The Primrose, May 2009
This month my ramblings will be more mental than physical. Fear not, dear reader. I have been getting out and about, and very much enjoying my opportunities to do so. However, none of my travels over the last few weeks have been such that I can generate 2,000 words to describe them. At least not 2,000 words that you would want to devote time to reading. Of course there is the question of why you would ever want to devote time to my rambling words, but we shall save the discussion of such mental aberrations for another time. For now, let us ramble through some random thoughts together. Do be sure to watch your step, avoid steaming divots, mind the gap, don’t run in the parking lot, and keep your arms and legs inside while the ramble is in motion.
*****
The April business meeting of CGS saw the annual exercise of democracy in action. While my membership in CGS began just before the 2008 election, I was not present for that event. So the 2009 event was a new and exciting occasion for me. I shall leave it to the sober and mentally stable members of The Primrose staff to report the important details, and I will confine myself to bits of related fluff and nonsense that might pop into my head. Actually, there is plenty of space in my head for fluff and nonsense. That’s because I employ a special archive filtering mechanism that routinely deletes anything that might be wasting precious memory space, like my name, where I left my car, and whatever it was I was talking about. What?
Apart from the election itself, the main focus of the April meeting was pizza. Now based strictly on the appearance of our group, a casual observer might expect us to prefer a nice salad which we would pick at while sipping a chilled white wine. Surprise! A good rule to remember is that it can be very dangerous to stand between us and the food. It didn’t take long for the pizza and the delicious kringle to be devoured, with the exception of that one pizza. That one sad and misunderstood pizza. The pizza that caused Gina and I to conduct an exhaustive and scientific opinion poll in which we found that 100% of the two of us cannot understand why anyone would want to eat little fish on pizza.
*****
Speaking of people who like little fish on pizza, I was thinking about what it is going to be like to be at a CGS meeting without Katie presiding. I know that Jackie will do a wonderful job leading us, but I am a bit thrown by the image of Katie just being one of US! Where will she sit? Will she sit in the front row and be quiet and attentive, or will she sit way in the back of the room and be a persistent heckler? Without the responsibilities of office, will she sink into the pits of little fish addiction? Will Shirley have to make embarrassed excuses for the fish scales clinging to her lips? Will Katie continue to be the model of age-appropriate fashion, or will she finally wear that see-through miniskirt that she has been saving for a special occasion? Will she begin borrowing from my wardrobe? Will she ever find out that Shirley is occasionally seen in the company of an older man, always when Katie isn’t around? Time will reveal the answers to these perplexing questions, but for now, let us move away from the image of Katie snacking from a pail of little fish while wearing a tarty little miniskirt (Katie wearing the miniskirt, not the little fish).
*****
And now, buried here where no one will ever find it, I would like to add my own little “thank you” to Katie. Thank you for helping to make CGS an organization that I truly enjoy. Thank you for being a warm, open, and welcoming human being. Thank you for being an excellent role model. Thank you for helping me to accept that I should dress for my age, at least some of the time. Thank you for appreciating it when I wear a mini in spite of my age. Thank you for sharing yourself with us.
*****
On a more serious note (really), I suppose I was not alone in being very pleasantly surprised by the recent Iowa Supreme Court ruling that overturned the ban on same-sex marriage in that state. I was particularly struck by the statements that read, “We are firmly convinced that the exclusion of gay and lesbian people from the institution of civil marriage does not substantially further any important governmental objective”, and, “Our constitution does not permit any branch of government to resolve these types of religious debates and entrusts to courts the task of ensuring that government avoids them”. I was further struck by the fact that the ruling was agreed to by all seven members of the court. I will hope that this type of rational thinking continues to spread throughout our society. For now, I continue to wonder how the marriage of any two loving people has a negative impact on someone else’s marriage, or how it erodes someone else’s family values. I also wonder how it is that people seem to forget that our core principles are supposed to be about protecting the rights of everyone, not about imposing the beliefs of the majority on everyone.
Now that I have used up my quota of words that can be devoted to serious subjects, let us return to my usual light-hearted rambling.
*****
Why is that when we immerse ourselves in water for a prolonged period of time (for example a pool, hot tub, or immense martini glass at a naughty motel), our skin tends to become wrinkled (more than usual) or “pruney”. But, when a prune is immersed in water for a prolonged period of time, it gets smooth. Perhaps “peopley”?
*****
Have I mentioned that I am 50% Scottish? I think that means that I love to spend money, but I hate myself later for doing it. More to the point, it means I can (and do) lay claim to the right to wear the national costume of Scotland, the kilt. I own a kilt and I wear it to occasional Scottish and formal events. It is important to note that wearing a kilt is nothing like wearing a femme skirt. To begin with, the thing contains 8 yards of 13 oz. wool, and it weighs about 80 pounds (well, maybe a little less, but it is pretty heavy). Normally, one wears knee-length wool socks with the kilt, and of course it is traditional to allow the breeze to blow through unhampered by undergarments (apart from the Scottish regiments, the undergarment question is a matter of personal choice, and one just doesn’t ask). The end result can be a real itch-fest, especially when it is warm.
Now quite distinct from the true kilt, which is traditionally worn only by men, there are the delightful kilted skirts for women made of beautiful tartan plaids. You have probably seen women wearing these wonderful skirts in all lengths, from floor length all the way up to the reason I brought this topic up to begin with.
Last weekend I had lunch at a new pub that just opened in Woodridge (in the Seven Bridges area) called The Tilted Kilt. The food and the locally brewed lager were quite good, but it is the server’s uniforms that I would like to mention. I must admit to loving and being extremely jealous of the adorable little kilts that the servers wear. I want one! Of course I couldn’t wear it with bare midriff as they do (not a pretty sight; me with a bare midriff that is), and rather than white knee socks, I would probably go with suntan thigh-highs, and the chunky heels would have to be replaced with stilettos, and . . . well, you understand I’m sure. We end up with the counterpoint to the traditional masculine highlander. The totally age-inappropriate microminiskirted t-t-girl (that’s tarty t-girl). Come to think of it, I already have such a skirt hiding in the back of my closet. I guess I had forgotten because when I wear it I don’t look anything like the 20-something servers at the Tilted Kilt. Sigh.
*****
Hey, I received a telephone call from Lisa “the devil woman” at Tall Girl shop. It seems that the delightful little black and white dress that I resisted buying last time is now on sale. Ah ha! That’s one for Greer! Patience and a frugal attitude paid off. But wait, someone might buy it before I get there! Eh gads! Quick, warm up the t-car while I put on my face, it’s time for a shopping trip!
*****
Note to readers: sorry, I am unable to refund the time that you have just wasted while reading my pointless ramblings. However, I can offer you a store credit that will allow you to read next month’s column in half the time!
*****
Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Please send to me at greercd@hotmail.com.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Greer's Ramblings
The Primrose, February 2009
We could be in trouble. I have now started writing this month’s column, and I haven’t decided just what I want to write about. Well, that’s not entirely true. I want to write about my evening out last Saturday night. But I don’t know just what I want to say about the evening. Well that’s not entirely true either. I want to tell you about having fun with old friends and new friends, about good jokes and bad jokes, and about dancing solo and dancing with ardent (if very short) admirers. I guess what I really don’t know is how to tell you without being boring. Let’s see if I can manage. Let me know if you start to nod off.
First let me introduce you to the cast of characters. In the interest of fairness and even-handed journalism, this shall be done alphabetically. Let no one even think that the first person I name is any more guilty than the others (although “innocent” might not fit either). Without further ado, our first participant is Christine. An active member of CGS, many of you will remember her part in the recent Chicago Illusions play. Well, at least you will remember the dress that she (almost) wore along with her paddle.
Our second participant is Dawn. It was actually Dawn that initiated our little night out through the Transformations Forum. Most of you don’t know her as she usually remains hidden away disguised as a suburban male. So good is this disguise that no one has ever read her (or rather him). Thanks to Dawn there were some photos available to accompany this column. I forgot my camera at home, again!
Alphabetically, Greer would be next, but you already have the good/bad (choose one) fortune of knowing her, so we shall move on.
The final principal character was a visitor from England, whom I shall refer to as “L”. For fear of being exposed and having her passport revoked along with her garter belt, L asked that her identity not be exposed. Consequently I won’t mention her “other” name (Archibald Fotheringham) or where she lives (Oxford) or her profession (condom street-vendor) so that no one can connect the dots and find a cute bunny rabbit that points to our new friend L.
OK, everybody ready? Here we go! (I hope to hell this gets more exciting, I can even feel MY eyes getting heavy.)
Our adventure began at Hunter’s, as so many interesting adventures do. It was early yet, only 7:00 and therefore at least 3 hours away from anything exciting happening. I walked in the door a few minutes late (of course), and my companions for the evening had already gathered. I suspect they had been keeping the bartender busy because they had already progressed to talking about most embarrassing moments. Christine introduced me to L whom she had met at Transformations that very evening. Apparently the nicely styled hair, excellent makeup (courtesy of the ever fabulous Olivia) and English accent convinced Christine that L was not an axe murderer and might enjoy a night on the town. Personally I try to always ask point blank if someone I have just met is an axe murderer. If they say no, I can relax immediately without having to fret about it all evening.
Now, for those of you who know me, what would be your guess about what I will be wearing at any given time? Sorry, no prizes for the obvious. You all know that I love miniskirts and showing off my legs. For this night, the forecast was for temps in the low 20’s with scattered snow showers. Having not yet thoroughly warmed up after the significantly sub-zero temperatures of the days before, I decided to be rational and adult and wear a long skirt and boots. Sure, the chosen skirt had side slits to mid-thigh, but it was long! (I think it makes my butt look great, but we’ll let that go for the moment. Hey that means you, let go of that!)
So there I am, the queen (or at least a princess) of the miniskirt, wearing a long skirt, and I look at how my companions are dressed. Wouldn’t you know. Not a knee covered in the whole group. Life can be so unfair. Heck, just look at how heavy my beard is and you’ll know that’s true. After I pout and whimper for a few moments, we move to a table by the dance floor to chat and finish drinks. I was the designated driver, so I was only doing straight shots of Everclear. Actually that’s not true, I take my duties as designated driver very seriously. Ever since my license was permanently revoked for reckless endangerment, I try to be very careful.
After some initial chit-chat, taking of photos, visits to the ladies room (that’s the loo for our friend L), and getting bundled up against the cold, we all head out and pile into my car. Christine discovered that she lost her hat, so we all piled out, formed a femme skirmish line, and swept the parking lot for the errant chapeau. The bonnet was recovered and we were off to Boys Town.
Our first stop was Sidetrack. Since it was cold and snowy, I took advantage of the valet parking. Meaning of course that I paid the valet $10 (plus tip) to park my car in front of a fire hydrant nearby so that I’ll later get a $150 ticket in the mail. But hey, we didn’t’ have to walk far!
Inside Sidetrack, L was momentarily concerned because she had to show ID to get in. We convinced her that she could use her passport even though it is on the Homeland Security “Shoot on Sight” list. We figured that the chances of Sidetrack checking the list were slim. Nevertheless, the rest of us moved well away from her as we entered, just to be sure.
My previous visits to Sidetrack were limited to the main bar area (and of course the adjacent ladies room). Christine steered us quickly through this area and into the Crystal Bar. We found a delightful table in the corner and settled in with a round of drinks.
It was about this time that L began to regale us with jokes, both good and bad. As a side note, I must state that I have a very hard time hearing all that is said in a bar or club. So I usually smile and nod even though I have absolutely no idea what is being said. At some time in the past I got tired of repeatedly asking for repeats. The result is that I caught some setups and some punch lines, but they don’t necessarily go together. Besides which, English humor seems to always require knowing some obscure historical facts, like who Winston Churchill was or what Big Ben is (sounds kinky though). So, a lot of the jokes went over my head, or perhaps in a zigzag path around it. I do recall a number of references to some sort of relationship between farmers and their sheep, but that sounds unnatural so I probably misunderstood.
To demonstrate the universal appeal of some jokes, L told one in French saying that we would probably get it even though we couldn’t understand all the words. It is true that we understood several of the French words, and that we laughed politely at the end. But I’m sorry to say that we mono-lingual Americans didn’t really get it until L retold the joke in English. Unfortunately, I can’t share it with you here as it involves the improper use of a policeman’s baton. Mercy!
Having never explored Sidetrack, I took Dawn in tow and we looked around. Up the stairs in back they have a delightful little rooftop bar which includes open air seating. We couldn’t get into the outdoor seating that night as all of the chairs and benches were occupied by snow. Just downstairs is a hideaway bar with pool tables and such. We then circled back around through the main bar and back to the Crystal Bar.
A little later, I took the same tour with Christine. There hadn’t been any significant changes in architecture in the preceding few minutes, but we did encounter a fun drunk guy on our circuit. He was apparently rather short, but he stood on a step and was able to look both of us in the eye. It seems that he was upset because he had been criticized for his attire. He was wearing a black t-shirt that said “NYC” on it along with a black leather jacket. I thought he looked fine, but apparently it wasn’t appropriate Chicago club wear. I could have understood if he wasn’t wearing pants, but fortunately a different set of rules apply to us.
By the time we returned to our table, my steel trap mind identified the key problem with Sidetrack, no dance floor! That means it was time to bundle up and cross the street to Roscoe’s!
To digress for just a moment . . . Let me say how very fun and exciting it is to cross a busy urban street when there is a bit of accumulated snow and ice and you’re wearing heels. Fortunately there was a traffic light so we were able to cross cautiously and safely.
Having reached Roscoe’s, we paused in the front area to get a round of drinks. Then I led off to the back where I knew the dance floor sat in dark, loud splendor. Surprise! We found the dance area to be completely boarded up. Horrors! Entering a small (and empty) bar area adjacent, I queried the bartender about this unacceptable situation. He nicely explained that they were doing some remodeling. Gak!
We settled into a table in the little empty bar area and continued with chatting, joking and drinking (except for me of course, I had gotten tired of the effort involved in shots and switched to an IV). Before I was aware of what was happening, Dawn and Christine moved to an open area of the floor and began dancing. Right there in the aisle! I was shocked! I was appalled! I was soon on my feet to wiggle my behind too! L joined in too and we just shook our booties until we were all exhausted (about 2 minutes I think).
As the evening progressed, some other groups discovered our little hideaway. As the hour was growing later (it was after my bedtime for goodness sakes), I suggested we return to Hunter’s (1) where everyone else’s cars were parked, and (2) where there was a known dance floor that would by now be in full action. So we once again bundled up, crossed the street, retrieved the car from the valet (no apparent damage from street racing), and headed back to Hunter’s.
Hunter’s was indeed now in full swing. We deftly bypassed the cover charge table with the rationale that we were there earlier, and we made our way to the pool room and a quick warm up by the fire (a very nice touch on these cold nights, especially when wearing a mini). Unfortunately, our friend Dawn announced that it was time for her to head home. Saddened by her departure, but mindful of our responsibilities, Christine, L and I headed for the dance floor.
The dance floor was busy, although not packed shoulder-to-shoulder as it is at times. We dove in and worked on our moves. Christine’s were apparently working. After we had been dancing for a few minutes, I saw that she had attracted a dance partner. It would be unfair to say that he was short. After all, he was tall enough so that his eyes could remain on Christine’s chest while they danced. I won’t even contemplate what else might have been occurring in the dark of the dance floor. When quizzed about it later, Christine would only smile and giggle. You go girl!
To bring the evening to a close, I drove L back to her hotel by the airport. Now the poor deluded dear had been prancing around Chicago in a lovely frock, shaking her tail, and generally having a wild, girly time all evening, but she was concerned that the desk clerk at the hotel would . . . what? I’m not sure, but L saw it as potential devastation. So the plan was to deliver her to the back door of the hotel so she could make a clandestine entry and sneak up the back stairs unnoticed. Of course as all such plans do, this one went awry when we found the back door locked. Ah well, our L pulled herself together (the tears were a bit much) and bravely headed for the front door under the watchful eye of the desk clerk. As I sped away from the scene, the first police car arrived, and I could see L being spread-eagled against a wall and frisked by a security man. I think L was smiling.
*****
New Years Resolution Watch – How am I doing on my resolutions?
Go on a diet/lose weight – I actually kicked off a high-protein, low-carb diet after the new year, and I have been sticking to it (surprise, surprise). I dropped the “holiday” weight quickly, and I’m now working on the 15 pounds that took me years to accumulate.
Always take purse out of car before locking it – So far, so good. Although I did have a momentary panic at Hunters when I thought my purse walked away all by itself (or with help). But no, I was just having another senior moment.
Go to new places while dressed – No movement on this one yet. Unfortunately I didn’t get an invite to any of the inaugural balls.
Improve femme voice – No movement here either. Scared 3 children and a small puppy when I said hello.
Organize closet/drawers – Another one with no movement. If I can’t just put my male clothes in a duffle bag, maybe I should buy a house with more closets.
Win a large lottery – No luck so far. Of course I would probably improve my odds if I bought a ticket.
*****
Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Please send to me at greercd@hotmail.com.
We could be in trouble. I have now started writing this month’s column, and I haven’t decided just what I want to write about. Well, that’s not entirely true. I want to write about my evening out last Saturday night. But I don’t know just what I want to say about the evening. Well that’s not entirely true either. I want to tell you about having fun with old friends and new friends, about good jokes and bad jokes, and about dancing solo and dancing with ardent (if very short) admirers. I guess what I really don’t know is how to tell you without being boring. Let’s see if I can manage. Let me know if you start to nod off.
First let me introduce you to the cast of characters. In the interest of fairness and even-handed journalism, this shall be done alphabetically. Let no one even think that the first person I name is any more guilty than the others (although “innocent” might not fit either). Without further ado, our first participant is Christine. An active member of CGS, many of you will remember her part in the recent Chicago Illusions play. Well, at least you will remember the dress that she (almost) wore along with her paddle.
Our second participant is Dawn. It was actually Dawn that initiated our little night out through the Transformations Forum. Most of you don’t know her as she usually remains hidden away disguised as a suburban male. So good is this disguise that no one has ever read her (or rather him). Thanks to Dawn there were some photos available to accompany this column. I forgot my camera at home, again!
Alphabetically, Greer would be next, but you already have the good/bad (choose one) fortune of knowing her, so we shall move on.
The final principal character was a visitor from England, whom I shall refer to as “L”. For fear of being exposed and having her passport revoked along with her garter belt, L asked that her identity not be exposed. Consequently I won’t mention her “other” name (Archibald Fotheringham) or where she lives (Oxford) or her profession (condom street-vendor) so that no one can connect the dots and find a cute bunny rabbit that points to our new friend L.
OK, everybody ready? Here we go! (I hope to hell this gets more exciting, I can even feel MY eyes getting heavy.)
Our adventure began at Hunter’s, as so many interesting adventures do. It was early yet, only 7:00 and therefore at least 3 hours away from anything exciting happening. I walked in the door a few minutes late (of course), and my companions for the evening had already gathered. I suspect they had been keeping the bartender busy because they had already progressed to talking about most embarrassing moments. Christine introduced me to L whom she had met at Transformations that very evening. Apparently the nicely styled hair, excellent makeup (courtesy of the ever fabulous Olivia) and English accent convinced Christine that L was not an axe murderer and might enjoy a night on the town. Personally I try to always ask point blank if someone I have just met is an axe murderer. If they say no, I can relax immediately without having to fret about it all evening.
Now, for those of you who know me, what would be your guess about what I will be wearing at any given time? Sorry, no prizes for the obvious. You all know that I love miniskirts and showing off my legs. For this night, the forecast was for temps in the low 20’s with scattered snow showers. Having not yet thoroughly warmed up after the significantly sub-zero temperatures of the days before, I decided to be rational and adult and wear a long skirt and boots. Sure, the chosen skirt had side slits to mid-thigh, but it was long! (I think it makes my butt look great, but we’ll let that go for the moment. Hey that means you, let go of that!)
So there I am, the queen (or at least a princess) of the miniskirt, wearing a long skirt, and I look at how my companions are dressed. Wouldn’t you know. Not a knee covered in the whole group. Life can be so unfair. Heck, just look at how heavy my beard is and you’ll know that’s true. After I pout and whimper for a few moments, we move to a table by the dance floor to chat and finish drinks. I was the designated driver, so I was only doing straight shots of Everclear. Actually that’s not true, I take my duties as designated driver very seriously. Ever since my license was permanently revoked for reckless endangerment, I try to be very careful.
After some initial chit-chat, taking of photos, visits to the ladies room (that’s the loo for our friend L), and getting bundled up against the cold, we all head out and pile into my car. Christine discovered that she lost her hat, so we all piled out, formed a femme skirmish line, and swept the parking lot for the errant chapeau. The bonnet was recovered and we were off to Boys Town.
Our first stop was Sidetrack. Since it was cold and snowy, I took advantage of the valet parking. Meaning of course that I paid the valet $10 (plus tip) to park my car in front of a fire hydrant nearby so that I’ll later get a $150 ticket in the mail. But hey, we didn’t’ have to walk far!
Inside Sidetrack, L was momentarily concerned because she had to show ID to get in. We convinced her that she could use her passport even though it is on the Homeland Security “Shoot on Sight” list. We figured that the chances of Sidetrack checking the list were slim. Nevertheless, the rest of us moved well away from her as we entered, just to be sure.
My previous visits to Sidetrack were limited to the main bar area (and of course the adjacent ladies room). Christine steered us quickly through this area and into the Crystal Bar. We found a delightful table in the corner and settled in with a round of drinks.
It was about this time that L began to regale us with jokes, both good and bad. As a side note, I must state that I have a very hard time hearing all that is said in a bar or club. So I usually smile and nod even though I have absolutely no idea what is being said. At some time in the past I got tired of repeatedly asking for repeats. The result is that I caught some setups and some punch lines, but they don’t necessarily go together. Besides which, English humor seems to always require knowing some obscure historical facts, like who Winston Churchill was or what Big Ben is (sounds kinky though). So, a lot of the jokes went over my head, or perhaps in a zigzag path around it. I do recall a number of references to some sort of relationship between farmers and their sheep, but that sounds unnatural so I probably misunderstood.
To demonstrate the universal appeal of some jokes, L told one in French saying that we would probably get it even though we couldn’t understand all the words. It is true that we understood several of the French words, and that we laughed politely at the end. But I’m sorry to say that we mono-lingual Americans didn’t really get it until L retold the joke in English. Unfortunately, I can’t share it with you here as it involves the improper use of a policeman’s baton. Mercy!
Having never explored Sidetrack, I took Dawn in tow and we looked around. Up the stairs in back they have a delightful little rooftop bar which includes open air seating. We couldn’t get into the outdoor seating that night as all of the chairs and benches were occupied by snow. Just downstairs is a hideaway bar with pool tables and such. We then circled back around through the main bar and back to the Crystal Bar.
A little later, I took the same tour with Christine. There hadn’t been any significant changes in architecture in the preceding few minutes, but we did encounter a fun drunk guy on our circuit. He was apparently rather short, but he stood on a step and was able to look both of us in the eye. It seems that he was upset because he had been criticized for his attire. He was wearing a black t-shirt that said “NYC” on it along with a black leather jacket. I thought he looked fine, but apparently it wasn’t appropriate Chicago club wear. I could have understood if he wasn’t wearing pants, but fortunately a different set of rules apply to us.
By the time we returned to our table, my steel trap mind identified the key problem with Sidetrack, no dance floor! That means it was time to bundle up and cross the street to Roscoe’s!
To digress for just a moment . . . Let me say how very fun and exciting it is to cross a busy urban street when there is a bit of accumulated snow and ice and you’re wearing heels. Fortunately there was a traffic light so we were able to cross cautiously and safely.
Having reached Roscoe’s, we paused in the front area to get a round of drinks. Then I led off to the back where I knew the dance floor sat in dark, loud splendor. Surprise! We found the dance area to be completely boarded up. Horrors! Entering a small (and empty) bar area adjacent, I queried the bartender about this unacceptable situation. He nicely explained that they were doing some remodeling. Gak!
We settled into a table in the little empty bar area and continued with chatting, joking and drinking (except for me of course, I had gotten tired of the effort involved in shots and switched to an IV). Before I was aware of what was happening, Dawn and Christine moved to an open area of the floor and began dancing. Right there in the aisle! I was shocked! I was appalled! I was soon on my feet to wiggle my behind too! L joined in too and we just shook our booties until we were all exhausted (about 2 minutes I think).
As the evening progressed, some other groups discovered our little hideaway. As the hour was growing later (it was after my bedtime for goodness sakes), I suggested we return to Hunter’s (1) where everyone else’s cars were parked, and (2) where there was a known dance floor that would by now be in full action. So we once again bundled up, crossed the street, retrieved the car from the valet (no apparent damage from street racing), and headed back to Hunter’s.
Hunter’s was indeed now in full swing. We deftly bypassed the cover charge table with the rationale that we were there earlier, and we made our way to the pool room and a quick warm up by the fire (a very nice touch on these cold nights, especially when wearing a mini). Unfortunately, our friend Dawn announced that it was time for her to head home. Saddened by her departure, but mindful of our responsibilities, Christine, L and I headed for the dance floor.
The dance floor was busy, although not packed shoulder-to-shoulder as it is at times. We dove in and worked on our moves. Christine’s were apparently working. After we had been dancing for a few minutes, I saw that she had attracted a dance partner. It would be unfair to say that he was short. After all, he was tall enough so that his eyes could remain on Christine’s chest while they danced. I won’t even contemplate what else might have been occurring in the dark of the dance floor. When quizzed about it later, Christine would only smile and giggle. You go girl!
To bring the evening to a close, I drove L back to her hotel by the airport. Now the poor deluded dear had been prancing around Chicago in a lovely frock, shaking her tail, and generally having a wild, girly time all evening, but she was concerned that the desk clerk at the hotel would . . . what? I’m not sure, but L saw it as potential devastation. So the plan was to deliver her to the back door of the hotel so she could make a clandestine entry and sneak up the back stairs unnoticed. Of course as all such plans do, this one went awry when we found the back door locked. Ah well, our L pulled herself together (the tears were a bit much) and bravely headed for the front door under the watchful eye of the desk clerk. As I sped away from the scene, the first police car arrived, and I could see L being spread-eagled against a wall and frisked by a security man. I think L was smiling.
*****
New Years Resolution Watch – How am I doing on my resolutions?
Go on a diet/lose weight – I actually kicked off a high-protein, low-carb diet after the new year, and I have been sticking to it (surprise, surprise). I dropped the “holiday” weight quickly, and I’m now working on the 15 pounds that took me years to accumulate.
Always take purse out of car before locking it – So far, so good. Although I did have a momentary panic at Hunters when I thought my purse walked away all by itself (or with help). But no, I was just having another senior moment.
Go to new places while dressed – No movement on this one yet. Unfortunately I didn’t get an invite to any of the inaugural balls.
Improve femme voice – No movement here either. Scared 3 children and a small puppy when I said hello.
Organize closet/drawers – Another one with no movement. If I can’t just put my male clothes in a duffle bag, maybe I should buy a house with more closets.
Win a large lottery – No luck so far. Of course I would probably improve my odds if I bought a ticket.
*****
Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Please send to me at greercd@hotmail.com.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Greer's Ramblings
The Primrose, January 2009
Ramble (from Merriam-Webster Online): “(1a) to walk aimlessly from point to point, (1b) to explore idly, (2) to talk or write in a desultory or long-winded wandering fashion, (3) to grow or extend irregularly.”
Don’t you just hate articles that start off with a definition? Sorry about that, but it makes me feel that at least I have some grammatical legitimacy, even if my abilities as a writer are questionable. Regardless of how you feel about the literary ploy, let us briefly consider why I have chosen to call this column “Ramblings”.
Part 1a of the definition of ramble doesn’t really apply. Especially when wearing high heels, walking aimlessly is something I don’t tend to do. Of course walking around Hunters showing off a short skirt isn’t really aimless now is it? It certainly has a purpose, but perhaps this isn’t the time or place to discuss that.
Now part 1b, to “explore idly”, is more like it. I certainly don’t have any grand plan for what this column might contain in any given month. In fact, I frequently have no idea what it will contain even as I’m writing. Who knows when something totally unexpected will pop “Frosted Flakes” up. See what I mean? So my own plan is to idly explore whatever pops into my head. If we’re all lucky, it will have some relevance and be at least mildly interesting. Of course I’m not making any promises.
If part 1b defined the what, part 2 hits the how nail right on the head, especially the part about being long-winded. I am of an age where I have gained a fair amount of life experience. And, like many of us in the “my AARP card is yellowed with age” club, I figure it is my duty to share those experiences with young whippersnappers even if it kills them from boredom. By the way, and to prove the point, a whippersnapper is defined as a diminutive, insignificant, or presumptuous person. Oddly, it came from the word “snippersnapper” the origin of which is unknown, but which just had to be uttered by someone with a great deal of life experience, and very little humor. “Damn little snippersnapper!”
Then there is part 3 of the definition of ramble. Frankly, I’m not sure I want to explore how the concept of “growing or extending irregularly” might apply to me or this column. Instead, I shall allow my idle exploration to change topics entirely.
*****
Happy New Year! Have you made any resolutions for 2009? Normally I avoid such commitments that I know are doomed to failure from the start. Agreeing to write this column for example. I just know the pressure of having to write something every month is going to drive me to drink. Hmm. I guess it’s a good cause after all.
Anyway, like 95% of the people reading this, I have placed “Go on diet/lose weight” as #1 on my list of resolutions. Actually, it’s the only thing on the list so far, so I thought I should consider some other very personal and intimate things. And what better place to consider personal and intimate things than in a column that is likely to be perused by millions of strangers. Well, maybe tens of my favorite people. So here goes.
Go on a diet/lose weight – I suspect that anyone who sells prenumbered New Years resolution paper could preprint this one in slot #1. I don’t remember anyone ever saying, “Yeah, I gotta gain me some weight next year. I damn near blew away in that last big windstorm.” Of course there are you crazies out there who run marathons and have the slim bodies and great legs to prove it (you know who you are), and the rest of us would like to see you gain a lot of weight this year.
Always take purse out of car before locking it – It was a fun new experience to deal with an Auto Club tow truck driver while dressed. I’m only sorry I was wearing jeans instead of a cute mini. It would have been interesting to see if I could distract the driver from the task of breaking into my car. Of course it was cold and sleeting at the time, so it was probably for the best.
Go to new places while dressed – While I would like to expand my list of comfortable “T-friendly” places, what I’m talking about here is trying new categories of places. These don’t have to be exotic. Things like grocery stores, movie theaters, and dry cleaners would all work. Although some out-of-the-ordinary places might be fun like the county morgue, a Friends of Blagojevich fundraiser, or maybe a monster truck rally.
Improve femme voice – Even when I concentrate on it, I don’t do a very good job with this. I generally start a sentence in a soft, sing-song, semi-feminine voice, but by the end of the sentence I’ve lost my concentration and I’m back down in my usual deeper, louder, semi-masculine voice. It tends to make small children cry.
Organize closet/drawers – Several months ago, I was granted the right to move my femme wardrobe out of a duffle bag and a box and into the closet and the dresser in the bedroom. In this case, being in the closet was a great improvement. Suddenly it was possible to see my collection of miniskirts without having to throw them all onto the bed. Dresses and blouses could remain relatively wrinkle-free by virtue of being on hangers. There was even a shelf for my wigs on foam heads. I had reached crossdresser Nirvana! Of course we all know that nature abhors a vacuum, so it became critical that I buy more clothes to fill every possible inch of closet and drawer space. And now? Well tempting as it is to send all of my boy clothes to Goodwill, I really do need to organize things a bit. Perhaps if I put my boy clothes in a duffel bag?
Win a large lottery – I think I could live out my life comfortably with just $2 million, but this would not be luxury living and the benefits would really be limited to, well to me. Now with $20 million, I could provide a small stipend to other members of the family, and I could live closer to the style that I was born to enjoy. $200 million should provide a decent living for me, a greater level of generosity for the family, and perhaps even some philanthropic pursuits. Perhaps as much as a one-year membership in CGS for a deserving t-person! $2 billion would get me onto the list of the 500 wealthiest people in the world (near the bottom). I could probably support the whole family and throw a nice little party for all my friends at CGS. Heck, I could probably even buy myself a Senate seat and walk into the Senate chamber wearing a killer mini!
*****
Speaking of wearing pants . . . yes, actually I was in item #2 above. Since we form a very cerebral and introspective group, I’m sure you know all of the deeply philosophical questions like, “if a tree falls in the woods and there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?” I think these questions also include those about the Pope’s religious practices, a bear’s personal habits, and possibly something about being glad that cows don’t fly, but I digress (ramble?).
As a person who is generally a crossdresser (as opposed to a), the recent spate of cold and nasty weather causes me to ask myself the following question. “Self,” I ask boldly, “is a MTF crossdresser in pants really a crossdresser?” Unfortunately, self then slapped I for having the temerity to imply that self is a crossdresser. Self can be such a b***h. Happily self doesn’t pack much of a wallop due to poor upper body strength.
Now for me (as opposed to self or I, who are now sulking and refuse to talk to me), it is much less fun to wear pants than to wear a skirt or a dress. Of course my loyal readers (who are all known to be certifiable) also know that for me it is much less fun to wear a longer dress or skirt than to wear a shorter dress or skirt, but that isn’t the question before us now. Nevertheless, wearing pants should certainly be a fashion option for the well-rounded crossdresser (regardless of where the rounded places are and whether the are purchased or naturally occurring). However, to be properly considered appropriate for the MTF crossdresser, the pants in question must meet certain criteria:
They can’t have been purchased in the men’s or boy’s department. You might be able to fool some observers with those tight, designer jeans made for men when you don a wig, heels and a cute sweater, but deep inside you’ll know.
If they are jeans, they must be skin-tight from the waist to the knee. Oh, a reminder here, the wearer should be sure to tuck to avoid questions about that growth on the upper thigh. A GG may wear loose jeans, but that’s only because they are crossdressing themselves in boy clothes. We must resist the temptation to pass by presenting ourselves as girls who are presenting as boys. Down that road lies madness.
If they are jeans, they must have femme touches. For example, cute designs on the back pockets, or jewels and studs arranged in a heart shape or spelling out “Property of the Hell’s Angels”. This requirement can also me met by sticking with “lowest rise” jeans and wearing a black thong and a crop top, but this is a very advanced move and not for the indecisive (or for plumbers).
If they are slacks, they must be part of an “outfit”. It is a known fact that men do not wear “outfits”, so pants that are part of an “outfit” are automatically given the presumption of being femme. As I understand it, if the top and bottom are made of the same material, it’s an “outfit”. Apparently this stricture doesn’t apply to men’s suits, but we’ll ignore that for now.
They must be worn with heels, or other obviously femme shoes. Strictly as a safety issue, a winter season exception will be granted to allow the wearing of androgynous boots. However, this exception only applies if the pants are of the “skinny” variety and are tucked into the tops of the boots.
*****
I was checking out the CVS Pharmacy website in search of some concealer. There were several pages of products listed, and I was calmly scrolling through them looking for the right sort of thing (you know, something that would cover all the ugly male and show only the beautiful female). Right after “Revlon Blemish Concealer Light/Medium” were listings for “Revlon Blemish Concealer Medium” and “Revlon Blemish Concealer Medium/Deep”. These two products were prominently marked “This item cannot ship by air.” No other products in the list were so marked. So what is in these two items that makes them special? And why isn’t it in the Light/Medium variety? What happens if they go by air? Do they blow up? Are they known to carry dangerous weapons? Perhaps they just have a fear of heights.
*****
Those of you who have actually read this column obviously have way too much spare time on your hands, and there is serious question about your mental health and your taste in reading material. Nevertheless, I would love to hear from you. Please email me at greercd@hotmail.com. I will also accept written correspondence if it is neatly folded and quietly passed to me in class or during recess. Please note that I will not forward notes to X saying that Y likes her. Put on a sexy dress and tell her yourself.
Future columns may feature selections from the complimentary messages that I receive. Negative or insulting messages will be forwarded to the FBI for analysis and possible identification of the sender as a dangerous menace to the security of the USA.
Ramble (from Merriam-Webster Online): “(1a) to walk aimlessly from point to point, (1b) to explore idly, (2) to talk or write in a desultory or long-winded wandering fashion, (3) to grow or extend irregularly.”
Don’t you just hate articles that start off with a definition? Sorry about that, but it makes me feel that at least I have some grammatical legitimacy, even if my abilities as a writer are questionable. Regardless of how you feel about the literary ploy, let us briefly consider why I have chosen to call this column “Ramblings”.
Part 1a of the definition of ramble doesn’t really apply. Especially when wearing high heels, walking aimlessly is something I don’t tend to do. Of course walking around Hunters showing off a short skirt isn’t really aimless now is it? It certainly has a purpose, but perhaps this isn’t the time or place to discuss that.
Now part 1b, to “explore idly”, is more like it. I certainly don’t have any grand plan for what this column might contain in any given month. In fact, I frequently have no idea what it will contain even as I’m writing. Who knows when something totally unexpected will pop “Frosted Flakes” up. See what I mean? So my own plan is to idly explore whatever pops into my head. If we’re all lucky, it will have some relevance and be at least mildly interesting. Of course I’m not making any promises.
If part 1b defined the what, part 2 hits the how nail right on the head, especially the part about being long-winded. I am of an age where I have gained a fair amount of life experience. And, like many of us in the “my AARP card is yellowed with age” club, I figure it is my duty to share those experiences with young whippersnappers even if it kills them from boredom. By the way, and to prove the point, a whippersnapper is defined as a diminutive, insignificant, or presumptuous person. Oddly, it came from the word “snippersnapper” the origin of which is unknown, but which just had to be uttered by someone with a great deal of life experience, and very little humor. “Damn little snippersnapper!”
Then there is part 3 of the definition of ramble. Frankly, I’m not sure I want to explore how the concept of “growing or extending irregularly” might apply to me or this column. Instead, I shall allow my idle exploration to change topics entirely.
*****
Happy New Year! Have you made any resolutions for 2009? Normally I avoid such commitments that I know are doomed to failure from the start. Agreeing to write this column for example. I just know the pressure of having to write something every month is going to drive me to drink. Hmm. I guess it’s a good cause after all.
Anyway, like 95% of the people reading this, I have placed “Go on diet/lose weight” as #1 on my list of resolutions. Actually, it’s the only thing on the list so far, so I thought I should consider some other very personal and intimate things. And what better place to consider personal and intimate things than in a column that is likely to be perused by millions of strangers. Well, maybe tens of my favorite people. So here goes.
Go on a diet/lose weight – I suspect that anyone who sells prenumbered New Years resolution paper could preprint this one in slot #1. I don’t remember anyone ever saying, “Yeah, I gotta gain me some weight next year. I damn near blew away in that last big windstorm.” Of course there are you crazies out there who run marathons and have the slim bodies and great legs to prove it (you know who you are), and the rest of us would like to see you gain a lot of weight this year.
Always take purse out of car before locking it – It was a fun new experience to deal with an Auto Club tow truck driver while dressed. I’m only sorry I was wearing jeans instead of a cute mini. It would have been interesting to see if I could distract the driver from the task of breaking into my car. Of course it was cold and sleeting at the time, so it was probably for the best.
Go to new places while dressed – While I would like to expand my list of comfortable “T-friendly” places, what I’m talking about here is trying new categories of places. These don’t have to be exotic. Things like grocery stores, movie theaters, and dry cleaners would all work. Although some out-of-the-ordinary places might be fun like the county morgue, a Friends of Blagojevich fundraiser, or maybe a monster truck rally.
Improve femme voice – Even when I concentrate on it, I don’t do a very good job with this. I generally start a sentence in a soft, sing-song, semi-feminine voice, but by the end of the sentence I’ve lost my concentration and I’m back down in my usual deeper, louder, semi-masculine voice. It tends to make small children cry.
Organize closet/drawers – Several months ago, I was granted the right to move my femme wardrobe out of a duffle bag and a box and into the closet and the dresser in the bedroom. In this case, being in the closet was a great improvement. Suddenly it was possible to see my collection of miniskirts without having to throw them all onto the bed. Dresses and blouses could remain relatively wrinkle-free by virtue of being on hangers. There was even a shelf for my wigs on foam heads. I had reached crossdresser Nirvana! Of course we all know that nature abhors a vacuum, so it became critical that I buy more clothes to fill every possible inch of closet and drawer space. And now? Well tempting as it is to send all of my boy clothes to Goodwill, I really do need to organize things a bit. Perhaps if I put my boy clothes in a duffel bag?
Win a large lottery – I think I could live out my life comfortably with just $2 million, but this would not be luxury living and the benefits would really be limited to, well to me. Now with $20 million, I could provide a small stipend to other members of the family, and I could live closer to the style that I was born to enjoy. $200 million should provide a decent living for me, a greater level of generosity for the family, and perhaps even some philanthropic pursuits. Perhaps as much as a one-year membership in CGS for a deserving t-person! $2 billion would get me onto the list of the 500 wealthiest people in the world (near the bottom). I could probably support the whole family and throw a nice little party for all my friends at CGS. Heck, I could probably even buy myself a Senate seat and walk into the Senate chamber wearing a killer mini!
*****
Speaking of wearing pants . . . yes, actually I was in item #2 above. Since we form a very cerebral and introspective group, I’m sure you know all of the deeply philosophical questions like, “if a tree falls in the woods and there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?” I think these questions also include those about the Pope’s religious practices, a bear’s personal habits, and possibly something about being glad that cows don’t fly, but I digress (ramble?).
As a person who is generally a crossdresser (as opposed to a
Now for me (as opposed to self or I, who are now sulking and refuse to talk to me), it is much less fun to wear pants than to wear a skirt or a dress. Of course my loyal readers (who are all known to be certifiable) also know that for me it is much less fun to wear a longer dress or skirt than to wear a shorter dress or skirt, but that isn’t the question before us now. Nevertheless, wearing pants should certainly be a fashion option for the well-rounded crossdresser (regardless of where the rounded places are and whether the are purchased or naturally occurring). However, to be properly considered appropriate for the MTF crossdresser, the pants in question must meet certain criteria:
They can’t have been purchased in the men’s or boy’s department. You might be able to fool some observers with those tight, designer jeans made for men when you don a wig, heels and a cute sweater, but deep inside you’ll know.
If they are jeans, they must be skin-tight from the waist to the knee. Oh, a reminder here, the wearer should be sure to tuck to avoid questions about that growth on the upper thigh. A GG may wear loose jeans, but that’s only because they are crossdressing themselves in boy clothes. We must resist the temptation to pass by presenting ourselves as girls who are presenting as boys. Down that road lies madness.
If they are jeans, they must have femme touches. For example, cute designs on the back pockets, or jewels and studs arranged in a heart shape or spelling out “Property of the Hell’s Angels”. This requirement can also me met by sticking with “lowest rise” jeans and wearing a black thong and a crop top, but this is a very advanced move and not for the indecisive (or for plumbers).
If they are slacks, they must be part of an “outfit”. It is a known fact that men do not wear “outfits”, so pants that are part of an “outfit” are automatically given the presumption of being femme. As I understand it, if the top and bottom are made of the same material, it’s an “outfit”. Apparently this stricture doesn’t apply to men’s suits, but we’ll ignore that for now.
They must be worn with heels, or other obviously femme shoes. Strictly as a safety issue, a winter season exception will be granted to allow the wearing of androgynous boots. However, this exception only applies if the pants are of the “skinny” variety and are tucked into the tops of the boots.
*****
I was checking out the CVS Pharmacy website in search of some concealer. There were several pages of products listed, and I was calmly scrolling through them looking for the right sort of thing (you know, something that would cover all the ugly male and show only the beautiful female). Right after “Revlon Blemish Concealer Light/Medium” were listings for “Revlon Blemish Concealer Medium” and “Revlon Blemish Concealer Medium/Deep”. These two products were prominently marked “This item cannot ship by air.” No other products in the list were so marked. So what is in these two items that makes them special? And why isn’t it in the Light/Medium variety? What happens if they go by air? Do they blow up? Are they known to carry dangerous weapons? Perhaps they just have a fear of heights.
*****
Those of you who have actually read this column obviously have way too much spare time on your hands, and there is serious question about your mental health and your taste in reading material. Nevertheless, I would love to hear from you. Please email me at greercd@hotmail.com. I will also accept written correspondence if it is neatly folded and quietly passed to me in class or during recess. Please note that I will not forward notes to X saying that Y likes her. Put on a sexy dress and tell her yourself.
Future columns may feature selections from the complimentary messages that I receive. Negative or insulting messages will be forwarded to the FBI for analysis and possible identification of the sender as a dangerous menace to the security of the USA.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Saturday Night in Boys Town
The Primrose, December 2008
My wife always chides me for how long it takes me to get ready when I’m going out as Greer. Of course she doesn’t have to remove hair from face, arms, chest and legs before even thinking about makeup and dressing. Anyway, after taking (mumble, mumble) hours to get ready, I was on the freeway and late for my meeting with some new friends for a Saturday night on the town. To top things off, I realized that one of my newly attached fingernails was missing. Sigh.
Lisa E was going to be in town that Saturday from downstate Illinois, and she got the ball rolling for a “Girls Night Out”. I should mention that Lisa E is a Goddess on the Transformations Forum (www.transformationsbyrori/forum). This title was earned as a result of posting 896 messages (and still counting). I myself am proud to have reached the level of Duchess, but I digress. After much back and forth, and great persistence by Lisa, it appeared there would be 7 of us for the evening. The plan was to meet at her hotel and carpool to Boys Town for dinner at the Kit Kat Lounge.
Arriving at the hotel late and with a missing fingernail (oh goody, I found it on the floor of the car!), I hurried to get out of the car and go find the others. As I crossed the parking lot, I realized that my skirt, which was short by design, had further shortened itself while entering, riding in, and exiting the car. I’m not certain just what was showing at that moment, but there were 3 men on an overlooking balcony that were either entranced by my delightfully feminine walk or by my pink panties, garters and stocking tops!
At the designated room, I met Lisa, Teri and Jeanette. Diane and Nina were to meet us at the Kit Kat. Everyone was very understanding of my tardiness and dismissed my abject apologies. A few more minutes were taken while I reapplied my errant nail, fussed with my hair, and tried to catch my breath (a bit of a challenge when wearing a corset). Then we were off. By virtue of having the newest and coolest car, Jeanette was elected to drive.
During the drive from Arlington Heights I found that my new friends had all met each other before that night. They had also all been to the Kit Kat and other venues in Boys Town before. For me, everything was new! I had never even heard of Boys Town until a month or so before. At first I thought it was a sly reference to the area, but it even shows up that way on Yahoo! Maps.
We parked next to the police station and made our way through the neighborhood. It was a bit before 8:00, and there were lots of people on the street. It felt very festive. Those who had been to the Kit Kat Lounge were surprised to find many open tables when we were seated. Apparently the place is usually packed on Saturday nights. That soon changed as other parties arrived. Diane joined us before too much time passed, but Nina never arrived.
By the time we had drinks and appetizers the place was full and the entertainment had gotten underway. The main entertainment is provided by the Kit Kat Lounge Divas who are professional female impersonators. Angelica performed for us. Her act was very good, but mostly we hated her because she was slender and gorgeous. (meow)
At the table on one side of us there were 3 guys (a committed couple and a friend). Apart from them and our group, I think everyone in the place was part of a bachelorette party! There were at least 4 separate parties going on. By the time we finished with dinner, we were chatting with the 3 guys and with members of the two nearest bachelorette parties. It was great! Everyone was friendly and enjoying the atmosphere. I had a special chat with the mother of one of the brides-to-be, and gave her some very good advice. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I think it had to do with drinking heavily until after the ceremony.
After dinner, we were planning to go to Circuits to dance, drink, mingle, whatever. In talking with guys, I was informed that there was probably more action down the street at Sidetrack, or possibly at Roscoe’s. We paid the bill and moved outside to the sidewalk. There we chatted for a while longer with some of the people we had met before walking down Halsted to Sidetrack. Diane was having high heel problems, so she decided to drive down and park closer. Her instinct was good as the 4 blocks must have been about 140 miles in heels. Sadly, she had difficulty parking and we never did meet up with her again that night.
Sidetrack was crowded when we arrived. We hung out near the door for a time hoping that Diane would find us, or that we would get lucky without having to wade into the crowd (definitions of “lucky” vary by participant, individual results may vary, see store for details). Eventually, Jeannette and I ventured into the main bar area to see what we could see. The first thing I noticed, apart from the sea of men, was what I would call the “buyer’s rail” somewhat above the main floor. Along this rail a patron can stand and have a nice view of the whole bar area. The second thing I noticed was that none of the men along this rail were at all interested in the gorgeous t-girls that had just walked in. Oh well.
The third thing I noticed in the main bar area was a pair of very attractive GGs. We were almost immediately accosted by these ladies (why does this only happen when I wear a skirt?) One was a very nice and welcoming young lady. The other was also very nice, but she was also very blasted. Turns out she was from Wales. Have you ever tried to understand what is being said by an inebriated woman from Wales? (Catherine Zeta Jones excluded due to extreme hotness) Anyway, we danced a little, and after we chatted for a time, the non-blasted member of the pair explained that they were part of (are you ready?) a bachelorette party! She told us that their party was moving across the street to Roscoe’s and that we should come over and join them. The incomprehensible member of the duet said something like “fljooeruy sklrul snrowio!” Of course I agreed, and we promised to gather our group and relocate to Roscoe’s.
We gathered ourselves together and headed across the street. At the door to Roscoe’s, we ran into the 3 guys from the Kit Kat Lounge. It was great! Like running into long lost friends! Inside Roscoe’s there was another crowd of people, although this crowd seemed to have a larger proportion of women (still a small minority though). While waiting to order a drink, I saw a guy across the bar area whose t-shirt proclaimed, “Oh, I’m sorry, Unf**ck you.” It was a beautiful sentiment, and I was moved to tears.
We circulated through the various rooms of the establishment until we found the dance floor. The floor was crowded, and not as voyeur friendly as Hunter’s, but we gave it a try. Unfortunately, the heat and the crowd caused the experience to be a bit much, so we retired to the front bar area and met up with the ladies from Sidetrack. “Pytwtr hwlitr gflandy!” exclaimed the still drinking lady from Wales. We were introduced to the entire bridal party and hugs were shared all around (I just love the hugs part of being a girl!).
The ladies of the wedding party seemed to really enjoy chatting, drinking and dancing with the ladies of our party. We certainly enjoyed spending time with them. I think we became very close to the lady from Wales. At one point, with great seriousness and gravity, she asked me, “kjlerul worhhtaar hsgew?” I mean really, what can a t-girl say when asked a question like that? So I smiled, gave her a hug and suggested that she dance with Lisa.
After much standing in heels time, and very little sitting on fanny pads time, we decided it was time to call it a night. Hugs and kisses were again shared all around before we headed out the door. Once we hit the street, we began what shall forever be known as the Death March of Boys Town. The 4 blocks back to the car took us about 34 hours. Jeannette took off her boots and walked in her stockings (cheater!), but the rest of us just walked slower and slower until we drifted off into a blissful walking unconsciousness. Ah, yet another sacrifice for our art!
Thus endeth the saga of Greer’s Saturday Night in Boy’s Town. I may be the only t-girl in Chicago who hadn’t been there, but if there is anybody out there who hasn’t tried this exciting part of town, it’s time to make time!
Hugs,Greer
My wife always chides me for how long it takes me to get ready when I’m going out as Greer. Of course she doesn’t have to remove hair from face, arms, chest and legs before even thinking about makeup and dressing. Anyway, after taking (mumble, mumble) hours to get ready, I was on the freeway and late for my meeting with some new friends for a Saturday night on the town. To top things off, I realized that one of my newly attached fingernails was missing. Sigh.
Lisa E was going to be in town that Saturday from downstate Illinois, and she got the ball rolling for a “Girls Night Out”. I should mention that Lisa E is a Goddess on the Transformations Forum (www.transformationsbyrori/forum). This title was earned as a result of posting 896 messages (and still counting). I myself am proud to have reached the level of Duchess, but I digress. After much back and forth, and great persistence by Lisa, it appeared there would be 7 of us for the evening. The plan was to meet at her hotel and carpool to Boys Town for dinner at the Kit Kat Lounge.
Arriving at the hotel late and with a missing fingernail (oh goody, I found it on the floor of the car!), I hurried to get out of the car and go find the others. As I crossed the parking lot, I realized that my skirt, which was short by design, had further shortened itself while entering, riding in, and exiting the car. I’m not certain just what was showing at that moment, but there were 3 men on an overlooking balcony that were either entranced by my delightfully feminine walk or by my pink panties, garters and stocking tops!
At the designated room, I met Lisa, Teri and Jeanette. Diane and Nina were to meet us at the Kit Kat. Everyone was very understanding of my tardiness and dismissed my abject apologies. A few more minutes were taken while I reapplied my errant nail, fussed with my hair, and tried to catch my breath (a bit of a challenge when wearing a corset). Then we were off. By virtue of having the newest and coolest car, Jeanette was elected to drive.
During the drive from Arlington Heights I found that my new friends had all met each other before that night. They had also all been to the Kit Kat and other venues in Boys Town before. For me, everything was new! I had never even heard of Boys Town until a month or so before. At first I thought it was a sly reference to the area, but it even shows up that way on Yahoo! Maps.
We parked next to the police station and made our way through the neighborhood. It was a bit before 8:00, and there were lots of people on the street. It felt very festive. Those who had been to the Kit Kat Lounge were surprised to find many open tables when we were seated. Apparently the place is usually packed on Saturday nights. That soon changed as other parties arrived. Diane joined us before too much time passed, but Nina never arrived.
By the time we had drinks and appetizers the place was full and the entertainment had gotten underway. The main entertainment is provided by the Kit Kat Lounge Divas who are professional female impersonators. Angelica performed for us. Her act was very good, but mostly we hated her because she was slender and gorgeous. (meow)
At the table on one side of us there were 3 guys (a committed couple and a friend). Apart from them and our group, I think everyone in the place was part of a bachelorette party! There were at least 4 separate parties going on. By the time we finished with dinner, we were chatting with the 3 guys and with members of the two nearest bachelorette parties. It was great! Everyone was friendly and enjoying the atmosphere. I had a special chat with the mother of one of the brides-to-be, and gave her some very good advice. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I think it had to do with drinking heavily until after the ceremony.
After dinner, we were planning to go to Circuits to dance, drink, mingle, whatever. In talking with guys, I was informed that there was probably more action down the street at Sidetrack, or possibly at Roscoe’s. We paid the bill and moved outside to the sidewalk. There we chatted for a while longer with some of the people we had met before walking down Halsted to Sidetrack. Diane was having high heel problems, so she decided to drive down and park closer. Her instinct was good as the 4 blocks must have been about 140 miles in heels. Sadly, she had difficulty parking and we never did meet up with her again that night.
Sidetrack was crowded when we arrived. We hung out near the door for a time hoping that Diane would find us, or that we would get lucky without having to wade into the crowd (definitions of “lucky” vary by participant, individual results may vary, see store for details). Eventually, Jeannette and I ventured into the main bar area to see what we could see. The first thing I noticed, apart from the sea of men, was what I would call the “buyer’s rail” somewhat above the main floor. Along this rail a patron can stand and have a nice view of the whole bar area. The second thing I noticed was that none of the men along this rail were at all interested in the gorgeous t-girls that had just walked in. Oh well.
The third thing I noticed in the main bar area was a pair of very attractive GGs. We were almost immediately accosted by these ladies (why does this only happen when I wear a skirt?) One was a very nice and welcoming young lady. The other was also very nice, but she was also very blasted. Turns out she was from Wales. Have you ever tried to understand what is being said by an inebriated woman from Wales? (Catherine Zeta Jones excluded due to extreme hotness) Anyway, we danced a little, and after we chatted for a time, the non-blasted member of the pair explained that they were part of (are you ready?) a bachelorette party! She told us that their party was moving across the street to Roscoe’s and that we should come over and join them. The incomprehensible member of the duet said something like “fljooeruy sklrul snrowio!” Of course I agreed, and we promised to gather our group and relocate to Roscoe’s.
We gathered ourselves together and headed across the street. At the door to Roscoe’s, we ran into the 3 guys from the Kit Kat Lounge. It was great! Like running into long lost friends! Inside Roscoe’s there was another crowd of people, although this crowd seemed to have a larger proportion of women (still a small minority though). While waiting to order a drink, I saw a guy across the bar area whose t-shirt proclaimed, “Oh, I’m sorry, Unf**ck you.” It was a beautiful sentiment, and I was moved to tears.
We circulated through the various rooms of the establishment until we found the dance floor. The floor was crowded, and not as voyeur friendly as Hunter’s, but we gave it a try. Unfortunately, the heat and the crowd caused the experience to be a bit much, so we retired to the front bar area and met up with the ladies from Sidetrack. “Pytwtr hwlitr gflandy!” exclaimed the still drinking lady from Wales. We were introduced to the entire bridal party and hugs were shared all around (I just love the hugs part of being a girl!).
The ladies of the wedding party seemed to really enjoy chatting, drinking and dancing with the ladies of our party. We certainly enjoyed spending time with them. I think we became very close to the lady from Wales. At one point, with great seriousness and gravity, she asked me, “kjlerul worhhtaar hsgew?” I mean really, what can a t-girl say when asked a question like that? So I smiled, gave her a hug and suggested that she dance with Lisa.
After much standing in heels time, and very little sitting on fanny pads time, we decided it was time to call it a night. Hugs and kisses were again shared all around before we headed out the door. Once we hit the street, we began what shall forever be known as the Death March of Boys Town. The 4 blocks back to the car took us about 34 hours. Jeannette took off her boots and walked in her stockings (cheater!), but the rest of us just walked slower and slower until we drifted off into a blissful walking unconsciousness. Ah, yet another sacrifice for our art!
Thus endeth the saga of Greer’s Saturday Night in Boy’s Town. I may be the only t-girl in Chicago who hadn’t been there, but if there is anybody out there who hasn’t tried this exciting part of town, it’s time to make time!
Hugs,Greer
The Secret Handshake
The Primrose, December 2008
I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m not very observant of people details. Sure, if I walk by someone with 3 heads, my curiosity will probably be alerted. Wearing a gorilla suit in July? My keen sense of observation will pick it up in a flash. But the more subtle things? Mismatched socks? Different colored eyes? (I actually have those.) Prominent adam’s apple? No, no and no. In this way, I suppose I am the everyperson that many of us hope to encounter in our times out and about. All those people who go about their business and don’t notice us as we strive to be happy in our skins, even if those skins aren’t quite as we feel they should be.
As a consequence of my rather myopic view of the people around me, I don’t often run into the situation where I spot a sister t-girl in the wild. Of course it’s not too hard to spot us at a place like Hunter’s where we’re generally the only ones in skirts (including the GG’s), but at the local grocery store, library or coffee shop, I’ve probably walked by hundreds of sisters without knowing it. Rejoice ladies, the majority of people out there are probably just like me in this way. Your secret is safe with us, because we are clueless.
On the other hand, there are those of you who are very observant. You have a keen eye for detail, and a killer fashion sense. It takes you only moments to scan the room when you enter. Immediately you pick up the little things that tell you, “Ah, she is one of us!” You elegantly sway across the room, smiling and brightening the day of all that you pass. When you reach the sister t-girl you stop and offer your hand in a ladylike way. “Hi,” you say in a well-practiced, feminine voice. “I’m . . . (insert your name here).”
If it is me that you have approached, I’ll figure I’m the luckiest guy in the room because this beautiful lady just came on to me. Wait a minute, that’s wrong, tonight I’m a lady myself. I attempt to do a quick change back to feminine mental mode. “Hi, I’m Greer. Nice to meet you.” I might have gotten the first couple of words out in my up-register femme voice, but by the end I’m back down in male voice range. From that point, I’m busy trying to make a good impression, because I’m still clueless.
What I needed was a secret handshake! The unobtrusive sign that says, “hey, I’m trans, how about you?” This matter of recognition of other members of the community has come up several times recently in message forums. For those who aren’t as observation challenged as I am, there is a real concern about how to approach a sister or brother that you spot out and about. There are several things that must be considered. First, if you let them know that you spotted them, will they be crushed to know they were clocked? Second, how do you let them know that you know without letting anyone else know what you know? You know? Fourth (just seeing if you were paying attention), might you out yourself if you approach this person?
So how should we handle this situation? Honestly, the answer in most cases is simple human contact and courtesy. You politely approach and introduce yourself when circumstances permit. You converse politely for 5 minutes (keep an eye on your watch), then you dive into questions about tucking, hair removal methods and preferred fetish attire. OK, I’m just kidding about the last part (well maybe not the fetish attire part, that’s always a good ice breaker).
The point is you don’t have to base your approach to someone on the basis of mutual transness (did I just make that up?). It should just be a person-to-person contact. You see someone interesting, and you decide to try to get to know them. Sounds great. Of course that never worked for me at dances, bars or even church socials (that was before I became a practicing heathen, but that’s another story). I’m much more comfortable introducing myself as Greer than I have ever been as what’s-his-name, but it still feels like an unnatural act. And that brings me back to the secret handshake.
I’m not really suggesting that we have a secret handshake. If you get to the point of using a handshake, secret or otherwise, you’ve already cleared the main hurdle by making contact. No, what we need is a secret recognition signal. Something that can be flashed across a room when you catch the eye of a brother or sister. Something that will be meaningless to those who aren’t part of the community, but carry full meaning to the rest of us. Something that says, “I’m trans, I’m fabulous, and so are you! Aren’t you? If you’re not, please disregard this signal.”
So what kind of signal could we use? We could be very subtle, like tugging on an earlobe. Unfortunately, that might cause half the married couples in the room to go for their coats. Oh, that isn’t your signal for “I’m bored, take me home now”? Oops, forget I ever brought it up. On the other hand, something like jumping up and down while holding a breast in each hand is probably a bit too obvious, especially if the target of your attempted communication across the room returns the signal. Interesting to imagine though isn’t it.
How about this, you look at the recipient of your signal. When you make eye contact, you touch a pinky finger to your temple. It’s fairly subtle, but it’s unusual enough that your maiden aunt probably won’t do it accidentally (oh the repercussions of that!). Note however that you definitely don’t want to use the index finger for this signal. Your recipient is likely to conclude that you have decided to shoot yourself or them, and this isn’t the message you’re trying to convey, at least not until you’re sharing a bank account.
Assuming that the recipient of your signal hasn’t decided to call the police or a large gentleman with strange bulges under his jacket, AND if you have correctly identified the recipient as trans, AND if you appear to be in control of your faculties, AND if you haven’t committed an unforgivable fashion mistake (remember, it is now permissible to wear white year round), then the recipient may return your signal. This indicates you may feel free to approach the recipient for self-introductions. Of course discretion is still expected. Shouting, “Here I come honey!” and doing some broken-field running across the room will not be appreciated.
It occurs to me that establishing a recognition signal is just the start. Any secret organization worth its salt will also have other signals to allow clandestine communication between members. To close this article of dubious literary work, I offer some additional signals that we should consider adopting. I also welcome readers to pass along their ideas for other signals.
The signal: With your arms at your sides, turn your hands so the palms face to the rear. Touch your thumbs and forefingers together (like an OK sign), then repeatedly bend your wrists so your fingers move back and forth.
The meaning: Your panties are slipping down and you’re in danger of tripping. (Of course this is a warning to another sister in a skirt or a dress. If your own panties are slipping, pull the darn things up.)
The signal: Stand in one spot while wearing high heels, sway your upper body while displaying a pained look on your face. (The last step is necessary to avoid confusion with dancing.)
The meaning: I can no longer stand in my heels. Please bring me a swooning couch and a Mint Julep.
The signal: Hike your skirt up and run like mad to the serving area.
The meaning: The buffet line is now open. (OK, this one isn’t strictly limited to our community, but we girls can put away the food like a bunch of guys, so you don’t want to be late getting in line.)
The meaning: Thank you for being yourself, and for helping me be myself.
The signal: A hug and air kisses.
Hugs,
Greer
I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m not very observant of people details. Sure, if I walk by someone with 3 heads, my curiosity will probably be alerted. Wearing a gorilla suit in July? My keen sense of observation will pick it up in a flash. But the more subtle things? Mismatched socks? Different colored eyes? (I actually have those.) Prominent adam’s apple? No, no and no. In this way, I suppose I am the everyperson that many of us hope to encounter in our times out and about. All those people who go about their business and don’t notice us as we strive to be happy in our skins, even if those skins aren’t quite as we feel they should be.
As a consequence of my rather myopic view of the people around me, I don’t often run into the situation where I spot a sister t-girl in the wild. Of course it’s not too hard to spot us at a place like Hunter’s where we’re generally the only ones in skirts (including the GG’s), but at the local grocery store, library or coffee shop, I’ve probably walked by hundreds of sisters without knowing it. Rejoice ladies, the majority of people out there are probably just like me in this way. Your secret is safe with us, because we are clueless.
On the other hand, there are those of you who are very observant. You have a keen eye for detail, and a killer fashion sense. It takes you only moments to scan the room when you enter. Immediately you pick up the little things that tell you, “Ah, she is one of us!” You elegantly sway across the room, smiling and brightening the day of all that you pass. When you reach the sister t-girl you stop and offer your hand in a ladylike way. “Hi,” you say in a well-practiced, feminine voice. “I’m . . . (insert your name here).”
If it is me that you have approached, I’ll figure I’m the luckiest guy in the room because this beautiful lady just came on to me. Wait a minute, that’s wrong, tonight I’m a lady myself. I attempt to do a quick change back to feminine mental mode. “Hi, I’m Greer. Nice to meet you.” I might have gotten the first couple of words out in my up-register femme voice, but by the end I’m back down in male voice range. From that point, I’m busy trying to make a good impression, because I’m still clueless.
What I needed was a secret handshake! The unobtrusive sign that says, “hey, I’m trans, how about you?” This matter of recognition of other members of the community has come up several times recently in message forums. For those who aren’t as observation challenged as I am, there is a real concern about how to approach a sister or brother that you spot out and about. There are several things that must be considered. First, if you let them know that you spotted them, will they be crushed to know they were clocked? Second, how do you let them know that you know without letting anyone else know what you know? You know? Fourth (just seeing if you were paying attention), might you out yourself if you approach this person?
So how should we handle this situation? Honestly, the answer in most cases is simple human contact and courtesy. You politely approach and introduce yourself when circumstances permit. You converse politely for 5 minutes (keep an eye on your watch), then you dive into questions about tucking, hair removal methods and preferred fetish attire. OK, I’m just kidding about the last part (well maybe not the fetish attire part, that’s always a good ice breaker).
The point is you don’t have to base your approach to someone on the basis of mutual transness (did I just make that up?). It should just be a person-to-person contact. You see someone interesting, and you decide to try to get to know them. Sounds great. Of course that never worked for me at dances, bars or even church socials (that was before I became a practicing heathen, but that’s another story). I’m much more comfortable introducing myself as Greer than I have ever been as what’s-his-name, but it still feels like an unnatural act. And that brings me back to the secret handshake.
I’m not really suggesting that we have a secret handshake. If you get to the point of using a handshake, secret or otherwise, you’ve already cleared the main hurdle by making contact. No, what we need is a secret recognition signal. Something that can be flashed across a room when you catch the eye of a brother or sister. Something that will be meaningless to those who aren’t part of the community, but carry full meaning to the rest of us. Something that says, “I’m trans, I’m fabulous, and so are you! Aren’t you? If you’re not, please disregard this signal.”
So what kind of signal could we use? We could be very subtle, like tugging on an earlobe. Unfortunately, that might cause half the married couples in the room to go for their coats. Oh, that isn’t your signal for “I’m bored, take me home now”? Oops, forget I ever brought it up. On the other hand, something like jumping up and down while holding a breast in each hand is probably a bit too obvious, especially if the target of your attempted communication across the room returns the signal. Interesting to imagine though isn’t it.
How about this, you look at the recipient of your signal. When you make eye contact, you touch a pinky finger to your temple. It’s fairly subtle, but it’s unusual enough that your maiden aunt probably won’t do it accidentally (oh the repercussions of that!). Note however that you definitely don’t want to use the index finger for this signal. Your recipient is likely to conclude that you have decided to shoot yourself or them, and this isn’t the message you’re trying to convey, at least not until you’re sharing a bank account.
Assuming that the recipient of your signal hasn’t decided to call the police or a large gentleman with strange bulges under his jacket, AND if you have correctly identified the recipient as trans, AND if you appear to be in control of your faculties, AND if you haven’t committed an unforgivable fashion mistake (remember, it is now permissible to wear white year round), then the recipient may return your signal. This indicates you may feel free to approach the recipient for self-introductions. Of course discretion is still expected. Shouting, “Here I come honey!” and doing some broken-field running across the room will not be appreciated.
It occurs to me that establishing a recognition signal is just the start. Any secret organization worth its salt will also have other signals to allow clandestine communication between members. To close this article of dubious literary work, I offer some additional signals that we should consider adopting. I also welcome readers to pass along their ideas for other signals.
The signal: With your arms at your sides, turn your hands so the palms face to the rear. Touch your thumbs and forefingers together (like an OK sign), then repeatedly bend your wrists so your fingers move back and forth.
The meaning: Your panties are slipping down and you’re in danger of tripping. (Of course this is a warning to another sister in a skirt or a dress. If your own panties are slipping, pull the darn things up.)
The signal: Stand in one spot while wearing high heels, sway your upper body while displaying a pained look on your face. (The last step is necessary to avoid confusion with dancing.)
The meaning: I can no longer stand in my heels. Please bring me a swooning couch and a Mint Julep.
The signal: Hike your skirt up and run like mad to the serving area.
The meaning: The buffet line is now open. (OK, this one isn’t strictly limited to our community, but we girls can put away the food like a bunch of guys, so you don’t want to be late getting in line.)
The meaning: Thank you for being yourself, and for helping me be myself.
The signal: A hug and air kisses.
Hugs,
Greer
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