Drag Dreaming

This past weekend, I was so excited to see one of the best drag shows I have ever watched – the Fabulous Playgirls at Toucan’s Tiki Lounge in Palm Springs. With every performance, I found myself reminiscing on my own performance days. When I left Boston at 24, I never dreamed of putting on a dress and becoming a drag queen, let alone one under the spotlight taking tips and mesmerizing the crowd - but I like to say that I became one by association. 

When I was 24, I was living on the peninsula and before I had a car, I had to rely on CalTrain to get me into the city. Since the last train back was at midnight, I decided to check out the Rawhide II Country and Western bar because it was the closest establishment to the train station. It was the early ‘90s and the country craze was in full swing. The bar was packed and I was instantly hooked.

Perhaps it was fate that I made friends with those whom I dubbed “The Rawhide Elite,” because each of them were the most spectacular and beautiful drag queens that I had ever seen. From their make up to their gowns to their heels, everything about them was spectacular and one Halloween, without much convincing, I joined their ranks. 

Now, although my first foray into heels and wigs was not pretty, you would think I was the most stunning creation on the planet the way I couldn’t stop staring at my reflection. There was no way but up with each dress up and when I entered the San Francisco classic contest “Closet Ball” in 1997, Shanda Leer was born. She stunned the crowd (and her mother) and soaked up the applause, but did not yet dream of performing until one fateful day at a show in the Castro.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – a drag queen on stage not even in sync with her lyrics. How does someone not know the words to their song, I thought. The insanity of it all and the disappointment of watching forced me from my seat to approach the intimidating hostess. She took one look at me out of drag and deigned to give me but one song to perform the following week.

Then the doubts began to creep in. What have I done? Could I do it? What should I perform? I called my makeup artist extraordinaire and we decided on a song I’d always loved – "Bring on the Men" by Linda Eder. It was sure to not be covered by any of the regular girls in the show and I knew the lyrics in my sleep. When show night arrived, all of my friends had packed the small bar, Harvey’s to the brim and when I took to the stage, Shanda Leer took over as high as her four inch heels could stand. I never missed a lyric and the crowd jumped to their feet with thunderous applause as the hostess and all the regular girls watched in awe.

“Can you do another number,” the fat queen who refused to grant me a second song asked.

 

I looked at the mountain of dollar bills in my hands and in my bra and although I had but the one wig and dress, I took to the stage as the closing act of the night to the tune of “I Will Survive.” It was a scene right out of A Star is Born, and one I will never forget for as long as I live.

So standing in the audience this past weekend, watching as the likes of Delta Work and Morgan McMichaels, both of Rupaul’s Drag Race fame flawlessly performed – I was taken back to those days when the sound of applause echoed in my ears. 

What set me apart from the San Francisco girls, was that I never wanted to make drag my career. I enjoyed becoming Shanda Leer, relished in the illusion she created and reveled in the flawless performance she gave each and every time. Despite the other jealous queens who couldn’t remember their lyrics and backstage would steal my gloves or not speak to me, I had a great time. 

And whenever I watch the spectacular queens of The Fabulous Playgirls and throw money at them, I wish I could thank them personally for performing so flawlessly. I know what goes into their performance – and they never disappoint me. And when the music stops, I don’t have to just remember Shanda Leer as a memory – for the recordings of some of her best shows are always at the ready. To watch her, just ask and this time around, you won’t even have to tip her.

The Long Road Back

Like putting on weight – debt piles on fast and quick and it takes dedication and a lot of hard work to overcome it. It’s a lesson I’ve learned on both fronts, and one that perhaps, even at the ripe old age of 46 can teach others that there is a way out. 

When I was much younger, I never really knew the value of money. Chalk it up to my youth or thinking that the world would just give me what I wanted when I wanted it. But what really gets you what you want is hard work and dedication. If you think you can lose those twenty pounds without good eating habits and a lot of sweat and tears at the gym or get that debt down by paying the minimum payment – it’s time for lessons you won’t find in any school curriculum. 

Over the years, like my debt, my weight has fluctuated. While at my thinnest I was 155 pounds (ah…good times) one day, I turned around and I was 220. Where did that number come from? The scale lied, I told myself, but my jeans and shirts told me another tale. Then, one Christmas, I saw a picture of me at a party and there was the proof. My round chubby face stared back at me and announced in no uncertain and silent terms to wake up and take a long hard look at what I’d done to myself. I had gotten lazy, perhaps complacent with where I was in my life and I knew the solution did not lie in fast diets or crazy late night contraptions sold through infomercials. It was simple – take my fat ass to the gym, not just once a day, but twice if I could manage. Run, spin, jump rope (well, not jump rope – I could never master that even when I was a kid) –anything that made my work out clothes damp with sweat told me I was on the right path. At night, it was chicken salads, tuna, anything green and healthy. I saved the pasta for mid-day and the right snacks at my fingertips throughout the day. Given the choice between sitting on the couch or going to the gym, I forced myself to choose the latter. After all – since I was paying for that membership (a topic that comes into play later), I’d best get my money out of it.

For as quickly as the pounds came on, and I swore I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten so big, the loss of each calorie was arduous. Sometimes 3 pounds a week, sometimes one, but I set a goal and if I lost even just 2 pounds a week, then by a certain time I would be at my goal. And that goal was a pair of pants I’d bought myself in Mykonos when I was celebrating my 40^th birthday year. They hung in my closet, tempting me to try them on and I lined up each pair of tight fitting jeans and dress pants in front of them and each week, I dared myself to try them on. Then as each one slowly began to fit, I’d move the pair behind those Grecian clothes – bringing them one step closer to being worn.  Those pants were the only thing I saw as I spun my ass to a sweaty mess on Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday mornings and even Tuesday and Thursday nights. And the day they slipped over my big thighs (for no amount of diet or exercise can disguise that fact that my thighs will always be meaty) I thought to myself, good job, and even though as someone once said, I had “a whole lotta ass,” this ass was no longer a whole lotta fat ass.

And in the same token, I turned around one day to find the credit card bills overflowing in my mailbox. I’d charged $10 here, maybe $50 there, maybe even $100. Like my weight, one day it had just become too much. I’d moved back to San Francisco after being gone for 2 ½ years and with no job and the money I’d brought back with me quickly running out  combined with a bad job decision and just trying to live slowly caught up to me.  The sad part of it all is that I can hardly remember what made up all the charges for that astronomical figure.  Sure, I could pinpoint some as just a way for me to live. Food, clothes, but in the end, if I had to write down everything I put on that plastic, I’d come up empty. The one thing I do remember is receiving that oh so stylish American Express Blue card in the mail. How pretty it looked and how honored I felt that they had chosen me to be one of their “valued” card members. In an instant, I felt as if I were drowning and relocating again to find my path in life – I seemed to incur more financial woes. What was one more $50 charge when the bill was already so high? 

 

Then, one day, just like that picture of my fatness looking back at me, the statements in the mail with their hateful due dates and tempting low minimum payments arrived seemingly on top of one another. And then another bill – I needed braces to the tune of $5,000 (I was old, thank God, they were at least invisalign). I felt as if I were drowning and like my weight – I had a choice. Wallow in my situation or devise a plan, set a goal and reach for it. I was thwarted at every turn by so called helpful debt consolidation loan options and then I realized that since I had created this situation, as dire and depressing as it seemed, it was only me who was going to free myself. 

And like getting on that treadmill – sacrifices had to be made. When I realized my gym membership was costing me more a month than my weekly grocery bill – I eliminated it and found other, more economical ways to work out. I stopped buying anything new, clothes, shoes, even socks. Every time I was about to pay for something outrageous, I put it back, thinking that was one more payment I could make towards my financial freedom. At the time, employed by higher education, my paycheck barely covered the rent and minimum payments, so despite the rent control, I moved so I didn’t have to shoulder the cost of living in Los Angeles alone. Every extra cent, from tax returns to birthday checks was funneled away from me and to the credit card companies.

But I still needed help and I turned to one of my very best friends who never judged me and never made me feel as if I were a failure. 

“Honey,” he said to me. “We need to fix you.” 

And he made me a spreadsheet that tracked my payments and showed me in black and white where I would be and when depending on how much I paid each month. That spreadsheet became my golden ticket. If I fluctuated in payments, I knew exactly where I had to make up the payments to keep me on track. For the first time, I could see the goal posts.  It looked impossible and many nights I tossed and turned wondering where my life took a wrong turn. But like any turn, either you stay on the road that gets you lost or you take another to get you back on track.

Paying triple or sometimes quadruple the minimum payments, I saw the balances drop and switched the amounts to zero interest cards. Why not use the companies who for so long had used me, I thought. 

It has been a long road and today, I made the last payment on a debt that has been living with me for almost seven years because one day, like my weight, I couldn’t stand it a second longer. Like those pair of pants in my closet that kept me on that spin bike, the thought of never getting another bill I couldn’t pay kept me on the right road. There is no easy way out – no quick fix, no diet pill, and no lottery winnings. The ticket to salvation is within you, and when you are ready, when you can no longer stand your situation and the picture of your life makes you see clearer than you ever wanted, you’ll find the strength to overcome the obstacles and do what has to be done to take back control.

My Love Affair with Cookie Tins

My love affair with cookies and more importantly, cookie tins began many holiday seasons ago. My mother always had a stash of Royal Dansk Cookies in the cellar and you may laugh at me for this, but every time I see those tins in the stores, I’m instantly transported back to my childhood. The cookies were there, not because my parents loved to serve us store bought concoctions, but because if we were ever invited to someone’s house, we always had something to bring to them. It’s a lesson that was deeply instilled in me and one I value today. The first time I go to someone’s home, I never arrive empty handed. (And if someone comes to mine for the first time empty handed, they move down a notch, but that’s another blog.)

Not only were the butter cookies quite yummy, but their tins were valued just as much as the sweets they held inside. We were and continue to be, a family of cookie bakers. My grandmother was always in the kitchen at Christmas time. Flour decorated the counters like a dusting of new fallen snow and her cookies were always stored in festive tins from gifts that made their way into our home. Small, large, oblong – no matter the shape, every time we were at a gathering and someone was going to throw away a tin, it was quickly snatched and given a new home.

To this day, my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Lil – has a stash of empties in her house. When she baked regularly, she always asked me to save the tins for her and now I find that each holiday season, I go on the hunt for ones that will not only store my Christmas cookies, but make the perfect holiday present. When food gifts make their way to our department, I stash any empty tins in my office as I think of what kind of cookies I should make to keep them company. 

Recently, I was in Target and the holiday decorations and storage options were almost too much for me. I wanted to buy them all and then remembered that the party invites have been few and far between this year. If I bought all the tins and filled them with cookies, where would I bring them? Except, I do buy a few for the sheer fact that it makes me turn my kitchen into a floured wonderland, and that brings me back to when I was a child baking with my grandmother. I start the recipe and I can feel her beside me, I know my mother would compliment my latest batch even though they are slightly on the done side, I hear my aunt telling me to save her the tins, and all three of them make me feel warm and loved. Then, once I’m done, I take a look around at the volume of sweets I've baked and hope against hope that someone will invite me to a party.