Tyler Yoder's Blog, page 34

Poetic Interlude XXXI

A guest poem, by a charming creature, N. It made me cry. Enjoy.

I am not antiqued.

I am not scented

With the brooding must and stature

Of ages,

Or the crushed femininity of Roses.

I do not sway

Under the heavy, topical purr

Of velvet,

Or the pomp of a heel.

No,

I do not

Embody

That archetype

Of kohl-eyed waiting, of swollen-red

Sexuality.

I am

just-made

This time around.

I smell of warm honey,

Of citrus, vanilla,

pepper

and lime.

I rove

More than saunter.

And prefer exploration-

However impractical-

To the combined knowledge of

The World’s faded Lovers.

I, too

Am at a loss to explain

How it is that you love me.
Tagged: Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Writing

Post the Hundred and Twenty-Fourth: Winter Sea Otter

Happy Halloweekend, Gentle Reader! I hope that your holiday itself was absolutely magical, and that you have an absolute whirlwind of masquerades, cocktail parties, and balls lined up for the weekend. I know that I certainly do. I hope that you win the costume contest, and that the sexy corn or whatever totally gives you their phone number.

As for myself, yesterday was a chance to follow some charming local customs that we totally made up last year. According to my roommate, S*, in an obscure Celtic dialect the word for this holiday was not in fact Samhain, but an unpronounceable word that directly translates as “Winter Sea Otter.” I first learned this last Halloween – Miss P had just left for work, you see, and it was five in the morning. S and M, our other roommate-at-the-time, had not yet been to bed, and were greeting the pre-dawn morning with Pumpkin Pie Vodka Cocktails. Their giggling woke me, but gently – I rose to greet the day, and was handed a cocktail of my own. This is all documented on Twitter, by the way, if you want to dig back a year. We had another drink, I put the coffee on, and put on my costume, while the roommates went to bed.

Sadly, no photos exist of my rendition of Coco Chanel, and the various pieces I used to put together the outfit have been repurposed. It was seven a.m., I was feeling pleasantly tipsy, and dressed in very classy drag, with a small bubble of hilarity lodged in my chest. Approximately, I looked like this:

Clearly, the thing to do was spend the entire day drinking, but drinking responsibly – there were things that needed to be done! My clever little game was this: For each task I accomplished, I would award myself one glass of wine. I adore prizes.

The morning and afternoon slipped swiftly by – do you know, doing dishes can be a positive riot, if you’re tipsy enough? It can. The roommates arose; we baked some goods, with apple and pumpkin and spice. I was contemplating my evening plans – Winter Sea Otter had fallen on a Wednesday, you see, and while I had parties lined up for both weekends framing the day itself, I had neglected to come up with a plan. Enter my Uncle Syn, the kindly curmudgeon, out in Olympia. Syn was planing on spending the evening alone, working on Art†, but a little festive company wouldn’t go amiss.

We both pulled in favors, and Syn offered to pay for gas for whatever poor sap ended up driving me out to town. My ride arrived in a slew of mud and rain; I delicately picked my way to the car in my high-heels, and off we went. Once there, we discussed all sorts of esoterica and other assorted oddities; Syn showed me their collection of antique speculae, among other marvels, and plied me with wine. We had a marvelous evening, and I knew that it was time to go when I fell off their porch while breaking a heel.

Now, I don’t want to recreate this experience exactly – at least, not without an invitation from Syn – but there are many elements here that will certainly make a merry holiday.

*********

* S is prone to exaggeration, but his facts are usually rooted in, well, fact. However, I cannot find a single source on the internet to back this up.

†Uncle Syn is a working artist; that’s how they make their living. A night off for a holiday just isn’t a thing in such a career.

//

Tagged: Cocktails, Halloweekend, Samhain, Winter Sea Otter

Winter Sea Otter

Happy Halloweekend, Gentle Reader! I hope that your holiday itself was absolutely magical, and that you have an absolute whirlwind of masquerades, cocktail parties, and balls lined up for the weekend. I know that I certainly do. I hope that you win the costume contest, and that the sexy corn or whatever totally gives you their phone number.

As for myself, yesterday was a chance to follow some charming local customs that we totally made up last year. According to my roommate, S*, in an obscure Celtic dialect the word for this holiday was not in fact Samhain, but an unpronounceable word that directly translates as “Winter Sea Otter.” I first learned this last Halloween – Miss P had just left for work, you see, and it was five in the morning. S and M, our other roommate-at-the-time, had not yet been to bed, and were greeting the pre-dawn morning with Pumpkin Pie Vodka Cocktails. Their giggling woke me, but gently – I rose to greet the day, and was handed a cocktail of my own. This is all documented on Twitter, by the way, if you want to dig back a year. We had another drink, I put the coffee on, and put on my costume, while the roommates went to bed.

Sadly, no photos exist of my rendition of Coco Chanel, and the various pieces I used to put together the outfit have been repurposed. It was seven a.m., I was feeling pleasantly tipsy, and dressed in very classy drag, with a small bubble of hilarity lodged in my chest. Approximately, I looked like this:

Clearly, the thing to do was spend the entire day drinking, but drinking responsibly – there were things that needed to be done! My clever little game was this: For each task I accomplished, I would award myself one glass of wine. I adore prizes.

The morning and afternoon slipped swiftly by – do you know, doing dishes can be a positive riot, if you’re tipsy enough? It can. The roommates arose; we baked some goods, with apple and pumpkin and spice. I was contemplating my evening plans – Winter Sea Otter had fallen on a Wednesday, you see, and while I had parties lined up for both weekends framing the day itself, I had neglected to come up with a plan. Enter my Uncle Syn, the kindly curmudgeon, out in Olympia. Syn was planing on spending the evening alone, working on Art†, but a little festive company wouldn’t go amiss.

We both pulled in favors, and Syn offered to pay for gas for whatever poor sap ended up driving me out to town. My ride arrived in a slew of mud and rain; I delicately picked my way to the car in my high-heels, and off we went. Once there, we discussed all sorts of esoterica and other assorted oddities; Syn showed me their collection of antique speculae, among other marvels, and plied me with wine. We had a marvelous evening, and I knew that it was time to go when I fell off their porch while breaking a heel.

Now, I don’t want to recreate this experience exactly – at least, not without an invitation from Syn – but there are many elements here that will certainly make a merry holiday.

*********

* S is prone to exaggeration, but his facts are usually rooted in, well, fact. However, I cannot find a single source on the internet to back this up.

†Uncle Syn is a working artist; that’s how they make their living. A night off for a holiday just isn’t a thing in such a career.

//

Tagged: Cocktails, Halloweekend, Samhain, Winter Sea Otter

Post the Hundred and Twenty Third: Beauty Secrets of the Reverend Doctor: Halloween Edition

Gentle Reader, it is a truth universally acknowledged that I am an enchantingly gorgeous creature. Today, I’ll be giving you some handy makeup tips for use on your candy-and-poor-decision-fueled rampage tomorrow night.

Step One: Sit down at your vanity.

Step 2: Swaddled in your favorite dressing-gown, try to decide whether it’s better to do your makeup first, and mess it up when you put on your costume, or put your costume on first, and get makeup all over it.

Step 3: Realize you forgot to shave earlier; contemplate your rapidly advancing age.

Step 4: Begin on your best eye. Change the filter settings on your camera so that your loyal readers can see what the hell you’re doing.

Step 5: Realize that you used the wrong color of silver and that you’re going to have to start all over because this one just blends into the black. Do-Over!

Step 6: Get it right this time. Begin on the other eye and fail to match the first eye, because getting them even is way too hard. Don’t realize it yet.

Step 7: Realize it.

Step 8: Just finish the first eye already, and worry about the second one later. That’ll work, right?

Step 9: BAM! Instantly finish the second eye, and pretend on your blog that it didn’t take an hour to get them to match.

Step 10: Time for lips – and obligatory duck face!

Step 11: Right, so you’ve got your lipstick on, and a thing of glitter. There is no way this will end badly.

Step 12: Dab it on with a q-tip until all the red is hidden by your glitter. Realize that you meant to put glitter on your eyebrows as well. Put lipstick on your eyebrows, dubiously.

Step Whatever: Glitter those beauties up. Get glitter in your eyes. Leave it, because otherwise your makeup will smear. Try not to cry or rub your eyes. Seriously. Pretend that everything is fine.

Step Something: Briefly contemplate this idea that you saw on Pinterest, involving feathers and eyelash glue, and realize that there is no possible way that you’ll get it to look like it did in the picture. Abandon hope.

Step The Last: Give up on taking photos for every step because your camera battery is almost dead. Restore filters, and finish the look off-screen with no help whatsoever from anyone. Be gorgeous.

Have a safe and happy Halloween, my loves! Make terrible decisions, and debauch yourself to the fullest! Cheers!

Tagged: Advice, Beauty, Cosmetics, Entertaining, Fabulous Parties, Halloween, Makeup

Beauty Secrets of the Reverend Doctor: Halloween Edition

Gentle Reader, it is a truth universally acknowledged that I am an enchantingly gorgeous creature. Today, I’ll be giving you some handy makeup tips for use on your candy-and-poor-decision-fueled rampage tomorrow night.

Step One: Sit down at your vanity.

Step 2: Swaddled in your favorite dressing-gown, try to decide whether it’s better to do your makeup first, and mess it up when you put on your costume, or put your costume on first, and get makeup all over it.

Step 3: Realize you forgot to shave earlier; contemplate your rapidly advancing age.

Step 4: Begin on your best eye. Change the filter settings on your camera so that your loyal readers can see what the hell you’re doing.

Step 5: Realize that you used the wrong color of silver and that you’re going to have to start all over because this one just blends into the black. Do-Over!

Step 6: Get it right this time. Begin on the other eye and fail to match the first eye, because getting them even is way too hard. Don’t realize it yet.

Step 7: Realize it.

Step 8: Just finish the first eye already, and worry about the second one later. That’ll work, right?

Step 9: BAM! Instantly finish the second eye, and pretend on your blog that it didn’t take an hour to get them to match.

Step 10: Time for lips – and obligatory duck face!

Step 11: Right, so you’ve got your lipstick on, and a thing of glitter. There is no way this will end badly.

Step 12: Dab it on with a q-tip until all the red is hidden by your glitter. Realize that you meant to put glitter on your eyebrows as well. Put lipstick on your eyebrows, dubiously.

Step Whatever: Glitter those beauties up. Get glitter in your eyes. Leave it, because otherwise your makeup will smear. Try not to cry or rub your eyes. Seriously. Pretend that everything is fine.

Step Something: Briefly contemplate this idea that you saw on Pinterest, involving feathers and eyelash glue, and realize that there is no possible way that you’ll get it to look like it did in the picture. Abandon hope.

Step The Last: Give up on taking photos for every step because your camera battery is almost dead. Restore filters, and finish the look off-screen with no help whatsoever from anyone. Be gorgeous.

Have a safe and happy Halloween, my loves! Make terrible decisions, and debauch yourself to the fullest! Cheers!

Tagged: Advice, Beauty, Cosmetics, Entertaining, Fabulous Parties, Halloween, Makeup

Post the Seventeenth: In Which There Is A Competition

Gentle Reader, this post originally aired back in late December, for some reason. Here it is again, in its proper season, for your Halloweek enjoyment.

Gentle Reader, for purposes of this entry, let it be the month of October, in the year 2008. My dear Miss K. is living in the house I used to rent with our mutual friend, the Colonel. Their landlady’s daughter, and her beau, B and B, are the immediate neighbors, and are constantly there. I also frequented their home, which had been christened as “Phoenix Down Hall.”

Now, it so happens that Miss K. still had in her possession a pair of polyvinyl short-shorts from her Goth days, at school. They were hilariously revealing, and she was about to throw them away, “as they’re full of fail.”

I grabbed her wrist, as they were too ridiculous of a garment not to own – I demonstrated by putting them on. She offered to give them to me, but B and B had the idea of a competition – we’d keep track of mistakes, misdeeds, and misspeaking with tally marks, and whoever was “most full of fail” at the end of the month would clearly be made to wear them*. Thus, the fail-shorts were born.

All month long, every little thing was recorded – and as Miss K. and the Colonel were butting heads as room-mates, there were a lot of little irksome things. Once the Colonel was disqualified by erasing the board, we were down to three contenders: Myself, Miss K., and B. As it was the week before Halloween, clearly we’d need to have a fail-off.

It’s an odd thing, when three fully grown adults break into a school play-ground. It’s stranger still when they indulge in childhood games, like hide and seek. Nonetheless, that is what we did.

The points were flying in the air like a flurry of snow, and K. had had enough of B.’s pomposity – he’s a  bit much, sometimes. Miss K. threw the match so that we could get the hell out of there, and away from him.

The auspicious day arrived, and our calender was full: We had four separate functions to attend. Given that our first few stops were near her place, and that she didn’t want any of us to have to worry about driving, my mother kindly chauffeured us about. We piled into her van, dressed thusly: I was dressed as a French nobleman.

The Colonel was in bow-tie and tails, as is his custom, B. was in a frock, wig, and heels (he had shaved his legs, which were hidden by the frock, but not the chest hair poking out of his décolletage), and of course, Miss K. was in fishnets, fail-shorts, a black silk top, and leather jacket. We were set to go.

Our first three stops were fairly ordinary Halloween parties, and I shan’t go into the details here, except to note that B. (called Delores) was voted the prettiest, at one of them. Our final destination, however, was a gay bar; as I had never yet been to one (and wanted to meet someone, damn it) we upped oars for Tacoma, and Club Silverstone.

At the Stone, there’s a grand staircase descending down, down into darkness.

Labyrinthine walls caging you in and guiding you this way and that. We fought our way through the chaos, to a clearing, set with cocktail tables and captain’s chairs, upholstered in peeling, shiny, vinyl, and whose castors adhered to the mysteriously sticky carpet. My K and I took orders, and elbowed up to the bar. While in line, K – who had imbibed a fair deal at the other locations (and while she can drink all night, she’s falling down on her first drink – balance is not her strong suit) began collapsing in her hooker-boots, and so it fell to me to keep her from falling. Arms about one another, it should not have been a surprise that so many attractive young gentlemen, rather than hitting on me, complimented K and I on being so supportive of our trans friend, and her boyfriend. Through our festively foggy minds, K and I were having the damnedest time trying to figure out who the devil they were talking about, until we glanced towards our table – the crush of the crowd had forced B and the Colonel – straight dudes both – uncomfortably close to one another.

Drinks and dancing accomplished, and dates lined up, we drove off into the night, without further incident.

//

Tagged: Betrunken Wutend Geist, Contests, Fail Shorts, Full Disclosure, Halloween, Hallowekend, QUILTBAG

Poetic Interlude XXX

Truthfully, Gentle Reader, this is Poetic Interlude VII reprised. In light of recent events, both of these pieces seemed particularly appropriate. Also, both pieces are in Patchwork Narrative, which should be available in select stores starting next week. Maybe. With luck.

On Gossip

When repenting my crimes, my life, and my sinning,

I’m often surprised by other’s distress:

Vomiting vengeance, vehemence, and vigour,

Though they’ve never lived it, I’m sure they know best.

So I’ll keep to my loves, my pleasures and glories,

Disreputable, yes. What stories they give!

Let the naysayers keep their prim picket-fences -

No matter the ending, at least I’ll have lived!

Aspartame

A smoky place where we can go:

In false dark voice both sweet and low,

The hostess sits, and prompts decay,

and burns the trifling hours away.

With smile as light and wide as sin,

A heart as pure as saccharin -

Though you’ve just met, she clings you close:

She’s more sincere than sucralose;

Coffee, gossip unrestrained

(with vitriol and aspartame).

And as the noiseless months slip by,

You’ll smoke until your veins run dry,

Then you’ll get your allotted dose -

(Though all are Equal, she’s the most)

And one day, at a rapid rate,

You’ll earn your turn to take her hate;

She’ll spare neither beat nor cane,

The woman built from aspartame.

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

Tagged: drama, Gossip, Poetic Interludes, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

Spontaneity

Sometimes, Gentle Reader, you have a nice dinner out with a friend for her birthday, and then you and some friends go back to her apartment for a few glasses of wine. That’s a nice normal thing, that nice, normal people do. By now, I’m sure you know that things in my life hardly ever stay in the realm of the nice and normal.

I had spent a lovely afternoon with Mr. Darling. We went to the shop in the mall where he’d worked as a teenager – Claire’s – and we visited the Airport Tavern. He was amused by it; it’s seen better days. We killed time and caught up with one another, until we were to meet with Miss Spectacular and some friends for her birthday supper. The food was delightful, the conversation stimulating, the company divine. We retired to her apartment, continuing the chat; we were all in a rare, expansive, mood. I believe that Darling needed to use the restroom; after he had finished, he dashed back out into the sitting room, with a fistful of scarves and flowers. “Ladies! Follow me! We need to wear all the things!” We dashed en masse to the boudoir. Darling went first – it was his idea, after all – and this happened:

He then assisted me, because he has far more style and skill than I do. Suddenly, I was ravishing:

The birthday girl wasn’t quite ready for her own makeover yet, so Darling and I tackled Miss Taylor together. Voíla!

Finally, Miss Spectacular was ready to be beautified. I’m not certain how she felt about it.

She then went on a rampage – watch out, Darling!

Well, once all of our makeovers were complete, we naturally commandeered Miss Spectacular’s boyfriend, B, who hadn’t really wanted to participate in Frilly Spontaneous Dress-Up Time, as well as his camera. We all had a certain eastern flair to our outfits – or perhaps it was just their apartment. The Casa Blanca apartments had been designed by a friend of Houdini‘s, who was obsessed with unique tiles, and is already visually intriguing; their decor lent itself to our scheme. See?

We danced, we frolicked, we posed; the air of spontaneity, of improvising interesting outfits from existing materials just lying around the bathroom – well, the creativity was contagious, infectious, inspiring.

There is a strong possibility, if you ever let me into your home, that something like this might happen.

//

Tagged: Darling, Fabulous Parties, Frilly Dress-Up Time, Miss Spectacular, Spontaneity, Whimsy

UPDATE: Patchwork Narrative

Sorry for not mentioning my fabulous volume of poetry recently, Gentle Reader. I’ve been wrestling with the publishers over my tax information – apparently the IRS doesn’t always use my middle initial, but sometimes they do, which causes a great deal of confusion with my SSN. This has caused a delay in the launch date, as I’ve had to get that snarl untangled before I could get my proof copy sent to me. It’s in the mail, and will arrive next Wednesday.

I had wanted to be able to launch the print copy on Halloween itself, because the only thing that could improve that day for me would be to sell copies, and maybe do a reading, at a release party. It’s not to be. However, print copies should be available for purchase very soon. Within a month, I should imagine. In the meantime, the electronic version, as always, is available here.

Also, Miss Ward has painted a watercolor portrait of me, and I love it.

Tagged: non-whimsy, Not a Real Post, Patchwork Narrative, Poetry, Tyler J. Yoder, Writing

Diary Entries

Gentle Reader, this piece was written for a pro-choice contest. I haven’t heard back from them at this point, and judging was supposed to have been finished by the first of October, so I submit it to you. It is not a very easy piece to read; there may be certain triggers throughout. I hope that you enjoy it.

Diary Ent ries

October 12th, 1975

What the hell am I going to do? Mother already barely tolerates me – she makes it very clear that I’m adopted. That line’s been drawn between Jake and I as long I can remember – he’s her “miracle baby.” I’ve never been good enough, never fit into this family. I’m not saying she doesn’t love me, but she keeps me at arm’s length.

If I keep this baby, I’ll have someone who belongs to me, flesh and blood. Maybe I won’t be so alone – maybe I’ll finally feel like family.

Why did Todd have to leave? I need him – if he hadn’t talked me into giving in, because he was deploying – couldn’t they send someone else to Korea? If he was here – if he could marry me – maybe that’d be enough for Mother’s “respectable” relatives. The scandal is going to kill her – Todd and I’ve only been on three dates! Here I am, pregnant, when for years she couldn’t conceive – there’s no way out. What the hell am I going to do?

October 20th, 1975

I called Melissa. I couldn’t keep it together – I choked out “please come over”  and that was the best I could do. I was shaking and sobbing the whole time I waited- she thought I was just drunk or something, and took her sweet time. I was a mess when she got here, tears and snot all over my face. She cleaned me up, but she couldn’t stop the crying. She curled up next to me, while I told her as much as I could. I tried to keep quiet – Mother was home. Melissa said she’s taking me to a doctor next week. I don’t know if I can do this – what if this is my only shot at having a baby? – but if I have it, I’ll lose my mom. Is this really happening?

October 26th, 1975

On the way there, Melissa and I just couldn’t talk. I couldn’t take it. The nurses, the doctor were sympathetic, and made it as easy as possible. I’m still worried about the appointment next week, but I feel a little better, because, well – as we walked back to the car, I heard that familiar click-clack of heels behind me. Sure enough, it was Mother. I froze – what could I say, walking out of Planned Parenthood?

Then she’s hugging me, and we’re both crying. I try to explain, but she shushed me like always, and starts talking instead. She actually cried, in public, and in broken fragments she tells me why she couldn’t conceive – the reason my brother was such a miracle – when she’d had to have her own procedure done, after the War – her best friend, borrowed tools, a kitchen table -  infection, complication, being afraid to see a doctor, in case her mother found out -

Family’s always there for you, when you need them.

Tagged: 1972, Fiction, Planned Parenthood, Pregnancy