I Am Leslie Lange

Nothing Is Ever Just 99 Cents

The other day, my housekeeper, asked me to buy myself some hangers. "It will be easier, you know, to hang up your clothes."
So, as I was roaming Desperate Hot Springs, running to the bank, avoiding off-leash pit bulls with my car, etc... I happened to see a sign for a new local 99-cent store. Juana is going to be so proud of me, I thought. I didn't waste money on expensive hangers from Walgreen's.

It takes courage to enter any 99-cent store, because, you know, there's no such thing as a free lunch, freedom isn't free, and nothing is ever just 99 cents. The last time I went, there was a fight at the cashier's station--a fight that lasted a long long time. Hence, the discount was offset by the time wasted, and by that I mean the years taken off my life at the stress of being exposed to a large blotchy-faced white guy (the customer) yelling at a petite, clear-complexioned black woman (the cashier) who told him, "Get out my face you dumb m$#%&." (She was clearly worried about catching his blotchiness.) There was also the time the price of cheap goods was a wait behind this guy whose elbow had a tennis ball-sized open sore, complete with stench and small insects. Would I have paid a few cents more not to have had my face all up in that? Actually, I'd have paid a hell of a lot more--and I work in a hospital.

But all these things were forgotten as I plunged into this new 99-cent establishment. This was going to be different because I was in D-Town. Everything is so crappy in D-Town, I figured the 99-cent store would be actually upscale. So I went in and it was true. The aisles were clean, organized, the shoppers respectful and free of sores. The cashier spoke naught but Spanish, but, hey, that's OK. I'm a proud multilingual (can offend in any tongue). I was so happy to get my three sets of 5 maroon hangers for $2.97 plus the tiny bit of tax.

Then I exited the store.
And there she was.
There she was, pushing what looked to be a baby stroller from K-mart.

She was grubby and there may have been a baby in the stroller, but the stroller was draped in blankets. What kind of blankets? Grubby blankets. There may have been nothing underneath those blankets but a grubby stuffed baboon. Still, the implication was: a baby out in 100-degree weather. She asked me for some change, mumbling something about being out of gas. I gave her several dollars, enough dollars to buy 15 hangers from Bed, Bath & Beyond.

Then I got in the car. Did I think, Gee, I'm glad I was able to help another human being? No, instead, I thought this: Once again, I have not saved money at the 99-cent store. In fact, I spent more money and received lesser quality items.

Once home, I complained about this to Juana. She said, "Oh, but you didn't lose that money because God was watching, and you will be rewarded for this, you know, because He sees everything." This made me feel better, not because I think God is watching me and keeping records, but because Juana is watching..and now maybe she'll forgive me for that big dildo I left in the dishwasher last week. Or maybe she was reminding me, in her own subtle way, that God saw the dildo too.

gratuitous dog photo

WANTED: FOR CRIMES OF PINKNESS

[and for cheese-snatching, sabotage, and bed-hoggery]

Doggie Haiku

Prehistoric gaze
scooter pulling wrinkle dogs
noble worry-warts

Dog Love

OK, actually, I hate being separated from my dogs. I think about how they curl up against me when they say hello, their perky faces, their little yelps of joy, and so on... . If only I could afford to get a place in L.A. big enough to hold all our animals--Pontifica's dalmation, her cat, my two dogs... sigh.

I am jealous of Brian.

Lost Dog 2

I know this blog is supposed to be about...actually, I don't know what it's supposed to be about...but more and more often this blog is about dogs. Perhaps these are the only beings who don't mind being blogged about.

Anyway, this little pooch slept on my desk chair all morning, and in the afternoon I drove him over to the shelter to have them check for a microchip. If he didn't have one, I was going to take him home to Pontifica and we would find him a home together. At the shelter they exclaimed: "He's one of ours! He must have escaped!" (Picture a fat dirty man with a mustache and a woman without any front teeth. A dog jumping up on me repeatedly and trying to get to my dog. No one doing anything about that.) So I said, "Well, he's mine now." and the man said, "Oh, no he isn't." and I clutched the little guy to my breast, whirled away from him and said, "I found him. He's mine!"

Fortunately the toothless woman was a seasoned shelter professional. She took me into the office and showed me photos of the dog, who apparently had just been rescued from being euthanized at a place called "Animal Campus." (sounds like the name of a horror film, eh?) The little dog sat on my lap, staring at the woman as if to say, "Well, I'm with her now." But I had to give them $75 and I had left my checks at home and they would not take my ATM. They said they'd already found a home for it, but if I put up the money now.... I said I'd go home and grab my checks.

On the way home I realized how foolhardy this would be, since I have two dog-aggressive pit mixes, and gf has a dalmation. so I called them and said--sigh--I was sorry for being so hostile and could they please let me know if the other adoption fell through. They said yes, and that they were pretty sure the dog was let out by one of their mentally challenged workers...and it wouldn't happen again.

I miss him now though. And my house smells like a shelter.

Pink Imitates Art

puppy haiku

Is there anything
more noble than a dog with
her bra on sideways?

Pink Poses

(Gratuitous pet picture. Please ignore.)

(And yet....)

(And yet...just LOOK!)

Desert Hot Springs

After tonight, I officially reside in Desperate Hot Springs, which has the largest number of parolees per capita in the state of

California

. Gaunt, dusty dogs run around off-leash, proudly displaying their intact reproductive organs. The desert wind howls all night long, bemoaning the corrupt state of local politics. Mornings, however, are silent and serene. Driving through my tiny, for-sale-sign-littered neighborhood, I smile and wave at everyone I see. As I don't have time to buy…much less learn how to shoot…a sawed off shotgun, friendliness is the only defense I have against a break-and-enter type scenario.

My house has a septic tank (full) and a propane tank (empty). Reversing these states has proven harder than I expected. In other words, I actually have to make a phone call. When I was still a kept lesbian, phone calls to arrange services were always dealt with by our live-in girl factotum. But I don't have her anymore. She's run off to the

Cayman Islands

to make a go of it with her girlfriend, the selfish wretch.

How do people make phone calls anyway?

Another thing about Desperate Hot Springs…you have to drive through a dust storm to get there. Little white whirlwinds of sand slam into my new mustang—my divorce settlement mustang!—ruining its paint job. All I can think is: That sand could be used to make some beautiful polished concrete floors.

Leslie Lange's web site

You Have No Idea How Much I Really Do Around Here…

I WAS STUNNED when Lovey told me that I needed to get a job--so stunned, in fact, that the designer dog-water dish I’d been carrying slipped right out of my hands. It clattered and splashed its contents on the polished concrete floor, while our Pekingese (The Diva) ran to cower under the bed. Seconds later, she produced a sharp bark as punishment.    
    If you are like Lovey and think being her wife is all leisure and country club hopping, well…think again.

We have three dogs, OK? And Lovey does not walk any of them. Two of them are young Pit Bull mixes and one is a Pekingese with very demanding grooming needs-- including a daily “nose-fold” cleaning and eye wash. (If you have ever seen a bad case of Pekingese nose-fold fungus, believe me, you never want to see it again.) The Pit Bulls require an inordinate amount of exercise just to keep them so tired they won’t run off and kill somebody. (Lovey thinks I’m just a little bit hysterical about the pits. “They’re part Chinese Shar-pei,” she tells me. “They’re more likely to sell knock-offs.”)
    When I'm not playing “Leslie Lange, Dog Wrangler,” I’m playing “Leslie Lange, Lesbian Role Model du Jour,” volunteering with the Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG) to appear in front of high school students, mainly so they can ask questions like, “Why do lesbians look so hot when they mack?” (I don’t know, Billy…some things just are.) Sometimes, when we really feel like messing with their heads, our male-to-female transsexual pretends to be a PFLAG mom. In a moving five-minute performance, she rambles on about her gay son before halting mid-sentence and staring into space. She then blurts out: “Well, actually none of this is true.”
        That’s always fun.

But my premier responsibility, the one that takes up the most time, is to accompany Lovey to all the many fundraisers we attend, and—lately—to speak publicly at the fundraisers we host. At our last fundraiser, I had too much to drink, mistook comedian Kate Clinton for

National

Center

for Lesbian Rights Executive Director Kate Kendall, and proposed a strategy of getting the red states used to gay marriage by supplying them with free hot dogs. Lovey was so proud.

And when I'm not playing “Leslie Lange, Fundraiser Wife,” I’m commuting--either back and forth between Los Angeles and Palm Springs or between Palm Springs and Mammoth Ski Resort. How can I be expected to hold down a job when I put in more miles than a Greyhound bus driver? It’s got to be pretty bad if, for my birthday this May, I asked Lovey for one of those funky seat covers with the wooden beads that prevent butt chafing.
        And then there is the business of The Memoir. I am documenting, yes, my own heroic exploits during the disaster of Hurricane Katrina--a blow-by-blow account of how I watched it all on TV. Surviving on nothing but microwave popcorn for a week was rough, I gotta tell ya. But, don’t worry, you’ll read all about it in my book.
    As I rattled off these excuses to Lovey, I began to feel like a real schmuck. No, it’s even worse than that. I began to actually see myself for the total schmuck I was. After throwing a small temper tantrum that included kicking the dog water bowl, I had to admit my mood had been a little low lately. Was Lovey my lover or my parent? Could I ever have a fight with her without worrying what would happen to me financially if we broke up? How could my state of dependency be good for our relationship?
    As The Diva lapped her water from a puddle on the floor, I threw my arms around Lovey’s shoulders and I told her she was right. I would find a steady day job just as soon as we got back from next week’s trip to the Caribbean. I began to feel very, very empowered by the idea--especially when Lovey said, “But what about our trip to Wimbledon in July?”

Leslie Lange's Website