Pro Dragon Con

The girls started school recently, which means I have been sick as a dog; they have proven themselves to be quite proficient when it comes to importing all sorts of new germs, and I don't appreciate it. I have been going stir crazy, so this morning it became imperative that I put on my best tutu and head to the Dragon Con parade. For the uninitiated, Dragon Con is the world's largest fantasy/sci-fi convention and every Labor Day weekend it's responsible for turning Atlanta into the adult version of the Island of Misfit Toys. Anything goes - you're a Furry with a Steampunk/Mad Max fetish? Sit by me! You think a Wonder Woman costume might be improved upon by adding blue face paint and a giant pair of black crow's wings? Come on by! It's fantastic. People come from all over the world, admire one another's Star Trek uniforms and have nasty monkey sex. And top it all off with a fabulous parade. Remember that kid who got stuffed in a locker in 5th grade because he was really into Dungeons and Dragons? He's getting the last laugh, as well as a fierce blowjob from a saucy young thing in a Princess Leia bikini. Mark my words.

you look beautiful, Leia

 

Things did not get off to the best start for the Piper squad; just as we pulled into the valet station, the RM expressed her opinion of our outing by vomiting all over herself. JHP fled the scene, so I said a quick thank-you to the sinus infection that has killed my sense of smell, mopped her off and rallied. Just in time to see this

 

 

Begone! This is no place for you people. If you can't accept the idea of people dressed up as Tetris pieces, or that Batman is actually a middle-aged woman (and one of quite large carriage, at that) then you need to get the hell out of my parade. Perhaps your time would be better spent by assisting this poor zombie family who's gotten lost.

Zombies were big this year. First there was Stan the zombie, who I wouldn't know from Adam the zombie, but who is evidently famous enough to warrant a solo spot

But Stan can't beat this with a truckful of sticks; pack your shit up and move on out because nothing is better than zombie Village People. Disco is dead, indeed.

I don't know the story behind this but it made me feel funny, in a bad way. Like the first time I saw "Reservoir Dogs", or a naked old person.

 

 

Especially because they were immediately followed by this

 

shit



And this made me feel old and out of it, because I don't know who this is

 





but then HE showed up and all was right with the world.

 



 

I was a little insulted on his behalf that someone felt it was necessary to put his name on the side of the car - who doesn't recognize Billy Gee-Dee Williams?!? That is one bad, bold, smooth motherfucker. I love him almost as much as I love Abe Carver on "Days of Our Lives" and that's saying something. Star Wars was, as usual, the most popular theme of the day, so Lando got much love. Star Wars was also open to the most reinterpretation; we had these guys, because, of course.

 

this is a shockingly common cross-fetish, evidently

 

that Jar Jar Binks is such an annoying idiot. It's only August, for Pete's sake and he's all "Merry Christmas!"

 

this kind of pissed me off. The Muppets have no business aligning with the Empire. What gives?

 

The Venn Diagram overlap of Stormtrooper Parrotheads was quite small, which pleased me because I can't help but feel like Jimmy Buffett's career is built upon laughing at our expense. I don't care for him. My favorite ex-boyfriend earned that status by kicking someone out of his fraternity for proudly claiming "I'm the biggest Parrothead you'll ever meet. If you even THINK you know a bigger one, you're wrong." Fortunately, these fine folks showed up

 

 

to let us know that the Death Star shall be breached via Little Rascal. Right about now the RM booted again, this time on my shoulder as well as after my sinus medicine kicked in so I was able to fully appreciate the bouquet. We tied the kids to the car and rolled out.

 

It was all exhausting. We lay as we fell.



 





We Put the Fun in Funeral

August 16th is an important date for our family. For one thing, it's my sister's birthday. It's also the day on which both Elvis Presley and my paternal grandfather died, as well as not my birthday, so it isn't all fun and games. I'd like to say that Elvis and Pappaw (that's what we called my grandfather, because we're sophisticated like that) got tangled up in the rough stuff and went down together but the truth is that they died several years apart and Pappaw's idea of fast living was trying sweet acidophilus milk, so, not so much.

What do you say you let me get friendly with your blood pressure pills, Pap?

 

Growing up I was not pleased that Cslos was all up in my shit having a birthday a mere five weeks after mine. I felt that it was only reasonable to have the whole season to myself and was therefore reluctant to cede the birthday spotlight so soon. For that reason August 16, 1977 began in the Higdon household with my mother giving me a stern talking-to about how I was not to make this all about me, young lady, or I would be very sorry. This was my sister's day, and if there was even one tiny moment where I tried to steal her thunder then I could just go ahead and kiss my new Stretch Armstrong goodbye missy. So I'm glumly watching "The Price Is Right" while Mom gets Cslos ready for the big birthday party that was not mine when we cut to the "Breaking News!" that Elvis Presley has been pronounced dead. We lived in Memphis so this was a big fucking deal indeed. I ran upstairs to tell Mom that ELVIS is DEAD! and she grabs my arm and says "what did I tell you about trying to get all the attention today! Go back downstairs." It wasn't until we were in the car later on that she realized I actually spoke the truth. You'd think this would have bought me some credibility - or attention - but you'd be wrong.

 



Jesus called. Elvis answered.

 

Pappaw followed along a few years later, in a much less dramatic fashion as was his wont. His was the first funeral I remembered attending; according to my parents I'd been to my great-grandmother Sykes' funeral when I was very small, but I had no recollection of this. The only clear memory I had of Sykesie at all was of the time I talked her into playing "bride" with me, a game that involved her walking up and down the driveway holding flowers while I threw gravel at her. Exactly the kind of game fit for a nonagenarian. I was surprised to discover that aside from the sad aspect of it all funerals were actually pretty damn fun. We got to buy new clothes, go to Nashville and see everyone (aside from the star of the show, of course) and play with our cousins? Completely catered and supervised, if at all, by very distracted people? Don't mind if I do! Over the years we had some good times at Hibbett & Hailey, the funeral home of choice, located ironically just down the street from Nodyne Road and Wellman Drive. Lots of bad behavior and goofing off and whatnot. Old H&H must have sensed that my grandmother's funeral in '88 would be our last hurrah there because they sent us out in style; on the afternoon of the visitation my sister and I discovered an artificial leg in a coat closet. Just leaning against the wall, all by its lonesome, waiting for who knows what. Cslos and I to this day can't decide what to make of it - an aggressively practical relative snatched it out of a coffin so as not to be wasteful? Some attendee decided to switch to a mourning wear model? Death, you doth raise eternal questions!

 





A den of inequity! Or parlor of a funeral home.

 

Elvis is probably more popular now than he ever was alive. Dead Elvis week is a big deal in Memphis - maybe the biggest tourist draw of the year. It's difficult to describe how strange and enjoyable it is if you've never been; picture a poor man's Las Vegas with no gambling and lots of Japanese. I like to think about what a Dead Pappaw week would be like. I do know there would be spaghetti, and lots of Lawrence Welk and Liberace, and the look-alike contest would be heavy on severely hiked up pants. It sounds like the kind of thing that would really catch on in Brooklyn. Either way, people gave their lives for your birthday fun, Cslos. Enjoy it.

 

Happiest of birthdays to my beloved sister, Catherine Higdon. I love ya somethin awful.



Vanity

Fall is practically upon us, which means (among other things) that we are being told how to dress. Let's start with the girls: AD's swimsuit may have grown into her skin to the point that it will take a potato peeler to remove it and get her street legal for school, plus I've got to somehow convince the RM that her underwear is not in fact a storage unit but is instead the foundation (garment) of basic civilized behavior. AD will be fairly easy, but the RM is, as always, likely to be a different story - I'll be reasonably satisfied if I can get her to stop sticking apples in her ass. That's not a quaint country euphemism, yesterday I actually caught her trying to hold an apple slice between her nude buttcheeks. Nothing new there other than the choice of foodstuffs, but still, not the kind of thing that brings joy to a mother's heart. We'll see.

This is also the time of year when all the fashion magazines deliver their edicts for the coming seasons. Having grown up as a product of Marts both K and Stein, I generally ignore this; fashion was not something my parents put a lot of emphasis on, and I got that gene in triplicate. Please don't mistake me - aside from an inexplicable Cosby sweater bender my dad went on in the mid '80's my parents have always dressed nicely, albeit frugally. It wasn't as if they were walking around in nothing but Ariel underwear with Granny Smiths sticking out of their butts (I guess the RM got a double recessive gene somewhere with that shit), but there wasn't exactly an Andre Leon Talley in residence on Grandview Avenue. The joke among my high school friends was "I'm going to Sam's Club - Elise, do you need any clothes?" Which probably doesn't count as a joke since that's exactly what my mother said on a weekly basis. And still does. So I'm generally not the target audience for the glossy magazines; I'd probably get as much out of a prostate exam as I would from a subscription to "Vogue". JHP has actually been known to confiscate and hide certain items of my clothing because I am unskilled to the point of embarrassment.

That being said, even I know something's wrong with the latest issue of a magazine that's generally pretty harmless, "Vanity Fair". Some of those ads can only be explained by the fact that the fashion industry is testing the limits of American stupidity. For one thing, this:

We are expected to believe that appropriate spelunking attire is a leather glove-purse and a panty; I am not buying that, not for one minute. The only thing that keeps me from immediately loathing this designer is that he goes pretty far in redeeming himself on the next page with this

probably the first model that I am in no way jealous of. What is that face? I think she knows how dumb this is. Thank you for the wink and the nudge, Marc Jacobs - you get that we may be on to you.

 

These also bugged me. Who wants their legs to look like a cigarette holder or an Abraham Lincoln hat?

 

 

 

The shoe industry is another thing altogether - just check out one of the Chanel shoe ads in the Sunday "New York Times" and try and convince me they're not running a long con on women of a certain income. Talk about ugly. Maybe that's what the Marc Jacobs woman is thinking about, all those duped women running around the Upper East Side in footwear that looks like Sesame Street hand puppets. I furthermore don't understand how certain poses are supposed to make you want to wear the clothes. This woman is not aspirational, she's ready for Fight Club. What's the first rule of Versace? Don't talk about Versace. She'll kick the crap out of you for sure.





Lest you have any remaining doubts that we're being played, I leave you with this

These are the "Days of Our Lives" of glasses - for the person who will fall for anything. "Hope Brady's back from the dead and is actually Princess Gina, notorious art thief? Sure! Oh, and after the show's over, let's go spend a bunch of money on orange Elvis sideburn glasses, hakay?" These are what finally prompted me to toss the magazine in the trash. I don't need this kind of negative energy. Plus, I have to go to Costco...the girls need back to school clothes.

And We're Off. And I Do Mean Off.

We've had a rough go of it over here lately. For starters, we flew to Houston with the kids; nothing makes me want to pull that Julianne Moore move in "The Hours" faster than traveling with those two, and adding the air travel component is so awful that I can hardly believe such a reality exists in the first world. The trip usually starts with the Red Menace deciding to run for mayor of the plane, which means that she must establish a sincere personal connection with each of her fellow flyers. That's all well and good and marginally cute until someone inevitably doesn't want to see her belly button or talk about how long her hair is, and then all bets are off; she becomes the most put-upon creature you've ever met, so abused and mistreated that you can only assume she's on her way to the night shift at a Kathie Lee Gifford clothing factory. Because this behavior is met with swift discipline from JHP and me, we then move to the musical portion of our program, the sing-cry. She gets so worked up that her protestations sound like a Greek chorus by way of Barney - "yoooou yoooou yoooou are the most bad Mommy aaaaall the doo-dah daaaaaay!" or "poooooOOOOOPPPPY DAD!" This usually segues into kicking, which becomes extra awesome if she lands any on her sister because then they're both off to the races. All of this takes place before the cabin doors are even shut, which is why we bring so many drink coupons that we almost have to buy them their own seat. Then we do it all over again on the flight home.

So I'm barely recovered from our trip, and my sister emails this to me

 

this is a bat. A fucking BAT. What is with that guy next to it? You are NOT all nonchalant, coming home from work or whatever and finding this - you need to be losing your shit, throwing things at it and wetting yourself and running away. We have not one thing in common.

 

which makes me want to drink paint thinner just so I never have to remember it, ever again. Not since the Giant Sloth Phobia that ruled my 90's or the Great Camel Spider Discovery of aught-two have I been so instantly repelled by an animal photograph. That thing looks like it's trying to claw its way out of a Hefty lawn bag, and what the hell is it eating? I can't even address what it's got going on downstairs...how these aren't extinct, I don't know. Put some underwear on it, and be quick about it before I make a scene.

 

Now I'm really off my game so I do something baldly irresponsible - head to Chuck E. Cheese's. As if our recent trip to White Water didn't expose us to enough dangerous bodily fluids. I'm already feeling glum about the poor quality of my parenting, but as we pull in the parking lot the RM sees the sign and yells "Chuck E. Cheese is a proud sponsor of Disney Junior and Super Why!", and I'm back in a place of shame I hadn't visited since AD told me her favorite song was "800-588-2300, Empire...today!" I was thus compelled to abandon my plan of ignoring the girls in favor of the new "Vanity Fair" and instead actually play with them. The joint wasn't crowded so it was actually pretty fun (I totally rule Skee ball, bitches), but I don't know what I missed because once we got home the RM inexplicably stripped down and started wedging a series of things in her butt cheeks.

 

 

I'm wondering if there were any sneaky hands

 

Just to be clear, this is not at all unprecedented, which I guess just makes it more alarming. Here's a partial list of the things she tried on for size today:

 

1. my car keys

2. a bottle of nail polish remover

3. the "Pete's Dragon" DVD case

4. the "Pete's Dragon" DVD

5. a Swingline stapler (the Chinese and Russian judges upped her score on account of the strength that move required)

6. her flip flop

7. Polly Pocket. Sorry, Polly, we know that's not the pocket you aspire to

8. a starfish

9. a purple beaded necklace she bought with her Chuck E. Cheese's tickets

 

and as we speak, half of her turkey sandwich. I'm looking at something really special right now.

 

I don't know what it says about my mental state that I'm the most disturbed about the necklace. Not that she tried to stick it in her ass, but that I probably paid $20 in game tokens for something that costs eleven cents to produce.

 

I'm putting the girls to bed, making some popcorn and opening a bottle of wine. Come over if you want. We'll stick things in your butt cheeks.

 

Polly - sorry, sister.