I am about to depart for a Lady Gaga party, my flock. God help me.
Mother has been preparing since last weekend, browsing the store aisles for blonde wigs and fishnet stockings and odd items to turn into hats or masks. I have seen her wear both a plastic shark and a unicorn upon her head, and I've seen her try on two Curious George masks in ways that the manufacturer surely did not intend. A few days ago, she entered the room after applying a heavy patina of makeup. "Does this look like Lady Gaga?" she asked. I studied her face. "I think Lady Gaga looks less like a prostitute," I answered. Honesty is a virtue. Today, she found a professional to apply her eyeshadow at a local store makeup counter.
Having made most of her preparations, mother this afternoon finally told me some details about the planned festivities. "There's gonna be a drag show," she said. "Will you be comfortable with that, given your standing as an ultra-conservative pug religious icon?"
I considered the question and shrugged. "I don't see why not," I answered. "I have no problem with racing cars."
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