Sunday, August 07, 2005

You are a wise woman, it is a shame you dress like a Lebanese prostitute

subtitle: Why I can't eat at KFC anymore

A couple of years ago, I worked at some random company and, like most offices, we were total slackers when the boss was out of town, shopping on eBay all day (this was before I discovered blogging), stopping only to take a two hour lunch. On one of those two hour lunches, my work friend, Kent, suggested KFC and even offered to drive. Fried food AND not having to worry about losing my parking space? Hell. Yes.

So Kent and Snatch-o-matic (the stripper-dating skank who ended up getting me fired) and I braved lunchtime traffic in downtown Scottsdale to get there. We got our food and settled down at a table – I was facing the door and Kent and Snatch-o had their backs to the door. We were probably halfway through eating when I noticed a total 1970s child molester van pull up outside. The driver got out and she seemed normal and then the passenger hopped out, dressed like a cowgirl (white button up shirt, neckerchief, cowgirl patterned vest, flouncy denim skirt, white tights and cowboy boots – and carrying a rolled up cowboy type blanket) –

“Wait until you guys see this chick coming in,” I told them. “She’s awesome. Yippee ki yay is all I’m saying”

The two women came inside the restaurant and I noticed that Calamity Jane’s was wearing a wig – and she had a five o’clock shadow – on her face.

I almost choked on my popcorn chicken. “Omigod, it’s a guy!” I blurted out – LOUD. Like loud enough for the entire establishment to hear – Including Mannie Oakley – who made a beeline for our table.

Snatch-o-matic had turned and caught a glance at it, but Kent hadn’t yet.

“So…” Calamity Jim drawls, sidling right up to me. “Do you think I’m a man dressed like a woman, woman dressed like a man, woman dressed like a woman…?”

I swallowed hard, to flabbergasted to even consider coming up with a lie. “I’m going to go with man dressed like a woman,” I answer, faced with his halfway unbuttoned shirt and a pair of tennis balls (no, really) peeking out at me.

He looked shocked. “What gave it away?”

My usually talkative lunch partners were silent, I was stranded. “Well, there’s the adam’s apple for one thing…”

His hand flew to his throat, rearranging the neckerchief. “Oh, usually, I try to keep that covered.”

“And the stubble,” Snatch-o piped up.

“On your chest,” I added quietly.

“But you’ve got the Southwest look down,” Kent offered helpfully. “All you need is a horse.”

“Oh, I’ll be riding Trigger later,” he assured us.

This was about the time in the conversation where my eyes rolled into the back of my head and I lost consciousness – I recall him saying something about not being gay and being a contractor and having a degree in Psychology and how he wishes people would be more tolerant…

Let me just go ahead and say – live whatever lifestyle makes you happiest, but you know what? If you’re going to dress like someone of a different gender, go big or go home - if you're going to undertake something like that, take a little pride - come on, if not for yourself, then for the rest of us - the ones who have to look at you