Brokefoot Langhorne

You guys!! After all of your help, I decided to scrap your ideas and choose two of the sexiest, most provocative, most fashion forward accessories to spice up my birthday ensemble:

a cane and...



a big shoe.

Why? Maybe because combined, these two elements are more flattering than control-top panties? Or maybe, because while I was drunk as a skunk at my own birthday party, I managed to roll out of my heels and fracture my foot. That's right folks, yours truly managed to break her foot at her own birthday bash. Needless to say, I had had enough cocktails to dull the pain so that it wasn't until the next day when I realized that I couldn't walk.

And when the sun rose on that day and my foot looked at me all fat and black, I just laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed...until I cried. I will always remember this as the birthday that made me a cripple.

My Birthday Outfit

I don't know what to wear to my birthday party this weekend. So far, my friend Michelle has suggested that I wear the following doll clogs.


If you have any suggestions please let me know. I'm at a loss.








UPDATE: John has helped come up with another addition to my birthday outfit. This hat:


Keep 'em coming people... I need an outfit. Girl needs to look goooooood.

UPDATE: Thank you Karen, for helping me get snuggly on the big day.

Emosions

If you play any Curtis Mayfield song, regardless of what you are doing, you will feel like a pimp. I am currently making a cup of soup, and, baby, there has never been a sexier soup than this split pea funk. It is STEAMY!!! It is made of peas!! Damn sexy peas!! And a little bit o' ham. Grrrrrl, ham! Have you ever had ham? No? It is sexy!

Contrarily, if you want to feel like everything is at stake -- like your daily pointless tasks will save the world, play one of the following CDs: Evanescence, The Last of the Mohicans soundtrack, or Enigma.

And if you just want to noon it up and feel like a lady, drop yourself in a bath tub, because there is only one song to play: "Rosanna" by Toto.

Gas Leak

So, you know when you make a farting noise, but you didn't actually toot, and you can never recreate the noise to prove to everyone that it was indeed not you who dropped a taint ripper? Today, that happened to me, but not with tooting, with an actual natural gas leak...like the kind that comes from your stove and the kind that you are pretty sure can end your life immediately if some leggy blonde walks in and lights a Virginia Slims.


Anywho, so all of a sudden, while diligently wasting worktime writing to all of my friends on IM, a coworker comes into my office to ask if he can pick me up anything from the outside world. Before I can answer, his face screws up and he says, "I smell a lot of gas back here." I, of course, am incredibly embarrassed.


And I say, "What? I didn't! I mean, I don't smell any..." and then I realized that my entire office is saturated in gas fumes and that my hands and feet are tingling and that my brain has a separate heartbeat from my own. Not to mention, I happened to be sitting in the lap of a magical six-eyed walrus named Arturo and the band Yellowcard was having rehearsal in the tiny pocket of my pocket tee. Soooooo stoned.

Of course, like the hero I am, I grabbed my bag and ran directly out of the office without stopping to make sure no one was left behind. And then I did what any rational human being would do with a gas leak, I called 911. Having never called 911 before, let me just say that the operators there, who are obviously trained to remain incredibly calm during highly stressful situations, have a demeanor smoother than Barry White.


Sure, if I were screaming about being trapped in a burning fire, then it would help to have someone act very calm on the other line; but when you have been huffing fumes for hours on end and you are really mellow/ borderline dead just sitting in the sunshine on a beautiful January day, then your convo with the 911 guy sounds a little like this:

911: 911 what's your emergency?

Lang: What? Oh...hi, how are you? Umm, so I think that there's a gas leeeeeeeeeak in my house?

911: Okay, well where is your house?

Lang: It's actually my office. Not my house. I live about a mile away.

911: Cool, I live close to my office, also. It's convenient. Soooo, where is your office?

Lang: Oh, a really nice area. Yeah, I mean, I was just working and then all of a sudden, we were all like, "Is that gas?" "Gas!" You know? And so I called you. Was that wrong? Should I have called someone else? Am I bothering you?

911: No, it's cool, I'm just gonna get the deets on your office and I'll send someone right over to check that place out. Is that alright?

Lang: I guess so. I mean, I've never done this before. I'm a little nervous.

911: Just relax and let daddy take care of you.

So, shortly thereafter, the police come and I'm just sitting outside waiting and making out with the neighbor's dog. He checks the office out and doesn't smell A THING. And then the arrogant bastard forces us to smell the stove, so that we can all learn what gas smells like. I was furious, because I was literally blind in one eye and eating a whole large meatlover's pizza. I didn't get so fucked up by making an excel spreadsheet. He left and told us that someone was probably just chopping up wood and that we smelled the saw. EXCUSE ME???? A saw? Chopping wood? NOBODY CHOPS WOOD IN BROOKLYN!! Except maple addicts looking for a syrup fix.

Finally, though, the firemen came. Those dreamy...MANLY men came marching into the office with their equipment...and OOOOH GURRRRRRRRRL, did they have some equipment!! And do you know what their equipment said? DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT SAID? It said, "Yes ma'am there's a gas leak!! That ol' policeman was wrong! You may be drooling all over yourself and you may have just called yourself on your own cell phone, but you did it BECAUSE THERE'S A LEAK!!!"

Justice was served. Now, I'm just wasted, waiting for my 11 yr-old student to come learn some math. Math might be art time today. Math might be fingerpainting, my friends.

P.S. though, my favorite joke since this happened is this on IM with my friends:

Lang: OMG. There is a gas leak in my office. The fumes are overwhelming.

Friend: Oh God! Leave! Are you okay?

Lang: I Think I'm

Lang: Gonna

Lang: Pass

Lang: ...

Lang: Out

Lang: pheohwertw;riyhe/tiyh/3o4th34pt;.p34ju

That was to simulate my face hitting the keyboard

Friend: LANG??

Lang: (silence)

Friend: LANG???

Lang: What? Who's there?

At Night with the Two Cutest

Hey! Anyone in the NYC area, come see the new Monday show at Rififi (321 e 11th st, between 1st and 2nd), At Night with Gabe and Jenny! The two cutest kids ever are doing a morning talk show at night every Monday at 8 PM. If you come to the one this Monday, you can see me perform along with Matt Goldich, Bobby Tisdale, and Greg Johnson. YAY!

Actual Physics Lesson

A few days ago, I tutored some adorably trendy high school girls for their physics midterm. I sat between them and their matching laptops and we all three had our jeans tucked inside our boots. It was sooooo cute. Here is an excerpt from our lesson:

Lang: Okay, guys so here's a question: what's the difference between mass and weight?

(silence)

Lang: Well, okay, what is weight?

Girl 1: Like...how much you weigh?

Girl 2: How you react with gravity?

Lang: Gravity! Right. So weight has to do with gravity. So, if you're on the moon, your weight is different, because the gravity on the moon is different, but is your mass different?

Girl 1: No?

Lang: No! Right! Why?

(silence)

Lang: Ooooohkay. Because mass is all about how much stuff you are made up of, right? Your matter. Like how many atoms are inside of you...

Girl 2: Adams?

Girl 1: Ewwww...

Lang: Ewwww...

All: Ewwwww...

Lang: No ahh-TOMS.

Girl 1: Oh sure. Atoms.

All: (giggle)

Lang: Yeah, so just remember that weight can change, but mass can't. You know ladies, even at higher altitudes gravity affects you differently, so you can weigh less.

Girl 2: Really?

Lang: You might weigh slightly less on the top of a mountain. (pause) You guys, you would be soooooo skinny on the top of a mountain.

All: (giggle)

Ewwww

I just said the most god-awful thing to a friend of mine. I am on the verge of retching with shame. The goose bumps on my arms are screaming at me to just throw myself in front of the F train and end my puny disgusting existence.

Here's what I said: "His blog is really sexy!"

Ewwww. I hate myself.

I've Been Tagged

Luckily, it's washable spray paint. It would be sooo embarrassing to have "Neck Face" written all over my actual face forever.


JK, you guys!!! Nobody graffitied me! I was tagged by my blogger friend East Side Girl and so I am going to fill out her questionnaire. This is like a weird blog forward. But it will help people who don't know me, get to know me better. Here goes:

What is your earliest film-related memory?
I left Fantasia screaming my face off because of the ghost-like brooms and the fat hippolerinas. I also remember watching Ghostbusters once a day when I was little. That Bill Murray is a real dream.

Name two favorite lines from movies.
1) "Bastian, why don't you do what you dreamed? BASTIAN!! Call. My. Name!" Childlike Empress from The Neverending Story. What can I say? I'm a douche. Also, does anyone...ANYONE...know what the hell Bastian says? My friend Jon says that it is something like "Moonflower," but I do not know if this is correct. I tried watching it on closed captioning once and when he screams his mother's name in the storm, it literally said, "(screams his mother's name)." I feel awkward that I revealed that.

2) "Still surf?" Patrick Swayze
"Everyday." Keanu Reeves. Point Break might just be the best movie on earth for retarded lines. "You're young, dumb, and full of cum." Albeit disgusting, this was a fine moment of poignancy for Gary Busey speaking to Keanu Reeves.


Name three jobs you'd do if you could not work in "The Biz."
1) A dance teacher -- but only for gifted students.

2) I would have a pot holder stand outside of my apartment building. You know, for the locals.

3) Invent a hair device that would give a woman , not waves, but like little zigzags. And I would call it the "Zipper." No, no that's boring. The..."Crimper"... oh that's good. "The Crimper." I gotta write that down.


Name four jobs you have actually held outside the Industry.
1) I'm a private tutor at this very moment.

2) I worked at the Gap for a summer. One time, I chased a woman from the Gap to Eddie Bauer because I found her perfect jean size. Needless to say, the Eddie Bauer employees were nonplussed.

3) I was a student tour guide while attending college. I answered pressing questions like, "Does your cafeteria serve corn? My daughter loves corn."

4) I worked at my boarding school student union restaurant called the RK cafe. This place was not unlike the Peach Pit from Bev Hills 90210 or The Max from Saved By the Bell.

Name three book authors you like.
I'll be honest, I hate book questions. Everyone is so judgmental. You either sound pretentious or stupid. There are so many wonderful authors out there that I have enjoyed, please don't judge these choices. I really believe in all of them...equally.
1) Dostoevsky
2) Darwin
3) Dr. Atkins

Name two movies you'd like to remake or properties you'd like to adapt.
I'd like to star in the live action version of Shrek as well as An American Tale. "And there's nooooo cats in America and the streets are paved with cheeeeese!"


And now to pass on the tradition of this taggery...

You're it my best friends.

Julia

Michelle

Getting Stood Up

At the risk of sounding like a perv, one of my 8th grade boy students is drop dead gorgeous. If I were 14 again, I would certainly be checking my braces for food before smiling in his direction. And not only adorable, but very hip as well-- he wears skateboarding gear and oversized headphones and sometimes we have to reschedule my math tutoring with him for his guitar lesson.

So, obviously, when he stood me up last Tuesday for our daaa..I mean lesson, I was crushed. He had apparently run off with some friends to Chinatown. CHINATOWN?!! My heart burst through my chest, snapping my 48-hour bra, and ricocheted off each rung of my crocheted poncho. It landed with a lonely thud on my TI-82 calculator pressing the 2nd button. After all, that's what I was, second. Second to the fish gut-covered, fake Prada-laden, cheap Boston bus-infested Chinatown. Second.


When I realized he wasn't coming, I reached under my protractor for my secret stash of Malibu. As I stood in the rain sipping my poison, watching raindrops mix with tears and tears mix with Malibu and Malibu mix with yesterday's garbage, it occurred to me that I had to pick myself back up. I couldn't let one blow knock me down. I'm a goddamned grown woman! So, I walked alone back into the classroom, wiped the mascara from my cleavage, placed a red rose in a vase (pronounced vahhhz) on my desk, and did 37 pages of 8th grade math...all on my own. Because ladies, all we have is ourselves, and while there are more fish in the sea, I don't necessarily need to munch on tuna. I think this lesson is clear.

How to Deal, as an Adult, with Having Been on American Idol

I'll tell you how you deal, you rejoice.

A couple of summers ago, my friend Michelle and I attempted to convince all of our singer friends to try out for American Idol. It was Season 3 and it seemed really possible that some of our more talented friends might have a real shot at making it to Hollywood. None of these "so-called" friends took the bait. So, if we were going to root for anyone, it was going to be ourselves.

Round 1: The Javitz Center. On a hot summer morn, these two 22 yr-old, penniless, comedians, knee-deep in temp jobs, lined up to have a laugh and spend two August nights and three August days sleeping on the concrete driveway outside the Javitz Center in NYC with 10,000 nameless, melisma-shrieking, "Lean on Me"-belting, dance circle-forming strangers. We were geriatric by American Idol standards. A small child in front of us wearing head gear and carrying a rattle was turned away with her mother because she was one month too young.

After 4 hours in a slow moving line, not unlike cows trudging into the slaughter house, we were ushered to our sleeping spots. Most people had taken time out of summer vacation to travel with their beeeeeeeeeest frieeeeeeends to the Big Apple. Michelle and I had taken fake time out from our temp jobs and very short train rides from our apartments.. Next to us were a crew of theater dorks from some high school in Connecticut -- all overweight, all gay/bisexual nerdsluts, all in flowing velvet peasant shirts.

Three days we spent on Chex Mix beds outside the Javitz Center. One night, a drunk girl was making too much noise, which woke another girl up who started screaming, "I knooooooooooow youahhh not going to ruuuuuuuuuuin this opportuuuuunity for me!" and she went on like that for hours, waking up everyone else, and, thusly, ruining everybody else's opportunities.

It should be stated that Michelle has a decent voice and by the end of the second day, we were convinced that she would be a shoo-in to go to Hollywood. I, on the other hand, have been told that I have no trachea (thank you, Jules) so my real goal was to be an outtake. At one point, while Michelle was furiously practicing her song by a black man, she said tremulously, "I'm a little horse. I'm a little horse. Ahem. Can you hear that? I'm a little horse." To which, I replied, "neigh." So, on a field trip from the other refugees to the Duane Reade she bought me a little horse.


As the days passed, the concrete jungle of the Javitz Center became a fantastical summer camp. There were activities and t-shirts and even celebrities...Jared the Subway Guy. We tried to get in a commercial with him, but he seemed more interested in the Christina Aguilera and Justin Timberlakes of the crowd. When he moved away from us, Michelle retorted sweetly, "THANKS! THANKS A LOT ASSHOLE!! WHAT? ARE WE NOT PRETTY ENOUGH? Jared? Hello?" It was sad, we were both really prepared to tell him what our favorite subway sub was. Michelle loves Southwest Chicken and like Chicken and Bacon Ranch. At least I get to tell you all.

Finally, we got to try out. We stood in a sea of adolescents in Kangol hats guzzling honey. I decided to carry my little horse in with me and named him "Lucky." Everyone needs a good luck charm, however, he would become so much more important. We stood in front of the first round judges -- not Simon, Paula, and Randy -- in groups of three: me, Michelle, and a smaller Clay Aiken look-alike. Clay Jr. went first and sang the weirdest, gurgliest version of Staying Alive ever. Then Michelle went and she had more soul than Luther Vandross. And then, me: I whipped this horse out from behind my back and said like a moron, "you'll have to excuse me but I'm a little horse." Then, I proceeded to sing "Hello" by Lionel Richie in the shakiest baby voice. I realized how bad I sounded after three lines and stopped and said, "I quit." The judges laughed so hard at my pathetic performance that they put me through to the next round. Also, I think that Clay Jr., Michelle, and I were such a motley crew that they couldn't resist us and actually put all of us through.

Round 2: The Waldorf. I'll be honest, I didn't want to go. I had to quit my temp job and this joke was literally stretching out over a week. However, Michelle and my conscience wouldn't let me stop. I showed up with my hair in a bun and a nasty blue polo shirt. The judges from the first round made me promise to do exactly the same thing in the second round. Obviously, they were checking to see if I had the goods to be an outtake. So, I did exactly the same thing again for the judges and they said, "Why would you quit? No one quits American Idol." And I said, "I don't know." And they said, "Sing another song." But I had only prepared "Hello." So I tried to think of any other song that I knew the words for and the only one that came to mind was, "Sweet Child of Mine." You guys, my voice, especially my singing voice, is akin to that of a tiny bunny scream. Once I tried to be Axl Rose it was over, they told me that they could not let me through to the next round. Michelle did not make it either.

We both had avoided the cameras for most of the experience, because we were worried that our coworkers would see us. Not much of a worry for the 19 yr-olds of the crowd.

CUT TO 6 MONTHS LATER: After losing my temp job, I took a job at a Harlem public high school teaching math to the students who were at risk of not graduating because they could not pass the Math A Regents Exam.

Now, when you are a public high school teacher, you do anything it takes -- ANYTHING -- to keep your private life away from the ears of the students. I knew teachers who wouldn't reveal their first names much less whether or not they had girlfriends or boyfriends.

So, when you've had a long day at work, sculpting the minds of the youth, and you see yourself pop up on the screen as a "reject" of the most-watched television show in the country, your first thought is "What the eff am I going to do tomorrow? How the hell am I supposed to walk into that school?" My solution, I wore my reading glasses as a disguise, buuuuuuuuuuuuuuut apparently I am not Clark Kent and everyone could still see that it was me.


I was immediately surrounded in the hallway by a mob of students who screamed, "MISSSSSS!!! WHY YOU MAKE A FOOL OF YO'SELF?!!!!" and "MISSSSS!!! CAN YOU EVEN SING??? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"

But, then, there was the other side. It was the first day that my entire class, plus some kids who were not enrolled, showed up. It takes something big to get perfect attendance in a math class for kids who hate math. At the end of the day, one girl asked me for an autograph. I left oddly with more respect from my students than I had before. I was relieved, everything was fine, all I had to do now was wait for the phone calls from my ritzier private student's parents.

And now, without further ado. Me on American Idol -- the worst pun in American Idol history, I believe.

Nooniest Couple of the New Year

Goes to Nicolette Sheridan and Michael Bolton. Ewwww.

Is It My Imagination or...

1. Does the theme song to the L-Word sound a lot like "My Favorite Things" from the Sound of Music?

Girls in tight dresses, Who drag with moustaches, Chicks driving fast, Ingenues with long lashes. Brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my favorite things.

2. Do President Bush and Emeril Lagasse have almost identical speaking patterns? Bush: "Uh...ummm...uhhhh...we're gonna kick it up a notch and umm...put a little democracy in Iraq. BAM!" I feel strongly that I am not wrong about this.

3. Is Cute Overload not the best site ever? Oh god, I am hugging my stapler because of it.

4. Is Lindsay Lohan a little too hot for a bulemic? Shouldn't she be puffier. My friends Jules and Jenny and I think so. Aren't bulemics puffy? No offense to bulemics. I just thought that there was a puffy factor.

5. Shouldn't everyone be allowed to own a guidehorse? Not just the blind. It's a shame that the blind cannot see how cute their horses are. If I had my own guidehorse, I would name him/her Sh'buns.

6. Is Project Runway just like heroin and Bravo is like having a drug dealer live in your building? I watch an episode every day. I try to stop, but I just can't. I just can't.

7. Is Bennetton probably the most excited for Angelina's mystery pregnancy?

8. Are there other people out there who wished they hadn't thrown away their pogo ball?

Budy Got Back

I just wanted to welcome my bestie Michelle back from Budapest, because I missed her. Welcome back!

A Letter of Recomenstruation

Today, I have been struggling with writing a college letter of recommendation for a student as well as struggling with severe PMS. Let me know what you think:

To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing to highly recommend Brian as a candidate for admission at your institution. He has been a pupil of mine for a year and a half and, during that time, I have gotten to know him as both a student and a person. I feel that he would truly blossom at your school bringing the same energy and tenacity to his activities as he did while he was here at home. While (blurred due to teardrop) his grades and scores may not reflect the deep enthusiasm that he feels for academia, I can assure you that he is indeed driven by a precocious desire to investigate all areas of scholarship. His (teardrop) motivates all (teardrop) to do their (teardrop). (teardrop) (teardrop) extracurricular (puddle of spittle) high priorities. He ranked (teardrop) in the division for (little bit of snot mixed in with a teardrop and one eyelash) made his whole school extremely proud. I can't say what makes this student (teardrop + contac), but I believe that undoubtedly (bit more spittle) in the future. (Splash of vomit) into consideration, I hope that you can see past the (little blood and hair) and find the (urine spray). Brian deserves the (spinal fluid drip). Thank you for your (bone marrow smear).

Sincerely,
(little piece of pancreas) Fisher

Hip Hip Beret!!

I would just like to say "congratulations" to my adorable student Allie (who I hope does not read this blog) for getting accepted early decision to college at Franklin and Marshall!! Good work, Allie. All that hard work really paid off! Yahoo!

I would also like to say "congratulations" again to Allie for subsequently getting busted by her parents for partying almost immediately after receiving her acceptance letter.

Baby's all growed up.

It's Time for my Monthly...

Behind these dark and mysterious eyes, there lie many secrets...deep, dark, powerful secrets. Secrets about the people I meet, the places I go, the adventures I have...oh, the secrets. But if you ask me where I am on the first Saturday morning of most months, I will hesitate to answer, because this, my pets, is my darkest secret of all...


On these Saturday mornings, I will rise from the shelter of my deluxe duvet cover and mock the sun with a knowing chuckle. I will walk to the window wearing nothing but a miniature kimono and stare from my second floor window into the trash shaft below. "It is time," I say aloud.

After a quick shower and a tooth brushing session, I will don my costume: juicy couture sweatpants, puffy coat, large hoop earrings, "Mario Forever" fake tattoo, and Timberlands. I then put together my survival kit: one identification card, a registration certificate, a calculator, and, not one, but two #2 pencils. That's right sweet children, almost once a month I pretend to be seventeen, walk into a Brooklyn public high school, and take my SAT.


Some of you are probably wondering why I would do this and if I have a fake ID. No, I do not have a fake. How weird would that be to be 25 with a fake 18 year-old ID? How ironic. The truth is that you don't have to be in high school to take your SAT. Think of all of the people who go back to school later on in life. You also don't have to use your social security number. So, it is not on my "human" record that I do this.

The reason: because sitting for a 4 hour test at 8 AM on a Saturday, when you probably were drinking until 4:30 AM the night before, is tons of fun?!! No. Because I have multiple personality disorder and Yvette, my 17 year-old personality, wants to get into a good school? No. Because I'm just up at that time and don't have anything better to do? Yes and no. Because I work for a test prep company that needs research since the SAT doesn't publish most of its tests? There you go.

This is actually a pretty standard practice by test prep companies -- sending out researchers to take the test so that the company knows what kind of questions show up and, thusly, can make $$ off of test prep materials that resemble the actual test.

Regardless, though, remember when you walked out of the test at age 17 or 18 and said to yourself, "Thank God, I never have to do that again." Well, welcome to my Hades. I might as well be rolling a huge boulder up a mountain only to have it roll down the other side.
There are some perks to not actually caring what your score is, though. For instance, I slept through an entire Verbal section once. I have also written essays (there's an essay now, for those of you who were not aware) about my best friend, Oprah, American Idol, Fight Club, burning witches, and crack cocaine. As the old person, you can also mouth off to the proctor. One girl who was timing all of the sections incorrectly got a mouthful from me; this actually made me enemy numero uno for the rest of the class though, because this proctor was giving everyone 5 extra minutes on each section. Oops! But baby, I wanted to go home and 5 minutes extra on 10 sections is an extra hour. So, I spoke up and afterwards spent that hour of saved time, plucking gum from my hair and a bullet from my back.
It's my job and a pride-swallowing one at that. Nothing makes you feel worse than standing in the teenage girl's bathroom, surrounded by 17 yr-olds, who are talking about someone losing her virginity, noticing your first grey hairs.

Junk Phooeyed

I was talking to a friend recently about how, when you were really young, you couldn't wait to grow up so that you could buy yourself all the Happy Meals, Cookie Crisp, and Little Debbie that you wanted. Once you made your own money, dinner could suddenly consist of ice cream cakes and marshmallows and there would be no parental interference.


What's hilarious is that her original point in bringing this up, is that a meal of Cheetos topped with Cheez-Its would now be a nightmare for her, now that she craves mixed greens and celery roots; however, I think that it would still be awesome. I think that my taste buds are not so different than what they were when I was 7. The only reason that I don't hide a lunchables in my thong is that I am trying not to be a candidate for gastric-bypass surgery. But if you did put an ice cream cake in front of my face, I bet I could polish off a large portion of it.


I bring this up because I am sitting here eating a bowl of Kashi Go Lean, but what I really want is a bucket of fried chicken with all the fixins.

Becoming Queen

So, I've gotten a few requests for my "prom queen story" and now, I am ready to deliver. Behold:

Yeah, so, anyway, like, I guess when I was like a (sigh) senior in high school, I was the prom queen. That's it.

Keep in mind that my school had no homecoming queen so this was the most stupendously marvelous honor that could be bestowed on anyone...ever...forever. Anywho, prom was a'coming up and I did not have a date yet. The problem with private boarding school is that the date pool is much smaller than that of a big ol' public school and many of those from whom you can choose were suspended for drinking or being in the girls' dorm after hours. Since I wasn't dating anyone at the time, I decided to take matters into my own hands and I chose the best looking guy I could find. My once and future king was a friend of mine named James. He was one of those kids who was kind of soft in the middle for his underclassmen years and then one summer just came back to school with the body of a god. Yay for me!

We opted for a really flamboyant theme to our outfits. He wore a denim tuxedo that he bought at Goodwill for like three pennies and a spool of thread, topping off the ensemble with yellow-lensed glasses and a large-feathered pimp hat. I, still being a 1990's teenage girl, bought a dress from Betsey Johnson and a pair of Steve Maddens. To match my date, though, I added a feathered boa, elbow-length gloves, cat's eye sunglasses, an Audrey Hepburn length cigarette extension, and a leopard print coat stolen (and later returned) from the school's costume closet.


We were breathtaking.

As legend has it, our entrance to the ballroom was almost holy. Our gloriousness silenced the room, taking the breath away from each and every other partygoer. Young Timmy Smith, with his weak heart, fainted when we walked past (He was later revived by some smelling salts and whiskey from the local medicine man). Without anyone operating it, the spotlight couldn't help but follow James and me everywhere we went. The crepe paper decorations bowed to us as we danced by, while the punch bowl bubbled when we refilled our plastic cups. At one point, the heavens opened up and all of prom saw the face of God, who just so happened to give James and me a wink. There was no vote, the Queen's tiara and the King's crown just floated across the room to our heads. So, we slow danced until dawn...or 11:00 PM. And then it was time to go to an afterparty where we imbibed case upon case of Coors Light, a beverage of kings. The next morning, I awoke and wondered if it had all been a dream, but when I opened my hand, I was still holding a can of the Silver Bullet. Magical.

So, that's the story, exactly as it happened. That's how I became queen.


Last night, I spent some time looking through old scrapbooks trying to find a picture from this blessed night. I contemplated posting the usual girl + boy + corsage professional picture. I decided, however, that the most appropriate photograph is the one below. A picture of me drunk as a Portuguese barback at approximately 4 AM at my friend Molly's afterprom party. Notice the leopard coat and TIARA!!! Thank you Dan and Jesse for being my fly boys in this photo.