I really could never be a drag queen.

That shit is work. Not like, “You better WORK!” work. But, like actual work in prepping my body shaving and manscaping and buying clothes and stuff.

I’ve had the same makeup in my wee makeup bag for the last 6+ months. I have one color eyeshadow, one lipstick that I can’t even find, and one wrong-shade foundation.

That does not a drag queen make.

Not only would I have to slather on pounds of clown makeup just to leave the house, but I’d have to get a weave, take care of my hair, and actually fix it on a daily basis.

I mean, really. That’s just not possible.

I sit here in 3-days-out jeans, a t-shirt that says “I put the     in lazy,” my 4-days-out unwashed hair in a greasy ponytail, with leg hairs so long they’re starting to curl.

I’m pretty much living up to my t-shirt message, but I’m not living up to the challenges of a drag queen girl.

Now that we’re talking about clothes, where does a drag queen buy her clothing? I’m pretty sure it’s not Lane Bryant, Old Navy, or the bottom of my her clean laundry mound. I’m also pretty sure the ladies don’t wear frayed jeans and fluffy socks with their Sketchers.

OH! and the music. I’m definitely not up on club dance music. (Remind me to get a few Gagas, Lamberts, and something featuring Akon.) My teeny tiny rotation of 90s music will not be good enough for the club kids and/or hag crowds when up Doin’ My Thang! on stage.

The most important key to a drag queen’s success that I’m lacking? A fab name. My nickname in high school was Fro (dumb), and since then, I’ve not had any good nicknames and I don’t have the brain power to come up with a catchy drag queen name.

See? I’m a total drag queen fail.

Double fail? The shoes. I live in pretty much Sketchers and gasp Crocs*. Shoes with heels hurt like a mo’fo. Shoes with a heel AND platforms? Forget it. I’d bust my ankle in under 2 seconds.

It’s just not in my nature to be a drag queen, so please, let me live in peace as the schlumpy housewife mommy blogger barf that I am.

And then there’s the whole penis ordeal.

I have drag queen penis envy.

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What? I only wear the Crocs to Disney during the summer months. Don’t hate. Plus, I have foot issues. Back off, eh?

The one deliciously good side effect from having adult acne is finding zits in places you never realized could grow pimples.

Don’t go getting all jealous of my abilities to have a zit pop up under my bra underwire. Not only is it super sexy, it’s my super power!

My lovely dermatologist refers to them as “cysts,” but I’ve decided to name them after what they truly are: Surprise Buddies! Who doesn’t want something tagging along with you wherever you go, sitting just under your skin just waiting for attention where “attention” means “picking.”

I love my dermatologist and her out-of-the-way office during my quarterly visits where she tells me “this just isn’t working and why don’t we try this pill after we tried the last pill and the last cleanser and the last super-duper supposed-to-be-effective prescription wash and why don’t you try Accutane, OH YEAH, no, you don’t want to go uber crazy crazy head, so no, Accutane isn’t good for you.”

So now I get to try a NEW! and IMPROVED! and SUPER DUPER SPECIAL TIME-RELEASED EXTENDED PRESCRIPTION ANTIBIOTIC!

It’s so SUPER DUPER SPECIAL! that it costs $400 a month.

four

hundred

dollars

Lucky for me, (and really, why should the luck stop here?), the SUPER DUPER SPECIAL manufacturer of the antibiotic offers a 3-month-long coupon where I can get the pills for $10 a month.

SUPER DUPER, right?

The reactionary time for the antibiotics to begin to take affect is 3 months. So basically, I get to take this $400/month medication for 3 months at $10 a month for it to just start working and magically make my cyst buddies disappear, just in time for the manufacturer to start charging $400/month for me to continue the meds.

Here’s hoping I have the supple skin of a 9-year-old girl in 3 months, because if not, I’ll be living with the pock-marked, greasy, pimple-ridden skin of a 14-year-old boy for the rest of my life.

I’m just going to start preparing myself now to find Surprise Cyst Buddies! in brand new hidden crevices of my body in 3 short months.

I’ve admitted before, I have lovely lady lumps and I don’t mean my boobies. I mean the cheesy lumps on my arse and my thighs. Being that I am a plumpalicious girl, I am standing up and protecting my fellow larger ladies and the rest of the world.

How? By calling a moratorium on shorts that are wider than they are long.

Unless you are in the top .01% of the ladies in the U.S., YOUR SHORTS SHOULD BE LONGER THAN THEY ARE WIDE. If this ratio is on the negative side, DON’T SQUEEZE YOUR FAT ASS INTO THE SHORTS.

Just because some clothing store makes the clothes and you can pull up the screaming zipper, DO NOT buy the shorts.

Oh, Sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah. Here is my evidence from Old Navy*:

Allowing Old Navy (and others) to sell shorts at a 4 1/2″ inseam in a size 6 or up should be criminal. Allowing us larger ladies think it is OK to leave the house, much less purchase, any shorts less than a 5″ inseam (and still you gotsta have some NICE legs to pull those off) is a travesty.

And who are they joking with this picture of the shorts with a space between the legs? No woman who is a size 14 or up has any space between her thighs. You nasty nasty marketing picture-taking people are trying to make us think that those shorts (with pleats BTW) will allow our crotches to breathe.

Sorry, ladies, but wearing these shorts will only allow your ass to have a snack on some denim.

So, please. For the love of Sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah. Stand UP and show your lovely legs! Just wear your shorts a little longer.

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*Originally published March 30, 2008 but still ever-so-awesome.