FLAMING

I'm giving a new definition to the word because it is SO HOT OUTSIDE I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. I drove around town today with my air conditioner on super major frostbite and listened to Christmas cds to try to convince my body to stop sweating but it DIDN'T WORK. It is too hot to be sassy. I spend my days on pinterest looking up pumpkin recipes and daydreaming about autumn, which in Texas means temperatures of 70 degrees.

I'm sure some people have been doing fabulous and gay things, but I'm too busy fainting from heat stroke to notice.

TEXAS, I HATE YOU.

Benefits for Friends

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

It is also a truth universally acknowledged that a single gay is in want of a hook-up.

I got a text from a friend last night, asking if a fabulous friend of mine would be interested in a date/hook-up with her new gay roommate.

The tv show Happy Endings has concisely and hilariously identified gaycism, the theory that people automatically think that any gay people are compatible with each other based solely on the fact that they are gay. I knew that some people truly believed this, but this was my first experience with a gaycist. She didn't even know my friend's name, much less anything about him that would lead her to think that he would be a good match for her roommate. She also assumed that he would be up for a random hook-up just on the basis of his homosexuality.

Resist the prejudice of gaycism. Look past the perfectly highlighted hair and moisturized hands and see the person behind the gay face. Remember, gays are people, too.

New Year, New You

I'm finally getting back in the swing of things after my lovely two week vacation. I love vacation and it takes me a long time to move past my depression when it's over. So much so that I had to take a sick day from work on Friday. Cough, cough.

Not a lot has happened over the past few weeks in my corner of the world:

I moved into a new apartment.

I discovered a leave-in conditioner that is apparently made of magic. My hair is so soft it feels like it's made of kittens.

My liver somehow survived the many holiday parties thrown and many bottles of wine consumed (seriously, I'm pretty sure my new neighbors think I'm an alcoholic).

I had a lot of great times with great friends, and even some bad times with great friends. It was touch and go for a while, but we all got through it mildly unscathed.

And I ate my weight in Christmas cookies. Paula Deen's white chocolate coconut cookies and Giada De Laurentiis's holiday biscotti are my life now.

To negate the Christmas cookie bulge, I made the usual New Year's resolutions to lose weight and be healthier and blah blah blah, which really has only manifested in looking up healthy recipes on Pinterest, which is my new obsession. Only I block all of my friends' wedding dreams boards, because there are only so many pictures of lace wedding dresses and engagement photo scenarios a girl can take, you know?

Textual Healing.

One of the perks of having gay men as your best friends is that you always have someone to flirt with boys for you, especially in the technological advances of the 21st century. I do so enjoy having a personal Cyrano.

Sometimes the idiom is true -- guys know what guys want. I was amazed at how well the flirty texts were received. I think I may have created a monster, though; last night, I told my friend that Straight Guy had texted me and his response was, "Let him talk for a while and then let me flirt with him for you!"

Glitter and be gay.

I got a new job recently. I went from teaching at an alternative high school to a traditional campus. So far I have been there for a month and I love it. It is very refreshing to have students who have more going on in their lives than pot.

One of my students in my first period class is cute as a button. He's a freshman and he has an adorable baby face that is fond of wearing Glee t-shirts and scarves. He also apparently makes several trips to the powder room during the day, because by the time I see him in the halls at the end of the day, he has added enough glitter to his face to choke a drag queen.

The first time I saw him all glitzy, I was sure it was just a trick of the light. But upon further inspection, no.....that was definitely glitter eyeshadow. The next day, I stopped by his locker to say hi, and when he looked up, he had green glitter lipstick on. We are talking full-on Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. And Hallways.

One of my less exciting duties at my new job is coaching. As I was walking back from the gym one day, I passed the PE coach's office. There was a snickering crowd of boys around and that is never a good sign. There was a distinct yelling sound and, ever the eavesdropper, I paused in my journey back to civilization to listen.

"What are you.....get out of here looking like that! Get! What is that on your face, get out!"

Sure enough, my little Glitter Boy exited the office with glitter on his eyelids and jewels on his lips. How he got jewels to stick to his lips, I still don't know, but that is not the point.

He had gone into the office because he lost his gym locker combination. I told him that he looked fine and that he could come to my room if anyone ever talked to him like that, even an adult, because that is not okay.

I can't believe an adult, one who is dedicated to educating children, had that audacity to speak to a student like that. He is a freshman in high school. That boy is fourteen and you're belittling him? And in front of other students? I don't kick out athletes when they're wearing football jerseys, so how dare you target him?

The day after Don't Ask Don't Tell was repealed, making it possible for gay men and women to serve openly in our military, a 14 year old committed suicide after being bullied at school. He had even participated in a "It Gets Better" video, but in the end, the bullying was overwhelming.

So shine on, my little Glitter Boys. We'll be here for you. My door is always open. Unless I'm coaching, in which case the gym door will be open and I'll be the one trying to avoid sweating.

Do as I say, not as I do.

Nothing is more frustrating than a smart-ass gay.

Sure, we like a good snarky gay in the movies as our comedic relief. A little sass never hurt anyone. But trust me, when that sass is being used against you, it stings. It does not hurt so good. There's nothing I hate more than something I've said getting thrown back in my face.

I was leaving a friend's house last week after an amiable get together. I had gone around and said my goodbyes and doled out my cheek-kisses and hugs and random ass grabs. As I headed toward the door, I paused to say goodbye to the last guy.

"Okay, bye," he said as he walked across the living room, "text me when you get home."

I'm sorry, exCUSE ME?! Where is my air-kiss, sir?! After all we've been through, I deserve at least an air-kiss!

I held on to this slight for a good twenty minutes, but then I got over it. However, I made sure to tell him exactly the social niceties that he turned his back and walked away from. Sort of a, "no big deal, but never do it again if you want your life to remain un-nagged" situation.

A few nights later, I was at his house again. We had been watching a movie and he was falling asleep on the couch. After the movie, he went in and laid down on his bed. A few minutes later, I decided to leave and I went in and stood awkwardly by his bed.

"Okay, well.....bye," I said, and turned to leave.

"Don't....walk away....when you're saying goodbye to me," he mumbled.

Touche, jerk.

Wide World of Sports

I recently got a new job at a new school district. The only catch is, I have to be a girls basketball assistant coach.

You can feel free to laugh. I'll wait.

As an English teacher, I feel as though I'm already at an athletic disadvantage. We literature types tend to stick closer to the library than the gymnasium. But I'm sure I can motivate those girls to score those goals. Or whatever it is, I'll figure that out later.

I tried to think back on sports movies that I could get coaching tips from, and the first thing that came to my mind was this scene from Ladybugs, one of my favorite movies when I was a kid. It stars Rodney Dangerfield and Jonathan Brandis as his stepson who is coerced into crossdressing to play on a girls soccer team that needs all the help they can get. (I'm telling you, my life as a queer dear was predetermined. I was born this way.)




You can rest assured that should anyone break a nail on the field, I will know what to do.

NOLA.

I just got back from a vacation to New Orleans with two of my boys, who from here on out will be referred to as Tiger and Honeybee. They know why.

I had never been to New Orleans and was very excited to go. Tiger is from there, so he was able to navigate his way without a GPS, which is just mindblowing in this day and age. I need a GPS to find my way to the grocery store on some days. He also knew a lot of the history of buildings and had personal anecdotes about different places, which was interesting to hear. There were also restaurants and sights that he and Honeybee had been to on different trips there. I always like having an insider's perspective to make me feel like less of a tourist, even though I cancel it out by taking my picture with anything that will stand still, which in this case included a giant stuffed crawfish.

We drove the six hours to New Orleans and surprisingly no one died (though there was a sketchy moment in a gas station bathroom that I think doubles as a meth lab. It was so nasty that I demanded to be taken to a different gas station). When we got to the hotel on the first night, we walked around the French Quarter for a while and saw the sights, which included a place that had bottomless bloody marys. That night, after my hair was appropriately tamed (humidity is not my friend), we went out to Bourbon Street. Our hotel was right on the corner of Bourbon and Canal, which proved convenient when it came time to stagger home. We took advantage of New Orleans' lack of open container laws. It was amazing to see people drinking while they walked down the street. I kept glancing around nervously as I drank my daiquiri like I was on the lam.

I also had super sexy shoes that night that I was wearing for the first time, and as a result for the rest of the trip it looked like I had dangled my ankles in the ocean during Shark Week. Luckily, I couldn't feel it as it was happening. Thank you, Pat O's hurricanes.

We spent a lot of time walking around the French Quarter, marveling at the architecture and people watching. There was some prime people watching in New Orleans. One of our favorite street games was "gay man or hipster?" It's really hard to differentiate.

On Wednesday, we went on a swamp tour with the most insane man I have ever laid eyes on. To begin with, I could only understand about half of what this guy said through his accent. And then the crazy bitch started trying to grab alligators out of the water and bring them into the boat. And I sort of pulled a diva fit on him. His response was to ask Tiger if I was his wife to try to get him to calm me down, which got a good laugh.

We also went on a vampire tour of New Orleans on Wednesday, which was a walking tour of the French Quarter with stories about movie vampires and vampire-esque crimes in the city. We were blessed to have on our tour a girl who was like the vampire Rainman -- after every real-life story the guide would tell, the girl would burst out, "VAMPIRE. DEFINITELY A VAMPIRE, DEFINITELY." It was annoying. Definitely annoying.

The night, Honeybee stayed at the hotel to recuperate after the stress of the swamp and the vampires, and Tiger and I went out to the Bourbon Pub, which was having an amateur drag contest. Let's be honest, nothing gets me to a bar faster than the words "amateur drag contest." It was so, so tragic. I saw more pantyhosed crotch on that stage than I've seen in my entire life. There was one girl, Carmen, who could not keep her clothes on to save her life. I'm pretty sure that you could have superglued her top to her skin and it still would have fallen down to her waist.

I wish I could remember more of Wednesday night, but after seeing Carmen's skirt bunch up around her waist more than once, we started drinking heavily and the rest of the night is sort of a blur. Thank god. We made friends with one of the drag contest judges (meaning that we stood by him and made snarky comments that made him laugh), so he gave us free drink tickets. I do remember that there were showtunes playing downstairs in the bar. I'm pretty sure that we sang Time of My Life and that it was awesome, as per usual. Karaoke, here we come. I also woke up the next morning to some lovely text messages from some of boys at home, as I had texted them god knows what the night before. It's just my way of paying it forward.

Overall, it was a wonderful trip. I only felt slightly third wheel-ish and awkward; they made sure that everything on the itinerary was something fun for me to see, even though they had done it before, we got in some good quality Oprah talks about our feelings, and the PDA-levels were kept to a minimum on all counts -- during the vampire tour, I had my arms around Honeybee's neck and kissed his cheek, and he turned his head ever so slightly and muttered, "Will you stop that? People are going to think I'm straight." And you know we can't have that.

Sister Christian.

A good friend of mine from the musical I'm in this summer accidentally let slip that one of the cast members mentioned me in passing in a conversation. Apparently this girl felt that she knew me well enough to make the observation that I "am not a Christian," so you know that every time I see her from now on, this is what I see:




Bless you, God Warrior.

Sister Christian also found it her place to question the lifestyle of two of my friends in the cast, who are gay.

See, now we have a problem.

People have their opinions. That's fine. Yours just happen to be stuck in the Spanish Inquisition. Also fine. It might come as a surprise, but I was raised in the Catholic church, so I get it. But don't come around acting like we're buddies when you not-so secretly disapprove of me and my friends. And don't try to act like a godly Christian woman while you're spouting your hate speech. Because guess what, I can read the Bible, too. Matthew 7:1-2 states "Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again." You just got KJVed.

Also, if you disapprove of gays so much, STOP DOING MUSICAL THEATER. That's like going to a pet store when you're allergic to animals.

Couples

This summer, I have embarked on a new journey in my path of queer dear-dom : I have befriended a couple.

It's shocking to me that this is my first gay couple, but most of my friends have relationships that expire faster than a carton of milk, whether of their fault or not. These guys have been together for two years and are living together. They have dog children together. They are legit.

As always, with the new acquisition of friends comes new challenges. For example, there's the third wheel danger. Nobody wants to be the awkward creeper in the corner during a romantic moment. For example, just recently we had a pool day, the two of them and me. I was in the pool with one of the guys while the other was lying in a pool chair. When he was getting in the water, he asked how the water was and homeboy answered, "it's good now that you're in here." Awkward City, population me.

There's also the package problem. And not the good type of package, oh no. The package deal problem. I'll make plans with one of them, and they'll both show up. Typically this is not a problem, as I love both of them and we always have a blasty blast. It is a little difficult when trying to get to know them, however. I enjoy one on one time with my friends; I find that it helps bonding and fostering deep relationships. It's close to impossible to have one on one time with three people. Try it sometime.

Like all couples, they fight and make up. Sometimes their arguments make me uncomfortable. The making up makes me even more uncomfortable. There are times when we'll be at their house hanging out with one of them in the living room with me and the other in their bedroom. Sooner or later, they'll both be in the bedroom. In which case, I am overcome by awkwardness. Is the party moving in there? Is it a pants party? Unless there is an invitation on monogrammed stationary, I stay the hell away.

They are a great couple. Where one is frenetic, the other is laidback. Where one tends to diva out, the other tends toward neutral. They are both devoted to each other in sickeningly sweet ways. They make a great team -- which makes it even more awkward to be sitting and watching from the sidelines.

Snuggie.

When it comes to touching people, I feel like I err toward the side of caution. I don't particularly enjoy being touched by people that I don't know or particularly like. I'm not going to be the person to give you a hug when I first meet you. I have had people go for a hug after the first meeting and it will only end in tears.

But if you are my friend, particularly one of my gay friends, watch out. No body part is safe. I hug, I snuggle, I big spoon, I hold hands, I grab asses. You name it, it will probably be attended to in some platonic way.

Which is all the more awkward when I find out that a friend doesn't like being touched. I have this friend that I recently found out doesn't like being overly touched, so you know that it is like telling a two year old not to touch the hot stove. All I want to do is touch this kid. I want to hug him, I want to watch movies intertwined on the couch, I want to be the goddamn big spoon. It's awful. I do all of those things with his boyfriend, no problem. Boyfriend and I will kiss goodbye, and he's by the door of his car with a lame, "Call me tomorrow." What!? No. You will take your hug like a man and then you'll be on your way.

Everyone needs their personal space. I get it, I shouldn't intrude, personal bubble, all that jazz. I'm pretty sure that he considers me to be a good friend. I feel like we moved past casual acquaintance a while ago. But I'm still afraid that anytime my hand accidentally grazes his knee, he's dying on the inside.

I hate to think of what he's thinking when I "accidentally" squeeze his ass.

In with the new.

Befriending new gays is very nerve-wracking to me. It's sort of like a first date-- I stress over what I'm wearing, what I say, how I think they're perceiving me. Sometimes I wish that I had a sign on that says, "I'm cool, I promise. Give it a week and you will love me."

I'm in a community theater production of "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" as Mrs. Potiphar (because of course I would be cast as the Slutty McSlut of the Bible story), and am meeting new gays in the process. It's not a problem in community theater, but I always strive to find ways to make sure that everyone feels comfortable and knows that they can be however they want to around me -- after my years in the gay trenches, there is very little anymore that shocks me.

Making friends as an adult is difficult at times. It isn't like college, where you join a club or have a class and make friends. I'm always afraid that I'm going to come on to strong when meeting new people and somehow alienate them in the process.

In the end, I just rely on being the most fabulous I can be and make sure that they know that I will always have their back and will stop them from leaving the house in ugly shoes and be there for them when they're having a drunken emotional meltdown. As a professional Queer Dear, it's the least I can do.

When a little is too much.

There are times in life when a little information can be too much information. Take the following conversation, for example:

Me: "So I was talking to P___.....do you know him well?"

Him: "I know that he has a picture of his naked ass as his profile picture on Manhunt."

Me: ".............why did you tell me that?"

Him: "You asked if I knew him!"

Too much, friends. Tooooo much.

Good Vibrations.

I have a confession to make.

Talk about masturbation makes me uncomfortable.

I don't know why. I'm a Victorian lady at heart.

But I will close my eyes and think of England to tell this story.

Somehow last summer, the talk turned to masturbation. And I visibly squirmed and stuttered and was incredibly uncomfortable. Which my friends loved and used as a secret weapon to shut me up. The masturbation talk eventually turned to vibrators, where it was revealed that I didn't have one, had never owned one, and wasn't in the market, but thanks.

"HWHAT?!?!?!" was the unanimous response. "YOU DON'T HAVE A VIBRATOR?!?!?! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?!?!?!"

They all had very strong opinions about the matter, which was surprising to me, as the matter happened to be ladyparts. I have no idea why they were so concerned.

It has been a running theme, the lack of vibrator in my life. At one point, I was ambushed KGB style and taken to a sex shop and subjected to all sorts of penises. Big scary penises, cartoon penises, Hulk-esque penises. More penises than a girl could ever need or want. Too many penises, is what I'm saying. Penis trauma.

Last month, when I was in New York, I was telling my friend about all of the stress my vibrator-less life was causing my poor boys, how they were apparently up at night lamenting the fact that I was not picking up good vibrations. She laughed, asked a few innocuous questions ("Do you want to go out and get one?" "Not really." "Oh, okay."), and we moved on.

Cut to last week. I hadn't checked my mail in a month or so (oops), so I opened my mailbox and was avalanched by junk-mail and a parcel box key.

"How curious," I said to myself. "I don't remember ordering anything."

I gathered up my piles of mail and went to the privacy of my own home and opened up the first box.

Inside the box was a book entitled "Tickle Your Fancy: A Woman's Guide to Sexual Self-Pleasure."

I felt an interesting mix of panic and confusion. Where had the book come from? I hadn't ordered a book about self-pleasure. In fact, I was blushing just reading the title. I'm blushing just typing it.

I convinced myself that it was a fancy brochure trying to sell something and moved on to the second box.

I cut open the tape and folded back the cardboard and was it was like watching the end of "Se7en":



Vibrators. Plural. Multiple vibrators. Two of them, to be specific, one of them covered in daisies.

Once I recovered from the shock, I checked the shipping slip. Sure enough, they were from my friend in New York.

Thank you?

And yes, my friends are all thrilled.

Weirdos.

Fabulous NYC.

I finally have a minute to sit and reminisce about my fabulous New York City vacation!

Highlights:

* Two Broadway shows -- Catch Me If You Can starring Aaron Tveit and Norbert Leo Butz and Priscilla Queen of the Desert starring Nick Adams' biceps and drag queens.

* Catch Me If You Can is a new musical based on the book/Leonardo DiCaprio movie about Frank Abagnale Jr, who was a con artist and millionaire by the time he was 20 by writing bad checks. The fact that he got away with it all is pretty astounding, really.
Aaron Tveit played Frank and Norbert Leo Butz was the FBI agent who was searching for him. The music is by the people who wrote the Hairspray musical, so it's still stuck in my head two weeks later. Very fun show with tons of lush colors and costumes. And the voices. Holy shit. Aaron Tveit is best known as the original Gabe in Next to Normal, and he did not disappoint. I started wondering if the role of Frank had been written expressly for his voice, because I recognized a lot of the power notes from my marathon listening/sobfests to the Next to Normal soundtrack. Also -- shirtless twice. Because let's face it, shirtless Aaron Tveit is a big reason to see a show.
(On a gay sidenote, Aaron is in Howl, the movie about Allen Ginsberg and the publication of the Howl poem and subsequent controversy, playing Peter Orlovsky, Ginsberg's boyfriend. Allen Ginsberg is played by James Franco. Hot.)
And Norbert Leo Butz is amazing and sort of adorable. He was easily the shortest cast member at 5'7 but his stage presence and all around amazingness had me watching him in every scene he was in. His acting was the best of the cast as he morphed himself into the schlumpy Agent Hanratty. His Act I song "Don't Break the Rules" stopped the show; the applause went on for a solid two minutes. Phenomenal.

* Priscilla Queen of the Desert was another very fun show. Three drag queens in the Australian outback on a road trip to a show in a casino run by one of the queens' estranged wife. It's based on the 1994 movie starring Hugo Weaving, Terrence Stamp, and Guy Pearce (swoon). The songs are all recognizable camp drag queen karaoke hits, like "It's Raining Men," "Girls Just Want to Have Fun," "Hot Stuff," "Material Girl," etc. At one point, I was moved to tears, which I was completely not expecting yet totally saw coming (one of the characters goes out into the Aussie hick town dressed in drag and kisses a guy, who rips off her wig. The subsequent bashing, as well as the fireside conversation of the queens that follows had me sniffling and feigning allergies to the lovely gay boy sitting next to me).
It's not a particularly groundbreaking show, or even an original show, but it's fun. One of the producers is Better Midler, and let's face it, I will love anything Bette Midler touches.

* On a related note, Nick Adams is my new gay boyfriend. Good god, that is one attractive man with killer glitter lipstick. Hello, lover.

*My friend and I went to the St. Patrick's Day Parade which was a clusterfuck. I had no idea what to expect but I know a bunch of drunk and disorderly teenagers wasn't it.

*We saw Celtic Woman at Radio City Music Hall on St. Patrick's Day. They have amazing voices and a violinist we dubbed "the fiddle ninja." Seriously, she was jumping all over the stage so much that I thought for sure she would hit herself in the eye with her bow.

* Of course, I had to wander around Christopher Street and Greenwich Village. A friend and I went to Stonewall Inn and Gay Street for the photo op. I can't resist a good touristy photo op. We also went to Marie's Crisis Cafe in the West Village. A gay piano bar that plays all showtunes. It was like I saw a vision of heaven. It was glorious.

* All in all, the trip was all about love.

N Y C.

I'm slowly recovering from a week spent living the high life with friends in New York City. A full detailed account is soon to come. Oh, the tales I have, girls and gays.

Including, but not limited to, a gay piano bar that exclusively plays showtunes, becoming a friend of Dorothy at Stonewall, falling in love with a drag queen, and explaining that chatting with boys on Grindr will not bring you closer to Jesus.

It was pretty much a typical week for me.

Spandex alert!

For the past two nights, I have been immersing myself in culture and beauty. In the gayest way possible, of course.

Cirque du Soleil's OVO show is in Houston. The show opened tonight at Sam Houston Race Park, but a friend of mine works for a web marketing company and runs the website for the park, so she scored free tickets to the invited dress rehearsal preview (tickets that, we overheard at the show, were going for $200 through the local PBS telecast sale). She was unfortunately out of town on business, so her boyfriend gave me the extra ticket. Far be it from us to let something free go to waste.

I had never been to Cirque du Soleil and didn't know what to expect, other than a vague idea of ridiculous acrobatics. And OVO definitely delivered. The very first act involved a man holding himself up with one hand upside on a pole and then contorting himself around and slithering to the ground. There was also an act involving a rock wall and my mind is still completely blown.

The story of the show is "an immersion into the teeming and energetic world of insects." The costumes were bug-ish, which made them all rather androgynous. They incorporated the bug costumes into the act only slightly; one act has a group of five girls dressed as ants who juggle plastic food pieces with their feet. And also, they toss and catch each other. WITH THEIR FEET. The interlocking plot, however, involves two bugs that are falling in love. I guess. I don't know, I honestly wasn't paying much attention to the parts that didn't have people bending their backs in half or doing a trapeze on their head.



Tonight was the opening night of Houston Ballet's "The Sleeping Beauty". I love Sleeping Beauty. It's possibly my favorite Disney movie and one of the main reasons is because of Tchiakovsky's score. I love the music and really wanted to see the ballet. Tonight was the only night I could see it due to Spring Break plans, so my friend Aerin braved the nosebleed seats with me (for $18 I will sit anywhere).

It was gorgeous. I'm pretty sure I annoyed Aerin with all of my excited faces and gasping, but I truly loved it. The dancing was incredible, the music was wonderful, and the ballet had wonderful visual effects -- there was a scene where the evil fairy Carabosse disappears from the stage and I still don't know how she left but I'm pretty sure there had to be magic involved. And honestly, ever time I heard a piece of music I recognized from the Disney movie, I turned into a five year old.

Both events had me marveling at the levels of athleticism and talent that they all possessed. I mean, I can't even complete a whole push-up. I push down, but then I can't really get back up, while Cirque du Soleil has people doing handstands fifteen feet in the air on a trapeze. And, though I danced for 13 years as a child, I almost twisted my ankle tonight as I was flitting around the lobby, looking more like the hippo from Fantasia than Aurora.

Lesson learned -- men are good. Flexible men in spandex are better.

Throwin' Shade.

This is the story of how I got my amazing sunglasses.

I had a pair of funky Target sunglasses and I was in love with them. They went everywhere with me. They were $5 Rayban knock-offs with this weird zebra printing and they were phenomenal.

I went home one weekend and my brother was home from college. He asked me if I wanted a pair of aviator sunglasses. Apparently a friend of his gave them to him but then he found out they were women's glasses so he was paying them forward.

I was hesitant to take them, as I was already in a committed relationship with my Target glasses, but who am I to refuse anything that's free? So I took them and they languished in my room for a few months.

My Target glasses eventually reached the end of their journey (I'm pretty sure I sat on them). In Texas summers, sunglasses are a necessity. I dug up the glasses my brother gave me and wore them around.

Then, one fateful day, I was out shopping with one of my gays when he suddenly let out a gay gasp.

"Are those......Chanel aviators?!?!?!?!?!" he asked, clutching his chest.

I took them off, and sure enough there was "CHANEL" imprinted on the frames.

"Of course they are! What do you take me for?" I replied. I probably gave a hair flip for good measure.

And I have worn them ever since.

What, what, what are you doing?!

There are a few fun things about being an English teacher. School vacations, for one thing. I'm a big fan of summer vacation.

One of the other fun things is teaching my students Shakespeare. At first they grumble and moan and whine and are about one grocery aisle away from throwing themselves on the floor and kicking their feet and screaming. But inevitably, as we read the plays (or, as they read the words and I interpret them into English that they will understand), they begin to understand the characters and realize that the themes that were relevant 400 years ago are still relevant today.

Some things aren't as relevant, however. For example, my freshman kids read Romeo and Juliet. And every year I hear the same thing:
"Didn't they just meet? Why are they getting married already?"
"Didn't you say Juliet is 13? Ewwwwwwwww, and she's getting married!?"
"Is Romeo/Juliet hot?"
"Um, why are they killing themselves?"
"This is gay."

My sophomore class reads Othello. From them, I get:
"Why is Iago such an asshole?"
"Why does Desdemona do whatever her husband says?"
"Why doesn't Othello just talk to Desdemona instead of killing her?"
"What does 'make the beast with two backs' mean?"
"Is Desdemona/Othello hot?"
"This is gay."

And my seniors read Hamlet. Their pearls of wisdom are:
"Can't you just give me a 70 and not make me read this?"
"This is gay."

So imagine my delight when I found The Second City videos of the Sassy Gay Friend. Finally! Someone to tell all of the Shakespeare heroines that they are a stupid bitch.

I love these videos because they are what every reader wishes they can do when they're reading Shakespeare tragedies. Someone desperately needs to take these ladies out for drinks and therapy and maybe a nice spa day.

They've also given my friends and me plenty of one liners to pop at one another. Look at your life, look at your choices.

Romeo and Juliet


Othello


Hamlet

Singles Awareness Day

Valentine's Day happened. I overdosed on cakeballs.

That pretty much sums up that day.