Gypped

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My favourite past times are gossiping, gawking and gasping. I love to sit with my hands clasped and my eyes wide as my friends and I discuss the antics of our acquaintances and ourselves. I giggle to myself over the secrets I manage to keep and I laugh loudly at the ones I let slip. I always take sides in an argument between friends and I never shut my mouth. Sadly for me, I moved far away from the friends who appreciated and encouraged my bitchtastic behavior. For the past year and a half, I have been surrounded by working class soccer moms who appreciate a good casserole recipe and can get a grass stain out of just about anything. Since the move, I have become a shadow of my former self and I fucking hate it.

Last night I im'd my big gay brother-in-law to lament about my current lack of fabulousness, hoping he'd be sympathetic and escort me to a drag show. But alas, no. I was totally gypped in the big gay BIL category. I was hoping for a queen, and I got stuck with a cub. You know those plaid shirt wearing hockey watching mos that work out to lift heavy things, not to look beautiful? He hates the Academy Awards and doesn't know what I should do with my hair. He doesn't even have pierced nipples. Ugh. The only plus is that his name shortens nicely to Fran, so while he's bitching about the Canucks GM I can snicker to myself that Fran the Tran is grumpy. He thinks it's funny, but not funny enough to slap on a feather boa and a tiara for me.

I haven't been caught in the middle of a drag queen bathroom brawl in ages. I watch Priscilla, Queen of the Desert by myself without anyone to sing along with me. No appreciates my bright blue patent leather ballet flats. None of my current friends understand the art of voguing. I can't wear a head scarf non-ironically anymore. I haven't had a back rub without someone going for boob in forever. I am stuck smack dab in the centre of BC's bible belt where the closest are big and the judgements are harsh.

Today, I am going to buy my brother in law a t-shirt that reads, "I am the pink sheep of the family," and hope to god that he discovers he's had a lisp all along. Because, at the end of the day, we all know that without my fags, I am just a hag. All is not lost though, for in the immortal words of Anita Margarita dragging to Gloria Gaynor, I Will Survive.