There aren’t many words that strike fear into a drag queen’s heart, but I found myself a quivering mess last week when I was sorting through my mail.
Like many, I rent, so when you receive a letter from the real estate agent, your mind starts to race. I tore open the letter to discover my worst nightmare… HOUSE INSPECTION!
The letter dropped to the floor as I gazed across the rooms of drag and wigs.
Just three weeks to turn what sometimes looks like a St Vincent’s De Paul sale into a boutique, sweep the glitter into respectable piles and pitchfork wigs into hay bale style mounds. I know many showgirls are the same. We keep everything, from buttons and bits of ribbon to one heel that’s fine but flying solo because the other died after one too many dance parties.
I had to get a plan ASAP as the house could scare the truest of professionals. I could get a cleaner in to take care of the boring jobs like windows, carpet and walls, but I would need someone close to me, for the sorting of drag -” someone who could say, Junk, get rid of it, and I wouldn’t burst into tears, as the memories flood back of when I wore it last. I thought I might acquire the services of my partner in crime, Verushka Darling, then quickly dismissed that, as her house at times can be worse than mine.
I have it! my fingers zoomed across my phone, as I messaged first to test the water-¦. Help me Rhonda, Help Help Me Rhonda was the message I sent to Polly Petrie’s right-hand helper Harley.
She was hesitant at first but after I sweetened the deal with dinner and a movie thrown in, how could she refuse. I’m going to be ruthless, you know, she said. Maybe I could do it myself?
It has been three years since my last house inspection and like any good hoarder, I have rooms full of memories that need to have their own place or be recycled. So if you see me, frazzled, smelling of Ajax or Mister Muscle, just pat me on the back and send me home with a fresh garbage bag.