I've NEVER had my mother's green thumb. I've killed every live plant that has ever attempted to live in my house. Even my silk plants die -- of dust. "Gardening? Really, mom. Ok, let's do it. Can I pick out the stuff we'll grow?, asked Scott. Thrilled that he came on board so easily, I agreed and off he went to Home Depot to find some seeds.

I must say that this has been one of my better ideas. I found myself running out to our sunroom every morning to see if anything had sprouted and both Scott and I watered and fertilized and composted and tended our little plants like they were babies. Scott was vegan for a while and worked in a raw food restaurant for a bit, so I wasn't surprised when he said he wanted to start out with some fancy varieties of lettuce. I thought that was a great idea, as lettuce is wonderful for salads and sandwiches and garnishes. The best part? Scott says that this variety of lettuce can be dried and smoked! Isn't science wonderful? He says they make beautiful glass salad bongs, just for this stuff. Before long, we had a beautiful garden full of the most beautiful "lettuce". I can't wait for it to be mature enough to eat. Or smoke. Mostly though, I've enjoyed spending time again with my youngest son. Most boys would not think it "cool" to hang out gardening with his mother, but Scott's enthusiasm for this new hobby surprised us all. I would have thought he'd be embarrassed by it, but he's actually brought his friends over and they've actually admired the fruits of our labor.

The moral of this story is this: It is never too late to reconnect with your kids in a meaningful way. I often read about how kids these days don't want to do anything unless there is something in it for them. Scott and I are living proof that this is not always the case. Attached is a photo of our first crop of a variety of greens called "Devil's Lettuce." I plan to make a salad from it next week for a dinner party I"m attending. Life is good.

Girlz Just Wanna Have Fun.

Today is Wednesday. For some people, that signifies the mid-week hump. For me, it is the day my friend Christina and I hang out and have adventures. Our day usually involves a lot of coffee, a lot of shopping, perhaps a road trip to Beverly Hills, or a redecorating project. Today though, was GIRLZ SPA DAY. Christina loves the whole manicure, pedicure, facial, massage thing, and this day was entirely her brainchild. She always goes along with my hare brained ideas for our Adventure Day, so I decided to be open minded about the spa thing. However, you must know this about The Mama: I hate the very notion of being forced to relax in a spa setting. It is completely against every nerve ending that I have. I did it once -- the facial, the massage, mani/pedi. While the rest of our group came out gushing over how "relaxed and refreshed and 'cooked noodley'" that they were, I was AWWWWWWKKKKK!!!!!! traumatized. How can you feel "cooked noodley" after being tortured naked for two hours? I found nothing even remotely pleasant about the experience and vowed to never repeat it on purpose. I was so conflicted about the whole thing. "Feel the fear and do it anyway," I repeated. We booked a less invasive facial and a paraffin hand treatment, which I felt I could tolerate without the benefit of pharmaceutical bolstering. Of we went for Christina and Sue's Most Excellent Adventure.

My first mistake, I believe, was the seven cups of supreme, high octane coffee that I drank at Christina's before we left the house for our appointment. Her husband, Jason, makes the best cuppa joe in the world and always brews a pot for me on Wednesdays. I'd had a bad coffee experience earlier in the day at my house, which the term "dark crude" would describe, so I wasn't holding back on Jason's primo java. Consequently, as we entered the spa, I was totally freakin' wired. As we entered into the inner sanctum of the spa, we were immediately enveloped into the whispering candlelight and intense silence reminiscent of a Benedictine Monastery. Odd enough, but I was bouncing off the ceiling in a caffeine induced frenzy. I was talking a mile a minute and scratching my skin like a crack whore. What? RELAX? WHO, ME? QUIET, STAY STILL, WHO ME???? I knew right then that I was in big trouble. I knew right then that I was in big trouble. Trouble, trouble, trouble. MyMindWouldn'tStopRacingAndThey'dHaveToStraitJacketMyHyperASSIfTheyThought forOneMinuteI'dBeAbletoLayStill. One and two and three, deep breaths now, you can do this.O-K-E-Y-Y-Y-Y now. That's better. I'm ok....

Robe on, slippers on, more deep breathing. It helped that we were immediately directed to the "meditation room." It was something straight out of a Jackie Chan movie. Rice paper walls, bamboo, water trickling, candlelight flickering, chinese antiques every where -- if this wasn't an adrenaline drain, I don't have one. I stretched out on a leather recliner with a heated cashmere blanket, waiting for what was to come next. I was just hoping it didn't involve a SheMale named "Olga". Just as I was beginning to find my Chi, I heard a soft voice whisper, "Sue?" "AWWWWWWKKK!! WHAT THE F@#*!! I shot out of the chair like I was blasted out of a cannon. With heart palpitations threatening to end my life immediately, I sized up the Zen Master who was hovering over me. She was just a tiny little thing, not threatening at all. I like to think that I relaxed and didn't feel quite so "lamb-to-the-slaughter." Silently, she led me down a long, dark, candle lined hallway into the Zen Cave. I believe that Buddha himself was birthed there; silently birthed underwater by an appropriately mute chinese midwife. Hand motions indicated that I was to take off my robe and slippers and get under the heated blankets. HUH? I was thinking, "And you need me naked because WHY? for a facial and hand thingAmaBob?" That must have been when the mind control took hold, because I obediently did as I was commanded.

Everything was fine at first. She slathered smelly Peppermint goop on my face and then wiped it off. Then it was yummy Butterscotch goop, which I had only half licked off before she wiped the rest off with a hot, wet towel. Then she started rubbing my face with sugar, and I was SO diggin' this. I wondered, "what's next, ice cream and a cherry?" She still hadn't spoken a word up to this point, but I was beginning to relax when I felt something blowing on my face. DON'T TELL ME THERE'S A WHIPPED CREAM MACHINE!!! I opened my eyes briefly and was horrified by what I saw. There were two scary looking wands on metal stands, blowing steam or SHUT UP, maybe poison gas, towards my face! How could she be making me dessert one minute, and gassing me the next? I waited to be overcome by the fumes, and when I didn't die, I finally figured out that it was just a steam machine. How silly was I, thinking she was trying to snuff me out? That was so ridiculous of me. I have SUCH a fertile imagination at times. Sigh...relax, relax, relaxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.

I'm not sure which is worse, eyes opened or closed in such a situation. Figuring that ignorance is bliss, I opted for the oblivion that darkness might bring. A false sense of security is better than none at all. Next thing I knew, a bright light was eating through my closed eyelids. OMG. I'D READ ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING! They shine a bright light in your eyes and squeeze out all your secrets. No freakin' WAY was I opening my eyes. I was seeing red spots through my eyelids and was planning my escape route when Little Olga finally broke the silence: "You vont I perform exTRACTshuns?" HUH? She was straight out of central casting with this german accent. I wasn't quite sure what extractions she had in mind, since I don't have pimples, but I got brave and opened one eye. There she was, hovering overhead, staring into my eyeball. In my mind's eye, I had pictured a surgical mask under a set of devious eyes. I had pictured a large hypodermic needle glistening in her gloved hand, maniacal laughter in the background. In reality, it was just Little Olga, silently waiting, with a cotton ball in each hand. I managed to squeak out a "yeah, sure, whatever you vont..." The next thing I know she was squeezing my nose with all her strength. I couldn't breathe! Jesus. She was was trying to suffocate me! No way was I going to open my mouth to breathe, I'm not stupid. That is how they get prisoners to open their mouths for the water boarding torture -- they squeeze their noses! Just as I was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, she loosened her grip. She probably thought I was dead. Round One to The Mama. "You vont, I should do hydration treatment?" I KNEW IT! HYDRATION TREATMENT IS CODE FOR WATER TORTURE!! I remained calm. "No, " I squeaked. "just the the facial and the paraffin hand thing."

Let me say this about the "paraffin hand thing". I have never heard of such a thing, but Christina told me I should do it, and I trust her. Isn't a paraffin a large nosed bird that lives in Newfoundland? Maybe this hand treatment involved meditation and soft paraffin feathers massaging your skin. After Little Olga seared my face with flaming hot towels, (another failed attempt to kill me) she announced, "I vill prepare zee hond tleetment now, Da?" I heard the rustling of plastic and felt her approach, lifting my hand up and then it happened -- she plunged my hand into a bag of hot wax! I swear to you now, I jolted three inches off the goddamned table. She was freakin' trying to boil me in hot oil, one body part at a time. I felt my other hand being plunged into the second bag, and that is when I knew I had to make my escape. I bolted upright, and pulled my hands from the boiling oil. I threw the hot towel onto Olga's face (how do you like THAT, Nazi Bitch?) and grabbed for my robe. I ran down the darkened hall towards the meditation room with hardened wax hanging off my fingertips.

As I entered the Meditation/Survivor's lounge, I found Christina blissfully lounging in the leather recliner, sipping cucumber flavored water. "Wasn't that amazing?" she said sleepily. "I wish I could come here every day...how'd it go for you?" Feeling victorious over death, I said, "I can honestly say I've never had an experience like that. I just feel all cooked noodley."

On the way out, Christina booked us both appointments for next Wednesday, and then we went to Starbucks.

Squeeze My Freckle. Musings of a Desperate Housewife.

I just got back from the gym. As I was approaching the front door and was

watching all the activity inside, I couldn't help but wonder
what our ancestors would think about all this. It used to be
that people toiled from sun up to sun down, constant physical
activity just to grow their food, tend their animals, just to
sustain their lives. The concept of going to a building to
climb on machines that will force us to get exercise for 45
minutes, was an alien concept. That it would be the ONLY significant exercise we might get all day, would be somewhat amusing to them, I would think. Nonetheless, there I am with my Ipod in hand.The Gym Show is always worth
watching. The cast of characters which I encounter every day
is worth the price of admission alone. There is never a lack
of Mr and Mrs. Olympia types there, of course, with their
oiled bodies, sculpted abs, energy drinks and workout clothes
designed to show off the lean, sinewy muscle that they work so
hard to attain. There are just as many fat people working
out, which is good because fat people are the ones who SHOULD
be at the gym, not the skinny ones. (Just like churches.
Shouldn't churches be a haven of sinners, rather than a
museum of saints? I digress.) There is one old lady who I
see there every morning. Cute, cute, cute, in a Betty White sort of way. She is in her early 80's for sure, and every morning she is there at 6 am. She comes dressed to
the nines in stretchy slacks, a cashmere sweater, a lovely
scarf with a jewelled brooch and pearls. I am not making this
up. GodLuv'Er, she works out in freakin' pearls. She needs help
climbing on to the treadmill, but once she is on it, she just
jams. Two machines over poses the Nike Godess. Tall,
beautiful and blond, tanned and toned, I just hate her
gorgeous guts. She has that cute ponytail that sticks out
of the back of her baseball hat and it swishes left and right,
and right and left, in rhythm to her run. Her sweat glows and
smells like strawberries 'n cream. Every woman in the place
hates her. Every man in the place is scared of her. Consequently,
there is always an empty machine on either side of her. Would
YOU want to be next to her, invading her aura, being compared
to her? " Not I," said the pig, "not I,"
said the cow, "not I," said the fat, red hen. Contrast that with Mr. High Cholesteral on the machine just in front of me. He scares the hell out of me because I know he is going to have a heart attack right in front of me and I'm going to have to do CPR on his slimy, gelatinous bulk and the thought of my
lips having to force life-saving oxygen into his sweaty, unshaven
face is more than I can bear. Maybe he'll puke up the 8 scrambled eggs and plate of
bacon that he had before working out. Maybe he'll puke it up into
my mouth as I try to save his sorry life. I think about that.

GASP. Somebody shoot me, but there he is, wearing what appears to be
a woolen sweat jacket and long sweat pants and he is walking with the
machine on a steep incline, but he keeps slipping on his own sweat and groaning with each step. I want to speak to him about gastric bypass or methamphetamines, both better alternatives to diet and exercise, if you want my honest opinion. (I'm
not fat enough for gastric bypass and too broke for a drug habit, or else I'd practice what I preach.) In any event, I'm certain that one of these mornings, he is going to die on that machine. I hate watching him, but he is directly in
front of me, so whattygonna do? He does provide some entertainment though because every now and then in true, Real Man fashion, he will pause his machine to rearrange his"package". Now you KNOW what package I'm talking about. He is so overweight that sometimes he really has to fish around for a time to find it, but when he does, herearranges "things" and seems to be so much happier for it. He always looks around to see if anyone is watching
him do it, and of course, EVERYONE is watching him do it. I think that makes his day complete, in a perverse way. There was a new guy at the gym today. I looked up and saw him across the crowded room walking between a row of machines. Fabio, Fabio.
My heart skipped a beat. He was like a Greek God. Time stood still and I watched him stride in slow motion towards me: shoulder length, blond, wavy hair, denim blue eyes, perfect cheekbones, a chisled square jaw. He belonged on the cover of a romance novel and every damsel in that gym was inhaling his testosterone, wanting to have his baby, and sending him with come hither looks . He was too perfect, even here in
Orange County, the land of physical perfection. But I knew as soon as he stepped
into full view, I knew. It was his footwear that gave him away. He
was wearing the latest in avant garde Prada workout shoes. HELLO? RED Prada workout shoes! He was gay as a handbag and I knew it. Gay as 18 red balloons. KAPOWIE, WHOOSH!!!!!!!!!! Did you hear that? The
sound of a dozen bubbles bursting as the other girls figured out what I had already discerned. Life lesson number one, learned at the gym:
if it looks too good to be true, it probably isn't. Mr. High Cholesterol was the only person who contined to stare.: ) Yes, it takes all kinds to make

this world turn, doesn't it?

Did I tell you about Miss Matchy Matchy? I swear to God, EVERYTHING about her matches or coordinates. I'm sorry, but matching is SO
very "80's". Today she had on a black adidas track suit with mauve satin stripes. Mauve SATIN. I know many people would say that satin, as a fabric, has no place in a sweaty gym environment, but there 'twas. Not that she actually had any intention of actually SWEATING, eewww, yuck, puke. Of course, a mauve t-shirt peeked out from beneath her matching, satin trimmed jacket, and matching black and mauve baseball hat. Did I tell you that she had on cutesy little socks with mauve balls on them, and coordinating NewBalance sneakers. Did I tell you that her bedazzled Ipod cover coordinated ever-so-nicely with her ensemble? Did I tell you that I just described me? I am Miss Matchy Matchy. I'm not proud of it and I swear I"m going to get help for that fashion failing. Soon. Maybe tomorrow, or next week or whatever. So what else is there to do while one is sweating to the oldies, at the gym. Even people watching gets old quickly. I can't stand to watch the girl on the stair stepper ahead of me for one more minute. Whose bright idea was it to put the stair steppers anywhere but in the very back row. Don't they KNOW that we don't want to see gym rats bent over with their stinky butts stuck up in the air as they lean forward climbing the stairs? I don't want to see the line of sweat that goes down the butt crack and shouldn't somebody tell them that you can completely see through spandex? Somebody shoot me, immediately, if not sooner. So I look up and watch tv for a bit. That is not as easy as the Nike Godess over there makes it look. I would have to do too many things at once. I would have to listen to my Ipod, walk with my arms swinging, (ARM singular, I"m a one-armed gimp these days,
remember?) I would have to read the words as they scroll across the screen, AND
let my eyes leave the words on the screen to see what is actually
happening on the tv, all the while trying to not walk off the
end of the treadmill and not bang my injured arm against
the rail. Whoa. All this before 7 am? Nope. So I concentrate on the poster on the wall. It is from a company called "OCsunscreens.com"
and it depicts a piece of mottled, cancerous skin with the phrase, "Squeeze My Freckle" HUH? Squeeze My Freckle? Sorry, I don't get it. I
think about it a while and decide that I should entertain
more worthwhile cerebral pursuits, like should my earrings match my purse or my shoes? WhatEVER. Later, Bitches. I'm off to Lady Foot Locker. They are having a sale on matching workout clothes.


> >

Life's a Bitch

Anybody who knows me well knows that I have a hard time relating to some other women. Without exception, the women I have in my life are strong, independent, smart and witty. There is no time for that sub-segment of the female caste that I refer to as "The Silly Bitches." You know the ones. They are the ones who never grew out of their high school personalities. They are weepy, dramatic, clingy, gossipy, and catty. The unvarnished truth is this though: I miss that sometimes. I don't know if it is my XX chromosomes rebelling, but I have found that there is a piece of me that secretly finds Silly Bitch behavior to be amusing. I often thought, "Too bad that there wasn't a hybrid personality of someone who can be all those silly things, but at the same time, I could enjoy them." Then I met my first Drag Queen....

Let me first of all say this: I only know 4 drag queens personally and I've hung out with them both in and out of drag. I realize that does not a scientific sample make, but it is good enough for me to want to announce to the world: I LOVE DRAG QUEENS!! I do, really. Like the female characteristics I am drawn to, they are strong, independent, smart and witty. You have to be strong to have the balls, literally and figuratively speaking, to go into a CVS Pharmacy looking for fingernail adhesive when you are dressed like a Philadelphia hooker. You have to be independent to go against society's norms about how men are SUPPOSED to dress in their spare time. You have to be smart to figure out how to "tuck" What God Gave Ya into a discreet n' neat little package, until it looks like He Didn't Give It To Ya. You don't have to be witty, but I'll be damned if I've ever met a drag queen that wasn't. You have to have a keen sense of humor to make up names like Lady Vajayjay, Jizzona Straynger, Mozie Pornwood. My Drag Queen friends make me laugh out loud, and my most frequent, "laugh till ya tinkle" moments have involved 6 ft tall men in frothy white and pink wigs and kitten heels. While catty, bitchy behavior in women infuriates me, I find it incredibly entertaining and hilarious when I see the same behavior in men, dressed like women. It's showmanship at its bitchy finest. Perhaps in my twisted little brain, I see drama queen bitch behavior coming out of women to be letting our gender down in some way. But these are not women, nor do they WANT to be, so it is ok. I don't know. I don't have to know. I'll just enjoy my hypocrisy for now.


I've learned a lot from my Drag friends. I'll never forget sitting down with a Queen and discussing the pros and cons of press on nails as opposed to acrylic nails. She learned that lesson the day she had to call in sick to her corporate job on a Monday because she couldn't figure out how to get her zebra striped nails off.

Another time, I got tips on where to shop for fashionable shoes in large & wide sizes, from a queen dressed in a pink and lime green pucci dress, and white patent leather, pointy toed high boots. (As a tragic side note: I've been cursed with large, wide feet, so I was thrilled. Perhaps I was a Queen in another life.)

Some of my favorite make up tips have been taught to me by a queen. These guys are masters of illusion because they have so much to compensate for: conspicuous crotch bulges, whiskers, uni-brow, the pronounced adam's apple. These are all things that must be dealt with if the illusion is to be successful. I've been instructed in the power of contour powder and a good push up bra. I now know how to sculpt cheekbones out of nothing, using the same contour powder. If I ever felt the need, I could even give Dolly Parton some competition, using nothing but a pair of rolled up tube socks and double sided adhesive tape.

Sidetracking a bit, I remember once on a trip to Australia, my husband and I went into a Thai restaurant in the Kings Cross district of Sydney. If you've never been, King's Cross is the heart of the gay district of Sydney, although we didn't know that at the time. We were met at the door by a beautiful Thai female hostess. She was tall and slender, wearing a white leather mini skirt, flashing toned legs that had no end. Not that anyone would notice her legs, as she had the most perfect, perky breasts that nature could afford. Long silky hair, almond eyes, perfect skin, perfect teeth, she was a stunningly beautiful woman and my husband was drooling and not hiding it so well. She was giving my man the "come hither" look and I wasn't real happy with that, but then she said, in the deepest of male voices: "You can just seat yourself anywhere you'd like..." Somewhere in the middle of dinner I was still laughing until my pina colada was coming out of my nose. My first clue SHOULD HAVE BEEN "her" pronounced adam's apple, because as my drag friends tell me, "If she has an apple, she has a banana."

Another thing I've learned from having Drag Queen Fabulosity in my life is the ability to say "Fuck you if you don't like what I am." We should all wish to not care what other people think. I was doing a photo shoot last spring with Lady Vajayjay, for a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" campaign she was pushing. We had already started shooting when she decided she needed something in her car, which was parked out on the street. There is a pack of feral adolescent boys who roam our neighborhood on bicycles. My worst nightmare was realized when 6 of them flew around our corner on bicycles just as Lady Vajayjay was teeter tottering on 6 inch stilletos down my driveway, enroute to her car. "Whoa, guys! Is that a DUDE?", yelled the pack leader. They all jammed on their brakes and did a double take as Lady V gave them his biggest smile, and shook his leopard clad mini skirted booty at them. I had a camera in my hands, I don't know why I didn't take the shot. The kids just laughed and kept going, it was no big deal.

Not all of my drag life lessons involve the shallowness of the pursuit of physical perfection. I love to hear about life in the drag community. A Drag mother will take a drag daughter under her wing and teach her the ins and outs of the business. Many of the Queens I know are kind hearted, caring men, who do this to raise money for charity. Absolutely Fabulous, a local gift boutique that I am affiliated with is very generous with time and money and Absolutely FABULOUS sparkly things. The owner likes to do her bit to help local Drag Queens and their charities. I have volunteered my photography talent to my adopted Drag Queen, because as I've always said, "It takes a village to raise a Queen." It is just nice to see people, gay, straight, bi, transgendered WHATEVER, pull together to make this world a better place. I look forward to the day when we can all see our similarities more sharply then our differences.

Dearest ME.

I read a magazine article yesterday that urged us to "Get in touch with your inner self." That lead me to thinking less abstractly and more concretely about our "inner selves." I decided it was time for me to do just that. Here is what I came up with:

Dear Pancreas,

We've been together now for 52 years, and most of those years were wonderful. I remember when we first started out, young and in love. I would drink my formula and eat my Gerber's cereal, and you would do your part by delivering all the insulin a metabolic system would want. It was like we knew what each other needed and we lived only to serve each other. It was a beautiful thing. What happened to us? How did things go so wrong? I know diabetes is genetic, my father had it. Must biology be destiny? I swore I'd be nothing like him, but look how history repeats itself. I hate that it has to be this way, but sometimes you have to look out for yourself. You might not like it, but if sticking needles into myself daily or taking Metformin is what I need to do to hold this volatile, pancreatic relationship together, then you are just going to have to deal with it. You failed ME, remember. Not the other way around.


Dear Brain,

I'm taking time today to talk to my inner self, and you are top of mind, bad pun intended. I'd like to thank you for all the years of somewhat reliable service you've given me. It wasn't always smooth sailing with you, but we worked it out. Those seizures you sent my way in my 20's were problematic, but I only bit my tongue once and it was in my sleep, so I don't think my tongue even knew about it. I know the anti-seizure meds were hard on you, but you got through it. Never mind that Dilantin and Tegretol slowed you down to the point where people I met considered me a pleasant idiot. I'm better now, the quick wit is back, and if pushed, I can calculate Pi to the 33rd digit. Now that I think about it, you could have been a bit more forthcoming in high school also, I really could have used some scholarship money. However, you kicked into gear in university and I appreciate that. I never did mind altering drugs in my youth, but I'm not ruling it out for when I retire. Don't take that as a threat, I"m just sayin'.


Dearest Liver:

I don't deserve you, I know that. You are the best thing that ever happened to me and yet, I abuse you. Lemon drop martinis, bathtubs full of gin, American beer -- the abuse is endless. Still, despite this, you stay. "Love means never having to say you're sorry." I don't believe that, so I'm here to say, "Liver, I'm sorry, please forgive me, I know not what I've done." Don't miss my point here, it doesn't mean I'm going to change, I'm just apologizing for past and future behavior. When our days on earth are over, dearest liver, I plan to be cremated and then you will get your chance to really "shine" because I seriously doubt that frickin' flame will ever burn out.

Dear Bladder:

You are probably my favorite organ. You never complained when I drank till overflowing in the farmer's fields of Prince Edward Island. You never once leaked, as I traveled the world refusing to use airplane bathrooms because I'm a freak. 17-18 hour flights and not a peep out of you. Did I ever tell you how much I appreciated that you and my kidneys had such a great relationship. I may have not said the words, but I really did love that you worked so well together. All those years working in the photo studio where I refused to use their stinky bathroom, but waited until I got home. Did you ever once punish me for that? No, never. Now that I'm a snaggle toothed old hag, my friends tell me about their misbehaving bladders, and I feel so superior. I can sneeze and laugh all I want, and know that you are there for me. Thank you. Words are not enough.

Hey. Feet:

Fuck you. I never liked you. You were always way to big and wide and you disgust me still. My mother always said, "Oh Suzy, you'll grow into them, stop complaining." Well, she was WRONG. I tried putting on a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos once, and I looked like Dustin Hoffman in "Tootsie." My drag queen friends look better in heels than I do, so go straight to hell, FEET, do not pass "Go", do not collect $200. By the way, that foot surgery I had two years ago? That was just a taste of what I can do to you if you make me. DARE to give me bunions and see what will happen. I'm not a vindictive person, but I can only be pushed so far. Don't say I haven't warned you.

Dear Butt:

You've always been my favorite body part, I don't know why. Perhaps it is because I love sitting on you, you are comfortable to be around, like a comfortable, fluffy pillow. As a young girl, I played hockey and skated and that is probably what turned you into such a well rounded butt, so to speak. My brother always said you were so hard that "you could crack an egg on it." I hope you don't mind that I call you a "butt" now. I know that growing up in Canada, you preferred to be called a "bum", but that means something different here, and "when in Rome" -- well. You know.

Dear Hair:

I don't know what to say about you. We've always had such a conflicted love/hate thing going on. I curled up and dyed for you. I permed you, I straightened you, I bobbed you. I've given you highlights, lowlights, gloss treatments, deep oil conditioners. All I ever wanted was to grow enough hair to make a ponytail. I would have felt like a real girl then, like the ones in high school who could just pull their hair back and stick a ribbon on it. Or the ones I see jogging on the beach with their ponytail sticking out of the hole in the back of the baseball cap. The kind of ponytail that would swish as you move. I wanted that but you never gave it to me. I tried. I tried so hard to grow you, but you wouldn't let me. I always ended up so frustrated and looking like I tried to fix the toaster or had stuck my finger in a light socket. I could never get you started in the morning, so I cut you short. Damn you. I hope you feel good about that. I'll never be a "real girl" now. Oh I try to compensate. I buy clothing with sparkly crystals all over it, but that is a facade. I wear adorable shoes, hoping people will overlook the fact that I have man feet. I drink Girl Drinks with cutesy umbrellas and sugar on the rim (sorry pancreas, my bad), but still, I have short hair because YOU won't grow fast enough. At 52 years old, I have come to grips with the fact that the only way I will ever truly be a girly girl with a pony tail is if I get hair extensions. I live in Orange County, fercryin'outloud, the hair extension capital of the world, what am I waiting for? I have this conversation with myself way too often, there has to be some resolution here. For now, I guess I'll just choose to be grateful to have hair at all. Oh, and by the way, hair? It could be much worse. You could belong to Lady Gaga or Britney Spears.

Sue