So I got married last Saturday. The lucky recipient of my affections would be The Lovely Rhonda, in case there was any doubt.
Obviously if there is going to be a wedding, there must be a party, and it follows that if it is my party, it must be timed very poorly. We were unable to go over the holidays because mumble mumble Christmas mumble mumble New Years mumble mumble kids, money, working, school mumble mumble.
This just in: the word mumble is hilarious.
Anyway, we went out the night before. To a drag show. That starts at 10:30pm. Also: I am in my forties.
We had originally intended to have a shootin’ party, but that turned out to be more hassle than we could manage with everything else going on. And then the Sandy Hook thing happened, and, all other arguments aside, it felt disrespectful to plan to go shooting for fun so close to that. We will go sometime this year but not right now.
Fortunately we had our fall-back plan which was to go see a lot of men dressed up as ladies, because yes. Booze plus sequins plus makeup plus a bunch of damn lesbians? Good times!
Naturally TLR insisted we don white satin sashes emblazoned with “BRIDE.” They were very nearly left behind at the house (um, certainly not by anyone’s nefarious plan but merely accidentally) but a quick u-turn and order was restored, over my vehement objections that we might not have time to get Starbucks if we turned back. TLR was quite determined so my pleas went unheeded. Thus a taste of married life was enjoyed a night ahead of schedule.
We got our coffee and skidded into the drag club with mere moments to spare. Those queens are very particular about seating large parties by a certain time or the deal is off.
A good dozen or so of our best/youngest/most durable friends showed up, and they were not disappointed. We had been seated up front so that the
public humiliation recognition of our impending nuptials could be enjoyed by all.
The show was fun, as always. There was the requisite Liza performance.
Prince, of course.
And several incarnations of Lady Gaga.
Poison Waters was there to make the straight boys uncomfortable.
The owner of the club and mistress of ceremonies is Darcelle, who is 82 and still rockin’ the sequins like nobody else, although sans the heels these days and who can blame her?
She’s still doing her signature number, a sassy take on “Rhinestone Cowboy” complete with assless chaps.
You heard me. 82. Assless chaps. What’s holding you back from YOUR dream?
Darcelle called us up on stage toward the end and congratulated us and gave a little heartfelt spiel about marriage equality. I don’t have pictures of that yet but I’m sure someone will send me one soon.
Of course, no drag show is complete without the big finale.
It was fun and then it was over and then we went home to bed so we could get up and get married, the end.