Drag Me to Hell-Yeah

Every once in a while an idea will come along that is so epic, it needs to be shared. My 31st birthday did not start out as one of those ideas. I personally don't care about celebrating my birthday. But as soon as May hits, everyone and their mother, quite literally (Hi Becky) asks me what are "we" doing for my birthday. Then, as June approaches, it's a non-stop barrage of questions for Jason and I, most common one being: "Where is my invitation?" Having learned from my 30th birthday, I changed up somethings this year: 1. All the invitations were sent over Facebook (So if you are that person reading this and wondered why you didn't get an invite? You probably did. You just didn't see it in your events.) 2. The menu was potluck, though nobody ate a lot of food to begin with. 3. We didn't cut my cake and wish me Happy Birthday, that's how much fun we were having. And finally, there was the theme.

This little epic nugget came to me while talking to my good friend Troy. You remember? The Asshole. Although he did watch The Crow finally, so he is only the Diet Coke of Asshole. Leave it to a Virgo to spark brilliance. It went something like this:

Troy: You throwing a party this year?

Me: I don't know.

Troy: Why?

Me: I got really fed up last year with people complaining about my birthday party and the way we threw it. Like its not even about my birthday. More like Jay and I are gay party planners and this is a reason for them to drink and have fun.

Troy: Do you really think that?

Me: No. I'm just being a bitch. And because I am, I am thinking of a way for me to get my own fun out of the situation. Like, I don't know, force them to wear a dress.

And from there, the "Turning 31 Is a Drag" party was formed. Out of the 75 people I gave an invite to, only 20 accepted. And even from that list, not all of them showed up. But I will tell you now, if you were not one of the 30 people that ended up attending . . . you missed out. This party was epic. It was legend-wait for it-dary. Hands down, best party we have thrown in years, and maybe, ever. Why was it so good? I am glad you asked.

If you know me, you know I use the phrase "hug from Jesus," to describe something that couldn't get any better. This night had several moments like that. The whole thing began when Jason and I went shopping that morning at Kmart to finish off our costumes. Nothing is better then two guys going through the junior miss section, turning to your partner holding up the most god awful shirt against himself and says "What about something with tassels? I could rock this." And rock it, he did. I think he said it the best with: "I look like Ariel on a bender. Like Eric left her after she became human and now she lives in a trailer park with her fat overweight roommate named Edna."

I must admit. Jay and I thought that it would be us and a couple people who actually dressed up. I figured people would have half-assed it and just went to Thrift stores and bought some old dress. Oh no. People were wearing make up, fake chest hair, implants, the whole nine yards. As it turned out, there was only a handful of people who didn't participate, and mostly it was because they were coming from another party and didn't want to cross-dress there. I can admit, if I was Brad and I was coming from a church meeting . . . well . . . I probably still would have done it. But I have no shame and love to do things for pure shock value. Could you imagine the faces in that meeting when I walked in like this:

And let me tell you. I have a new appreciation for women after my little Cersei Nightshade outfit.. Nylons are a bitch. First you're hot, then you're cold, then you're back to being hot again...they're pulling my skirt up then they're rolling down my legs. I'm starting to think the chorus of Katy Perry's Hot N Cold is about nylons... Speaking of that, nylon is the worst fabric in the world. If cotton is the fabric of our lives, nylon was sent here to torment us into submission. And if it wasn't my nylons rolling down all night, it was that damn skirt that kept twisting around me like a hula hoop, then riding up thighs every time I sat down. The whole night was me pulling my skirt down and crossing my legs so I did not in fact have a "wardrobe malfunction." I was constantly reminded by friends or a sudden draft after I bent over that the skirt I was wearing was not that long. Lesley was very supportive. She sent me to get her a beer just so she could snap this photo:

 And don't even get me started on the lack of pockets. I now know why women carry purses. Their clothes do not come equipped with pockets. Women's pants can be compared to a Ken doll. They are perfect, except they are missing one very important element. Most of us guys resorted to stuffing our bras with our cell phones and such. I believe Jay had the best line for this with: "Now I see why girls do this. It's like Narnia in here. Cellphone, check. Lighter, check. Oh look there's Mr. Tumnus." Then there was Matt and Chris, or as we had nicknamed them, Really Tall Barbie and Skipper:

Their outfits wouldn't allow bras, so they went with purses, or what I am told is a "clutch." Matt's comment was, "Now I know why women always have their hands up like this even when they don't have a purse at all. It's kind of a habit." But if the biggest problem wasn't trying to hold all of my stuff, it was my makeup. Wearing fake eyelashes was a new experience to me. They were glued on with some adhesive that dries clear (which Lesley reminded me was very important and totally worth the extra fifty cents). I also learned I have long eyelashes for a man, because nobody could tell I was wearing fake ones. Re-applying lipstick was a pain in my ass. I finally gave up. What is the point of putting something on if its just going to come off in a few minutes? (giggity) Plus, it's a little odd going to use the bathroom and this is what I see:

Wigs are also not very fun. Sure they look great and complete the cross-dressing ensemble, but still a pain in my ass. My purple wig was squeezing my head so tight I thought my brain was going to come oozing out the top of my head like toothpaste. That thing trapped heat like a mo fo, and the sweat was not helping my make-up at all. And . . . this may be a TMI . . . . it itched more then my nut sack. Trying to keep fake hair out of your face so you don't swallow it is not fun. We all had the typical, tuck behind my ear, move going all night long.

Finally by the end of the night, we had a case of the fuck-its and walked around in our tranny caps. (I assume they are called that because of pop culture. Kind of like how wifebeaters became the new term for undershirt tank tops. Wifebeater is so much shorter.)

I think the women had the better time. Right from the beginning of the day, they had formed an alliance of not crossing their legs while they were seated. Lesley's line: "Why am I crossing my legs like I am trying to be proper?" Then she would slouch down in her chair with her legs spread apart, and a "What up" look on her face. Heather's line: "Now I see why you guys sit like this. It is sooooo comfortable." Then she would grab herself trying to "imitate men." Some things money can't buy.

Some people looked really good in their costume. Some even passed as the opposite sex at first glance. Is it really a compliment when someone tells you that you would make a pretty girl? Lesley was disconcerted by how much she looked like her brother. Jay said his top made him look fat. I couldn't get over the fact that my buddy looked like my kindergarten teacher.

People were laughing and having so much fun, they were tweeting about it all night long. Almost like an "in yo' face" to the people who didn't make it.

The line of the evening came from my new bff. The one in the far right of the picture above. Look at her. Sweet, charming, innocent young lady. Apparently her outfit came together after she confiscated a bracelet that said "I (heart) Vagina." The line that followed was: "I was hoping this bracelet was for some type of fundraising to like, cunt cancer, or whatever they call it." I laughed so hard I almost cried off an eyelash.

At the end of the evening we had our contest for best dressed as a guy, and best dressed as a girl. It was like we had our drag prom court. Although we lined up according to place, we also ended up in height order.

(From left to right: 3rd, 2nd, 1st, 1st, 2nd, 3rd)

I cannot show you all the photos that were taken. I swore to some people I would not post them on the internet. Apparently some of my friends still think they have a shot of running for office. I would just like to say, if we happen to be friends, kiss your political career good-bye now. It will hurt less later. I can illustrate my point with these three photos that were in my top ten favorites of the night:

(I never claimed to be suitable for children)

(During our discussion of crossing and not crossing our legs)

(Chris took his eye out for my birthday, and Matt put it on. Best . . . present . . . . ever)

What I thought was going to be a disaster, turned into an epic success. By the end of the night, people were asking me what the theme for next year was going to be. All I can saw is this: If this idea started out as a way to torment people . . . I have a whole year to come up with something better.


I leave you with this picture of some asshole who showed up late to the party, but stole my heart with his Cher impression:

"IF I COULD TURN BACK TIIIMMMEEE-HHOOOO"