I would like a chance to explain myself (before you begin your judging) and to tell you exactly how I, Annie Gertrude Paige, came to be in my current predicament (that of a wedding-crashing Fag Hag). Honestly, I think that once you hear the whole story, you will understand why I'm about to do what I'm going to do, which is to destroy the carefully laid life plans of the person I love most in the world, Jaime Knox.   

Our one a.m. redeye flight from DFW to LAX jets faster and faster toward the west coast, toward Jaime and the wedding that I, along with my small but loyal band of friends, hope to destroy. I take a mental inventory of my situation, fight the urge to vomit into my conveniently provided barf bag, and curse the fact that there's no turning back.

Had I known it would come to this would I have changed anything? I wonder, knowing the answer and hating myself for it. Because the truth is I wouldn't change a single second of my story. At least not yet.

"Getchee getchee yaya lada.  Getchee getchee yaya deeeeee!  Yoka choka laladaadaa.  Beeeeyoooo Lady Mahramaliiiiidd." Christina Aguilera's lyrics shatter the air aboard our previously sleeping plane.

Without having to look over my shoulder, I know who's responsible for the painfully queen-like rendition of one of my favorite musical numbers. 

"Marmmaaaliiiiddde Mararmaliiiiiiiiiiiide.  Ohh Ohhh Ohhhohohohohoh OhOhOhOhOho." Julian, my hairdresser (and friend?)  screeches loudly along with his iPod, blissfully unaware of the harsh looks he's receiving from his fellow travelers attempting to sleep. 

I know better, though. He feels the stares and revels in them. I unbuckle my safety belt, desperate to intervene before the Julian Show grows to full-force levels of pandemonium. 

"Julian. Jewls Spargus!" I say. He can't hear me, of course.  He's seated eight rows behind us.  "Us," being me, and my best friends, Harriett, who quite predictably chooses to ignore his behavior and sip her mini-vodka. Lulu, who snores loudly sound asleep (passed out?) her face covered with a satin sleep mask that reads--Piss Off!

He's wearing his hot pink iPod, no doubt volume cranked, listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. He isn't so much singing as emitting high-pitched wails of torture at the top of his vocal capacity, working it now while shimmering and dancing in the aisle. Also, Julian's kind of deaf.  He claims he lost most of his hearing during an ABBA concert circa 1988. But I wonder if he's faking his impairment simply to have an excuse to ramble on rudely, uninterrupted by those trapped within his self-involved conversations. 

"Julian! Sit down!" I said, reaching him and aggressively pushing his writhing body toward his allotted seat. 

Sensing my mounting distress he simply smiles and amps up his routine.  "We met all alone down in old Moulin Rouge, strutting our stuff on the streets, yeah yeah," he sings, butchering the lyrics and shaking his jazz hands in my face. 

"Please Jewls, please. I need your help. Only you can help me."  I pathetically play to his narcissistic needs, while casting a look over his shoulder that I hope conveys, "I don't even know this man.  I'm simply a helper and what can I do?" to the other passengers rousing from their sleep.  Do people get plane rage? 

He stops "singing" long enough to cock his bald head to the side and ponder my pleas. I wait silently, not wanting to appear too vulnerable or interested in his decision.  Jewls senses weakness and attacks like a bitchy vulture warrior. 

"You got that right, you do need my help."  He reaches up and ruffles his fingers through my hair. "Yo' weave's a showin,' girlfriend!" he says, snapping his fingers three times in a Z. 

Embarrassed, and reaching my capacity for emotional strife, I consider retreating and trying to ignore him for the rest of the flight.  But my insecurities win out.  "Can you really see these freakin' extensions!?" I say, clearly vulnerable and exposed to his savage will.  "Follow me to the bathroom, Jewls." 

Why did we tell him he could come along?  Why the hell am I doing this?  Crashing a wedding? Jaime's wedding.  The idea seemed so much better, cleaner, and purer, like a genuine quest for love and truth four hours ago when we booked our flight and my blood alcohol level bordered on dead.

Mental lucidity restored, my brain attacks me down the narrow aisle.  I've clearly lost my drunk.  Why her, not me? Why her, not me? Why her, not me? 

"Jewls," I plead, grabbing him by the shoulders to contain his still dancing body, "go get vodka from that stewardess and meet me in the bathroom."
​Julian obliges.  I knew he would. Vodka is his master.  He swiftly disappears into the darkened aircraft in search of supplies. 

I slip into the extraordinarily small unisex restroom, grateful for the privacy but wishing for a cigarette.  My reflection stares back at me from the tiny distorted mirror, registering the despair in my eyes.  The weight of the day hits me. 

Tears roll down my face, splashing coldly onto the metal counter. I try to get control of my emotions, but cannot.  Mental blocking is my go-to defense mechanism.  I'm proud to remember only a safe sliver from my torturous elementary school years. But it fails me now. Jaime memories bombard my breaking heart.  Jaime with my toothbrush, Jaime's air guitar, Jaime's morning smiles...he's getting married. 

The story's unraveling so fast.  The final chapter of my private love saga unfolding and quite randomly the thought reverberating in my mind is tapestries--brightly colored, festively woven tapestries.

Don't ask me why my brain chooses tapestries to latch onto during this epically disastrous moment of my life (my brain has a mind of its own).  I play with the word, repeating it over and over until it jumbles unfamiliar to my tongue.  "Tapestries tapestries tapestries tapestries tapestriestapestriestapestries."

And I wonder if my Grandma Jean's embroidered pillows were in fact correct, and life is a tapestry sewn together by the hands of God.  You think there's no apparent order or reason until you step back and view the full picture.  Then and only then do you see the beauty and truth of your life.  And you get it.  The gestalt understanding of why you had to endure each painful and humiliating injustice that came your way.
​
"Annie, open the door.  It's me, Jewls, and I have vodka!" he brags, interrupting my thoughts. 

I take a deep breath, collecting myself before exposing already shattered nerves to Julian's obnoxious personality.
​
"Annie," he starts again, this time using an exaggerated stage whisper.  "Annie, open up. Or are you in there smoking up the ganja?  Huh, Annie is that what's going on? Stop smoking weed in the bathroom, Annie.  We aren't in Los Angeles yet.  It's not legal on the plane!"
​
I open the stall door and drag him in by the strings of his pink Dolce and Gabanna hoodie.

"Geez, you don't have to manhandle me," he says.  "And your hair isn't bad enough to cry over."
​
"Fix it," I tell him, wiping the remaining tears from my face and wishing for a pull from his tiny plastic bottle.  Thankfully he performs his magic. Hair is Julian's one redeeming quality.  Other than his extraordinary styling abilities, he's made entirely of personality defects.   He wears each and every one like a badge of honor. 

As a testament to his mad styling skills I'm almost glad he came along upon seeing the Vidal Sassoon type effects he has on my previously limp locks.  As I'm beginning to feel better, calmed by my now gorgeous hair, another voice rings through the door. 

"What are y'all doing in there?  There's a line out here," Lulu says, apparently awake from her nap.  "Hurry up!" 

Lulu's not a five a.m. kind of girl.

"Help!" Julian cries out loudly, seizing an opportunity to torture me.

What the fuck, Julian? I think, frozen with dread.

"Help!" he says again to the people in line.  "She's trying to touch my weenie.  He unzips his slacks revealing a lime green, zebra print thong, shoots me a wicked wink and opens the door to unveil a crowd of bewildered people.  "Get off me, Fag Hag!" he calls over his shoulder prancing away, leaving me alone with judgey stares.

Lulu saves me, taking my arm and guiding me back to my seat.  When we walk by Julian, I take a swing, but Lulu intervenes rescuing him as well. "That's just Jewls.  You know how he is.  But your hair, Annie, it does look beautiful!" 

Only slightly mollified, I settle once again into my window seat.   My thoughts return to Jaime Knox and I wonder how it came to this.  How could he not be marrying me? It doesn't make any sense, my brain obsesses. Why her and not me?

To understand the reasoning (and believe me there are reasons) behind the impending wedding crash, you will need to hear the backstory--the history of mine and Jaime's love.  So allow me to take you back in time.

Hello loveees, thank you so much for reading Fag Hag! If you are enjoying the ride so far please press my star :) stars make my day.

Also, I am taking part in the Brigade Watty Awards, and I'll be in love with you forever for voting for Fag Hag in the contest. It is chapter 83 and here is the link:
http://my.w.tt/UiNb/io0KGX0lkv

Thank you so very much!!