Finding the Frock

I am not a fully functioning girl. Well, not in THAT way. All systems are go where they ought to be, if you catch my drift. But! I seemed to have missed the day in girl school when they told you to love things like Shopping! Hair products! Lip gloss! Spending time in the bathroom! Shopping! Endless chats on the phone! Shopping! Shopping! In fact, shopping makes me break out into hive like sores. I dislike it to such a degree that I have feigned illness when I’ve known it was on a friend’s agenda. You want to shop? I’m sorry, but I need to stay near home. I’ve had an attack of angina.

This is strange in that I love clothes. Adore them. Consider myself something of a fashion expert. Hilarious, since I spend most of my day in sweats, yelling at people. After which I come home and put on my Official Eating Pants. So it’s not like I’m trotting around in couture and Jimmy Choo’s, though I long for a life that would require more of that.

Regardless, my darling friend Angie decided to go and get married. And, as one knows, THE DRESS is one of the most important parts of that entire affair. Since I’m bossy and will plan out your life for you if you let me (actually, who am I kidding? I’ll do that for you even if you don’t want me to), I named myself her stylist. This works for several reasons: a. I’m not going to let my friend walk down that aisle looking anything other than totally magnificent and b. Angie hates to shop ALMOST as much as I do. SO! We’ve come up with a battle plan for finding her the perfect dress. Which means that I do a bunch of research online (in the Official Eating Pants…with snacks) and then we do a blitz-kreig like few days of stalking my research down, killing it and dragging it home for further inspection. Sort of a hunting/gathering type enterprise, if you will. We are efficient! And do not let shop people deter us from our goal! (We do not like shop people). Though if you are a cute, small, gay man you’ll definitely get our undivided attention…for at least five minutes…longer if you compliment Angie on her hair. She’s susceptible like that. Also, we agree that small, gay men are made out of the Baby Jesus, kittens and butterflies.

So, this weekend will include such an expedition. We plan to rock the shit out of it. Me, as Angie’s bitch, and Angie, racing around in all sorts of complicated underwear that one needs when one is trying on The Most Important Frock Ever. Pray for us. We’ll need it. That and the flask of tequila I plan to bring along. For sustenance and wise decision making. I am, if nothing else, prepared.