Queer Eye for the Hot Fucking Mess

This morning, I was given my instructions for how to dress for dinner tonight at the Steaksmith...

"Are you going to spruce up tonight?" said Michael.

"Did I not the first time?  Are you ashamed to be seen with me?  Do I offend in some manner?"

"You looked great last time.  Do that again."

He gave me the stinkeye, and made a face.

"What?"

"Look at you now - I know you haven't combed your hair even though it's hard to tell when you do, you're wearing a shirt at least three times too big for you, and I know if I lift that shirt, I'll find out that you've got that awful skirt pinned or tacked so it'll stay on you, too.  And those socks!  OMG!  Those socks and Mary Janes..."  He rolled his eyes, he looked towards the heavens for God to agree with him.  "You are one hot, fucking mess, girl."

"Eat me on rye, Queer Eye.  I like what I have on, thank you."

He went to my closet and began to rummage.  Finally, he comes out with this light sage, empire-waisted dress with a gold sash and cap sleeves.  "Does this come close to fitting you?"

"Yeah..."

"Will you wear it?"

"Fine...with Mary Janes or sneakers?"

Rummage, rummage, rummage.  He pulls out a  pair of brownish peep-toe shoes with small heels.  "These will do...and, for gods sake, wear nylons and not ankle socks, okay?"

Hmmmm...

My spidey senses are tingling.

The Steaksmith is a place you don't go into unless you have at least $150 on you to spend for dinner.  It isn't the most expensive place in town, but it's a classy place, and this is TWICE he's taken me.  (Where does a gay guy on SSDI get this much money????)  Now, he's all a'twitter about what I'm going to wear?  Something, as Holmes would say, is afoot, I believe...

As he leaves, he says, "And wear makeup.  You look so good with a little makeup.  Too bad you can't do much with that hair..."

(Fuck him.  I like my hair this way.  I LOVE my hair this way.)

Now, it is true that I don't, normally, pay much attention to what I wear, and most of my clothes ARE too big for me, but since I don't make a habit of going anywhere that my clothes matter, I don't care - I wear what's comfy, what I like, and what appeals to me (which is, unfortunately, often a lot of conflicting colors and styles, but I'm not trying to impress anyone, and the squirrels have never complained.)  I discovered a loooooong time ago that when you dress to please yourself instead of others, you find you have your own little style goin' on, and anyone who doesn't like it can suck it.

He picked one of the few dresses that make me look like the Mormon I am.  This is much more misleading than the clothes I wear every day.  Dresses like that have people expecting things like manners and the observation of simply rules of etiquette that I am, frequently, too casual to employ.  In MY clothing, I don't disappoint when I eat with my fingers or say, "What the fuck is that gray thing in my soup?" to the waiter.

And does it make food taste any differently?

I don't mind being a hot, fucking mess, but just for his attitude this morning, Imma gonna order me some champagne and, then, not drink it...

...so there...