Fettle Fit For A Dog Shit Queen
One of the more vexatious questions a dog shit queen has to address is what to wear. When I am mixing with my people here in Greenpoint a simple tank top and skirt combo will suffice, but what about the occasional diplomatic affair(s) I attend outside the confines of the Garden Spot? Since there are no precedents for me to follow, I pretty much make it up as I go along.
In this solitary respect I envy the office fraus I used to have the honor of calling “co-workers”. The parameters set for them (and myself) were clear cut: take any drab article of clothing you grouse about outlaying money for (and would never, EVER wear on your free time) and presto you have suitable business attire. The one thing I have noticed about people wearing office attire is they rarely smile. I, on the other hand, never wear office attire and usually can be seen smiling. Perhaps there is a relationship between the two? I certainly think so.
Anyhoo, this week I scored a vestment fit for a (dog shit) queen at (where else) the junk shop.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
After being holed-up in the apartment for three days (sick, sleep-deprived and/or waiting for Verizon to install a second line) I went to work. Grudgingly. This was the first day I have felt near 100% and was pretty grumpy about spending quality time working. To bastardize John Lennon:
Work is what happens when I am busy doing other things.
And as I was busy doing other things (at work) a customer pointed out something I found of interest.
I tried it on atop of my clothing and it fit. I liked it so much I found a couple of pink shoe laces with Alpha Kappa Alpha emblazoned on them and strapped myself in. Half of my three hour shift was spent being a Greenpoint Marie Antoinette (or as I would prefer, Madame de Poopie Dour). On a lark I drug my person and my eight foot long train from behind the counter and shouted at my boss:
Let them eat shit!
He was amused. No one else got it— then again, I once wore a pair of fairy wings to the grocery store and no one “got” that either. As was the usual case, my shift was spent dealing with hagglers and hipsters— mostly assuring him (or her) that the jewelry in their hand(s) was INDEED real sterling silver. No one found a blue-haired woman wearing 18th century apparel hawking jewelry the least bit odd until…
a customer from last week came in. I remembered this woman because she was a particularly hard-nosed haggler. Nonetheless, I liked her. Customers with taste are very rare in my line of work: most raise an unholy fuss over outlaying more than $1.00 for some ugly piece of shit or another. This woman had taste, and for this reason alone I would cut her a fat discount on the stuff she wanted.
Our haggling session was a little more contentious than the previous one, but hardly hostile. Once it had been established that I was not going to go lower than $16.00 for the stuff she selected, she relented and shelled out the dough. That’s when she noticed what I was wearing.
Customer: Can I come behind the counter and look at what you’re wearing?
Customer (coming behind the counter): Is that a costume piece or is it vintage?
Me: We get a lot of costumes here, so I’m going with that.
Customer (handling my train): Can I give you a piece of advice?
Customer: I own and operate an antique store in Los Angeles. This is authentic.
Me: Really? I was planning on wearing it at the BARC Dog Parade this October. Of course I could have someone hold the train up so it doesn’t drag along the street.
Customer: (look of abject horror)
This is Greenpoint, not Los Angeles. I have seen shit here that would make even the fruitiest of Golden State fruitcakes go “Whoa man, that’s weird!” I know this because I once lived in the City of Angels. This dress might be an antique there, but in Greenpoint this here item is Dog Shit Queen duds.
That’s why I saw fit to sell it to myself for the very reasonable price of $10.00.
P.S.: I’d like to give a shout-out to this customer. I hope you made it back to L.A. safe and sound. It was a pleasure serving you.