Today, against my better judgment, I decided to go dress shopping all by myself.  Some background: my aunt is getting married on Sunday, and after a few unsuccessful attempts at shopping with my girlfriend who, frustrated with my indecisiveness, disdain for all things polka dotted (polka dots, as it turns out, are very in), and refusal to “suck it in” while trying on clingy fabrics, finally just stuck me in the tried and true dressy dyke outfit – khaki pants and a white collared shirt. 

Unfortunately, my mother, who is what I call an “in theory liberal” – she doesn’t think homosexuality is wrong but feels bad for you if you’ve got it – cringed at the idea of her daughter wearing pants to a wedding.  I got the first inkling that the kakis might not make the cut when we were discussing my own hypothetical marriage and she became horrified by the suggestion that I might not wear a flowing white dress to my wedding, even if it was to another woman.

“What would you wear, a…tux?” she asked, genuinely confused.  She tries. 

I decided she’d put up with a lot having me as a daughter.  Years of ponytails shoved through the backs of filthy, oversized baseball caps, uncontrollable sobbing on the way to violin lessons, my refusal to wear anything but my brother’s hand-me-down flannels and Hammer pants.  My sweet, kindergarten teacher mother who painted while listening to classical music and grew up longing to be a dancer ended up with a daughter who chugged beers, dated women and hit people as a hobby.  And she never complained.  For once I’d try to please her.  Every girl ought to be able to go to a department store and pick out a half decent dress if the occasion should arise, right?  I was going to do this.  It would be like a female rite of passage or something. 

My first mistake was going to Newpark Mall in Fremont.  While this mall is a step up from most Hayward retail choices, it does not boast just one, but two Oakland Raider Image stores and is really more suitable for someone in the market for the latest Jordan release than a future guest at a WASP wedding in Lafayette. 

After about a half an hour of anxious circling around the Macy’s juniors department, I finally decided to put aside my usual prejudices (bring on the fucking polka dots!) and just chose a random slew of dresses for a fitting room frenzy.  I think I was hoping to have one of those “ta-da!” moments under what would certainly be a flattering florescent lighting scheme, perhaps ending up on one of those elevated platforms at the end of the aisle with dressing room attendants fawning over me.  Tiffany, you MUST come see this transformation! 

My confidence began to wane when I overheard two 13 year old girls talking shit about the very first dress I had plucked off the rack as I lingered creepily behind them, desperate for some guidance.  I think the 85 lb. blonde one actually said,

“That dress is so ugly it makes me want to die every time I see it”. 

Fuck.  My fashion choices were being mocked by teens in mini-backpacks whose moms would be picking them up outside of Target before dark.  I booked it the hell out of there. 

Shaken, I headed off to Stoneridge Mall in Walnut Creek.  The people in the Dub-C are richer, I reasoned.  They must have magic dresses that prevent curveless, slouchy dykes with large traps from looking like drag queens.  But after I had tried on no less than twelve dresses – all of which made me look like I had a butt for a stomach – I needed a beer, soccer shorts and some football like I needed air, and I was ready to admit defeat.  When I gave the fitting room attendant my pile of failed, poorly re-hung dresses, she sighed dramatically, letting her arms sag from the weight as if I had just handed her an anvil. 

“NONE of these?” she asked incredulously. 

I mumbled a response and scurried out with my head down, thinking I might as well just leave my vagina with her as well. 

I wore pants to the wedding.  A few months later I gave way to gravity and purchased my first blazer.  Now my mother routinely watches the Ellen DeGeneres show and calls to give me detailed descriptions of Ellen’s latest unthreatening-to-liberal-middle-class-America lesbian fit.

“She was wearing the cutest Pumas and this navy blue sports coat and I thought, ‘Marea would look so adorable in that’.  At the end of the program they always say who did Ellen’s outfit so I wrote it down for you.  It was from Gucci, have you heard of that?”

Thank goodness she adapts so easily because I clearly do not.

Corrections:
1) Laurie Blue would like me to know that she does know what Gucci is, thank you very much.
2) I don’t think Laurie Blue can be classified as an “in theory liberal” now that she has attended more official gay events than I have.

Sorry mom, I stand corrected on both counts.

My twin?