The Flannel Underground

This could be my closet

At dinner last week, one of the kids asks me if I have more flannel shirts like the one I had given him to wear in his school’s production of Annie Get Your Gun last year.

“I don’t know. Why?” I ask.

“It’s for a friend,” he says, “whose parents think flannel shirts are too masculine.”

“Is she a lesbian?” I ask.

“Trans,” he says.

“A transguy?”

“Yes.”

I pause.

“I don’t know,” I say. “If his parents don’t want him wearing flannel shirts …”

I pause again.

“Look, I don’t agree with it, but he’s not my kid,” I say. “I can’t be some underground supplier of flannel for your friends.”

He nods his head.

Underground supplier of flannel, I say to myself. I sit a little taller in my chair.

“I’ll take a look at my flannel shirts in the next week or so,” I say. “I probably have some I don’t want. I’ll give them to you. They’ll be your flannel shirts. Whatever you do with them, that’s your business. I certainly can’t be responsible for what you do with your clothing.”

“Got it?” I ask.

“Got it,” he says.

I feel a little bit like a hero. Passing on my used flannel shirts to kids who need them the most.

For armor.

Or camouflage.

Comfort.

A second skin.

The intersecting horizontal and vertical stripes forming hundreds of tiny crosses as they cover a new body.

 

Today I’m a 50-year-old boy

I turn 50 today.

It’s weird because most days I feel like a kid. A young boy somewhere in the age range of 12 to 17.

Sir, I’ve been reading this great blog called The Flannel Files.

Most people I know say they don’t feel like adults either. Which means we’re all living in a giant Peanuts cartoon. No adults for miles–just an occasional wah wa-wah in the distance. You can call me Peppermint Patty. Or sir. Take your pick. Even though this lesbian doesn’t rock sandals.

 

W is throwing me a big party on Saturday complete with a party bus. I don’t know the details, so the rest is a surprise.

But today we’ll spend a quiet evening at home with the kids.

We’ll get pizza or some other takeout. I’ll open presents.

Super sweet.

I already bought myself these cool black Puma throwbacks as a happy-birthday-to-me gift.

I’m thinking of treating myself to another pair in baby blue.

“Like my eyes,” I told W.

“Yes,” she said.

“My eyes are green,” I said.

“I meant they would compliment your eyes,” she said.

Super sweet, too.

She doesn’t understand how sneakers work.

I’ll wait for next weekend to see The Lego Batman Movie. Maybe as a reward for getting our taxes ready.

“No thank you,” W said when I first asked her if she wanted to see the movie. She has since agreed to see it with me. Because pity, I guess. But whatever. It’s The Lego fucking Batman Movie.

And I’ll save some birthday money for comic books. To spend at that new store in Philly W said we could visit the weekend we see Cabaret.

I suppose 50 means I’m wise. At least wiser than I was at 49. If I’ve learned anything these past five decades, it’s be true to yourself. Live your authentic life.

Even if you’re a 50-year-old boy/woman and that means sneakers and comic books and The Lego fucking Batman Movie.

Life is too short, folks.

* * *

What Peanuts character are you? What’s your favorite type of sneaker? Put them together and make some kind of drag king/queen name. You know you want to. C’mon, it’s my birthday. Humor me.

Love,

Pat Puma

 

Boots

I buy my first pair of Dr. Marten’s before I come out. Before I know I’m a lesbian.

I buy them at a teen-oriented store in the mall that I’m too old to be shopping at.

Brown boots. Seven eyelet lace-ups. With the yellow stitching at the bottom, circling like the moons of Jupiter.

In many ways, my coming out is fluid. A smooth continuation of who I am. An ocean wave that sweeps over me and keeps going.

After I come out, the boots seem to have purpose. I stand taller in them. I stomp harder in them, the AirWair rubber soles bouncing off the pavement like basketballs.

I wear them on dates.

I wear them to piss my mother off.

I wear them when I’m angry.

I wear them when I’m not.

I wear them as a calling card. Rae Theodore, Lesbian, they say with each step.

Friends of mine are planning on attending the Women’s March in Washington, D.C., on Jan. 21, the day after the inauguration. It’s not a protest against Trump or the election results but a march to shed light on women’s issues, including sexual assault and workplace discrimination. You can read more about it here.

I ask W if she wants to go.

“You want to change the world with me?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

I look at the route of the march. Two miles from the Lincoln Memorial to the White House.

I need to break in my boots before January.

* * *

Do you have something you wear that makes you feel powerful?

The magical, mystical butch

W’s brother is getting married this weekend. On Sunday, W and I coordinated our outfits for the rehearsal dinner and wedding, making sure my ties won’t clash with her dresses. It’s so exhausting being a lesbian power couple.

Sunday evening, I ended up running out to Kohl’s department store to pick up a few things. I am mostly over the awkwardness that comes from shopping in the men’s department. But on this particular shopping trip, I found myself feeling a bit like a strange mythical being. Kinda sorta like a centaur — one creature from the waist up and another from the waist down.

While I was standing in the checkout line, I channeled my inner unicorn and reminded myself that I am a magical, mystical creature. I am a big, bad, beautiful butch. I stood head up, shoulders back.

As I daydreamed about rainbows and flying horses, I heard the cashier’s overenthusiastic cry.

“Can I help you, sir?”

I strutted to the register and placed my items down one at a time:

One Chaps-brand purple plaid necktie.

One pair of navy suspenders.

One Casio-brand retro wristwatch.

One white, wireless brassiere.

Welcome to my world, I thought. Imagine what it’s like to be me.

The young woman quickly rang up the items and placed them in a bag and sent me on my way.

I hurried home to show W my new wares.

* * *

For fun, check out this quiz that answers that age-old question: What kind of magical creature are you?

I got Liger. “You are like a lion and tiger mixed bred for skills in magic! You are unique and not afraid to be yourself. (And you actually do exist.)”

How did they know?

What kind of magical creature are you?

You can take the quiz here or just respond with the creature you think is most like you. Oh c’mon, it’ll be fun.

 

 

T-shirt drama

W and I will be celebrating our first wedding anniversary tomorrow.  You can read about our wedding here.

I will have a table at OutFest in Philly promoting my book.

I was going to surprise her and wear this T-shirt tomorrow.

Best laid plans of mice and butches.  The T-shirt place never shipped it.  They are sending out a replacement tee, but I won’t have it for tomorrow.

What’s a butch to do when she doesn’t have a special T-shirt for a special occasion?  So, I made this T-shirt today.

I am crafty like that.  Not crazy about the red-gray combination, but I will keep the stencils and make a new shirt sometime.  I’m thinking white on black would look good.  Because every old school butch should have an Old School Butch tee.

 

Throwback Thursday

Baby butch in Dad’s shoes.

“How did you not know?” W asked when she saw this photo.

“Geez, I was 2,” I replied.

But still, you can see my penchant for men’s shoes, especially Converse sneakers.  And my good sartorial taste.

Even at 2 years of age, I liked to bust gender stereotypes and expectations.  I also had a developing sneaker addiction.

* * *

What about you?  Do you have a picture that foreshadowed who you were destined to be?

Living the dream and sneakers

Guys, it’s been a crazy week.

Last Friday, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in favor of marriage equality AND my book was released.  Coincidence?  Yeah, probably, but I’m still taking credit.

I had a big gay book launch party at a local coffee shop.  We raised a total of $300 for the local Gay-Straight Alliance and the public library, which can now purchase a small collection of LGBT books.

Playing off the superhero theme, we used BAM! POW! napkins and handed out caped bookmarks.

Everyone was a superhero that day.

I was dressed in my butch finery.

I rocked this bowtie and these suspenders at my book launch party.

And I wore these AWEsome Wonder Woman chucks.

Holy Hera!  How awesome are these shoes?

I wasn’t walking but flying.  It was like each foot was soaring in its own invisible jet.

I’m not sure if it was the sneakers or the thrill of seeing a lifetime dream come true.

Lesbian fashion

MIDDLE-AGE BUTCH, THANK YOU FOR YOUR RECENT PURCHASE IN THE Boy’s DEPARTMENT.  SAVINGS LOOK GOOD ON YOU!

Gee, Kohl’s Department Store, I never knew you noticed.

This e-mail message was followed by pictures of two Justin Bieberish male models wearing striped v-neck shirts.

WE THOUGHT THESE WOULD LOOK GOOD ON YOU.

Oh, Kohl’s, how right you are.  You do know your lesbians.

W laughed when I told her about the e-mail.

“I’m touched,” I said.

“It’s kind of creepy,” she said.

“Touching and creepy,” I replied.

* * *

Here’s hoping you have a touching holiday minus the creepy, of course.  Happy Holidays! 

Mail call for Middle-age Butch

They came today.

A box inside a box.

There they were.  Nestled under a tissue paper blanket.

I slowly peeled back the paper.  A thousand tiny angels started to sing.  It was beautiful.  Like when the Indigo Girls hit that note in “Closer to Fine.”  But better because these were angels.

I almost wept.  But then remembered I’m a butch.

Custom Converse.  White with navy blue tongues, laces and stitching.  Paisley/skull pattern inset.  Black rubber racing stripes.  Silver eyelets.  Navy blue outer heel stripes.

With the date of the wedding stitched on the back.

 

 

 

The one where Middle-age butch hijacks the wedding

Or blue is the warmest wedding color

When W and I started planning our wedding, we decided to keep it casual. I told her I wanted to wear jeans and sneakers.  She decided on a white dress because she is a girl and all.  Not a fancy bridal gown but a simple white dress.

W said she didn’t want a color theme like we had at our commitment ceremony. Back then, our colors were various shades of pink and rose.  I happily wore an antique pink rose boutonniere and a matching vintage tie W had picked out at an antique store.  She was the bride after all.

This time around when I decided to wear a bowtie, I had unlimited color and pattern options. What doesn’t match white?

I see trouble ahead for you, Middle-age Butch.

When the Jack & Ennis navy blue bowtie (that’s the one in the bandana pattern) was chosen by 40 percent of y’all, I placed my order with the tie bar. Some all-knowing butches out there commented that they would match their tie to their bride, but my bride said she was just wearing a white dress.

I ordered a matching pair of sneakers and called it a day.

So, when I went to make the programs for the wedding this weekend, I needed a color. Can you say navy blue?  The cake?  The icing is navy blue.

Yes, I’ve hijacked the wedding or at least the wedding color. Yesterday, W went to pick out a sweater to wear over her dress.  (The wedding is being held at a park.)  She got one in white and one in navy blue.

What’s a butch to do?

It’s butch etiquette to let the lady pick out things like flowers and colors (see Butch Handbook, page 23).

So, I feel bad and like a bully.  At least a color bully.

W doesn’t seem to mind.  In fact, she seems tickled that we’re using the color navy because of my bowtie.  She’s a good sport and a good woman.

I love this bowtie!

The bowtie came by the way.  In a small white box tucked under a blanket of tissue paper.

It took me three tries to get it tied.

This butch says thanks for the bowtie tying lesson, Stay Fly 101 of youtube fame.

One thing to cross off my bucket list.

Learn how to tie a bowtie.

Now, I just have to figure out if I’m too old to be fly.  Word.