Category Archives: fashion

In Which mrpeenee Reports In

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It’s been a rather trying couple of weeks around here.  I had a colonoscopy, a teeth cleaning and a birthday.  It’s not exactly been leaping from heights to heights.

I can sense my longtime readers tensing up, readying themselves for a colonoscopy blow-by-blow, but I’ll spare us all that, mostly because I was completely knocked out, at my insistence, and have nothing to report.  “One step short of zombie” was my actual instruction to the nice little anesthesiologist and he came through.  I have to say, the drugs are very effective, but I remember them being more amusing last time.

My later chat with my regular doctor about the results weren’t that much more enlightening.  He brought up photos from the scan on the computer even though I insisted I was not interested in a slide show.  Since he’s also an old friend he felt free to make cracks about how a gay man shouldn’t make such a fuss over a delivery to the rear entrance, so to speak.  I felt free to mention how he should shut the fuck up.  Our conversation ended with him remarking, in a genuinely startled tone, “Wow they really went way up there.”  Great.  Maybe they were looking for gerbils, I don’t know.  I wasn’t there at the time.

Also: teeth cleaning.  I’ve always been a star pupil at my dentists, breezing through the hygienist’s scraping and sawing, lalalalahla.  This time, though, my toothy luck ran out.   My tooth girl, Penny, seemed unhappy.  Apparently, it was like the Red Wedding up in there.  I tried to think of a way to blame it all on my cat, but she wasn’t having it.  Penny was disappointed, sad and disappointed in me.  I felt bad, my gums had let her down.  Had she announced my dental hygiene would henceforth include a rosary and five extra Hail Marys, I would have been rattling those beads quicker than you could say knife.

After all that, I have to say my birthday was quite a relief.  Balmy and blue, the kind of perfect San Francisco day that reminds us why we pay so very much to live here.  Secret Agent Fred and I repaired to Neiman’s for a lovely tea.  Mine was bolstered by a couple of Vicodins and a concoction called the Lady in Red cocktail.  The menu listed several harmless ingredients, but it turned out to be basically a glass of vodka stained magenta.  Perfect.  One assumes the ladies who lunch crowd that frequents Neiman’s are serious about their cocktails.  Fine with me.

Afterwards Fred and I went off to some tasteful haberdashery for to me buy some birthday socks.  A very attractive sales clerk, a lanky doe-eyed beauty, rolled out drawersful of the most dazzling stockings.  I should mention I had all afternoon been interspersing my conversation with Fred with the announcement “It’s m’burthday, bitch.”  It seemed to excuse any possible lapse, such as when I was jauntily pointing out socks and gaily instructing the dreamboat clerk “I’ll take that and that and a box of those.  It’s m’burthday, bitch.”  He didn’t even bat one of his lustrous and thick eyelashes.  “Happy birthday, sir,” he murmmered.   It was a slow Tuesday afternoon in the store, I was the only customer and if it took being addressed as “bitch” to make a sale, well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

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Socks.  Always an appropriate gift.

Dee Vee

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Diana Vreeland, a goddess who moved among mere mortals, wrote a column called “Why Don’t You…” for Harper’s Bazaar that was a source for insane ideas, because, apparently, some people can’t come up with their own. Among them:

“Why don’t you tie big tulle bows on your wrists instead of bracelets?”
“Why don’t you have your guests autograph a mirror-covered table with a diamond tipped pin?”
and my fave
· “Why don’t you wash your blond children’s hair in dead champagne as they do in France?”

which I always accidentally invert to the much creepier “…wash your dead children’s hair….”

Vreeland fascinates and inspires me the way professional football playing thugs apparently inspire straight boys. She ordered Billy Baldwin to decorate her home all in red, like “a garden in hell”; she created the Met’s Costume Institute; she painted her ears with rouge (is that true? I’ve always heard it, but don’t know and don’t really want to know differently. I retract the question.)

I once had a dream, a nightmare, really, wherein someone corrected me by saying “O honey. It’s not Diana Vreeland it’s Donna Vreeland” and I was overcome with mortification. I have never before or since been embarrassed in a dream, not even the walking-around-Kmart-in-my-underwear ones, but I was there. Thank god it was just a dream. I don’t think I would want to live in a world where such a vivid icon was named Donna.

I gotta go