Richard is getting very old and very gay. How many signs of bitteroldqueenitis can you spot in the following story?
Last night I was painting the living room windowsills a creamy, high-gloss white (1) in preparation for hanging the drapes (2) Jonno and I had custom-ordered (3) from a lovely, damask-y gold stripe pattern (4). After Antiques Roadshow (5), I began flipping through channels and landed on the Video Music Awards.
I happened to tune in just as Christina Aguilera was beginning her number, and the first thing that struck me, apart from the ease with which she straddled the baby grand piano, was her gold halter-dress (6) — or rather, what was underneath: a pair of red, spandex, mid-thigh-length shorts. “Who the hell dressed her?” I wondered aloud (7). “And that wig (8)! Did the stylist (9) hang it out to dry on a clothesline?”
The performance was followed by a virtual parade of all things lame (10) –including an over-long, un-funny script with Queen Latifah, Jimmy Fallon, and the announcer, as well as a stupendously unspectacular “spontaneous” skateboarding festival avec Tony Hawk. This was all backed by some LED stage dressing that scrolled green light a la The Matrix, which in itself was pretty lame.
Not long after that, I turned my attention back to the windows and the curtain rods I was hanging, which came complete with oak leave finials (11). As I prepared to hang the draperies themselves, I pulled them from their container — which hadn’t been opened since we picked them up from the shop — only to find that they had been cut completely wrong (12). Which led to my pondering of the age-old question: if a queen throws a hissyfit in an empty living room, does anyone hear her screech (13)? The answer, given a sudden burst of laughter from the sidewalk below my window, was apparently “yes.”
Just before retiring for bed, around 10pm (14), I got a phone call from friends inviting me to a party, but all I could think was “A party at 10:00? On a school night?” (15). I brushed my teeth and hit the hay (16), finishing only a page or two of Uncle Mame (17) before I fell asleep.
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