The Iron Bowl Cometh

31 Oct

Now that Halloween is over for college students (regardless of the ACTUAL date, it falls on the closest weekend), we’ve got plenty to put behind us. We can begin the mental recovery required after seeing drunken freshmen (and seniors who should know better) dressed in Lycra and doing stupid things in public. We can put our extra gallon jugs of water, batteries, hand sanitizer, and spare Bibles away, now that Hurricane Sandy has passed.** We maintain the right to judge anyone who is still wearing white denim and attempting to call it “winter whites”. We have one more day to kiss our boyfriends/playthings before “No-Shave November” — the WORST “holiday” of the year – begins. What’s more, we can begin shedding the pounds from all of the candy and pumpkin-accented baked goods we “TOTALLY got for the trick-or-treaters” and start mentally preparing for the caloric/quasi-apocalyptic nightmare that is Thanksgiving. NO ONE wants their relatives to un-subtly (painfully so) remark about the “not-really-a-relationship weight” you may/may not have put on.

 **(On the note of Hurricane Sandy: We temporarily suspend our New Jersey-related jokes and comments, as they’re having a pretty tough time right now.)

 This brings us to begin preparation for what is, basically, the most important occasion of the year: The Iron Bowl.

 For those of you woefully-uneducated, pro-football-preferring non-SEC-supporters, the Iron Bowl is the hallowed annual event, held the Saturday after Thanksgiving, at which Auburn University (the Tigers, NOT the “War Eagles”…*facepalm*) and the University of Alabama (“THE Yew-nee-VUH-suh-tee”, for its most dedicated fans) Crimson Tide (strangely manifesting itself in the form of an elephant) face each other for ultimate bragging rights and general glory for the next 364 days. For Alabamians, the Saturday after Thanksgiving is both more significant and more anticipated than Christmas, Easter, General Robert E. Lee’s birthday, and their wedding anniversaries. The public snarling begins weeks in advance. Friendships are temporarily disbanded, and anyone foolish enough to wear team apparel runs the risk of polite, but nasty, commentary. “Houses divided” (in which fans of both teams exist) get tenser as the date creeps closer. Women (and my father) struggle for months in advance over whether they’re going to do “Black Friday” shopping, or if it would be better if they just stayed home this year and made yet ANOTHER CrockPot full of Rotel dip JUST IN CASE. Deer stands are abandoned at the opening notes of ESPN’s “College GameDay”, and they’ll remain that way until the game is over, unless there’s a clear-cut victor (The 2009 Iron Bowl, however, proved that this is not always the wisest decision.) Fans that are lucky enough to get tickets crowd the stadium in their orange/blue/white or red/black/white best. Every year I’ve ever attended, someone has gotten arrested for having “one too many” and harassing/assaulting fans of the opposite team (Thankfully, as an Auburn fan, I have selective vision and hearing that only recognizes Alabama fans as the troublemakers.)

 This rivalry has lasted since the inception of the event in 1893. People base their judgment of each others’ character, intelligence and class on their team affiliation. I once saw the most amazing gingerbread “double-wide” decorated with a teeny-tiny replica Alabama flag.

 People who live in the “Heart of Dixie” say that there’s no way I can be a real fan if I’m living up here. Don’t you worry; I’ve had my outfit planned for WEEKS (and there’s still 25 days to go!)


(I’ll be wearing the outfit on the RIGHT, duh.)

Halloween: Scarier than Fake Pearls (AND That Polyester French Maid Getup You’re Trying to Pull Off)

24 Oct

Halloween is an incredibly treacherous time of the year past the age of 12 or so. This rings especially true for those of us in Northern outposts.

 Reasons to Fear Halloween:

 1. While it isn’t a specifically-designated “eating holiday” (like Thanksgiving, when I go for a run to hide from the deep-fried turkey ‘spectacle’), Halloween is an equally-dangerous holiday for packing on the pounds. Starting roughly the day after Easter, stores begin putting out Halloween candy, which people increasingly attempt to stuff into you the closer it gets to the date. My mother’s favorite thing is to send me a care package full of Halloween-themed treats, which always includes Halloween Pumpkin Peeps (Peep-kins? I don’t know). This is the same woman who tells me that she doesn’t want ME blaming HER when I blow up like a balloon. Go figure.

 2. Halloween and the surrounding weekend(s) in the “big city” are a father’s biggest nightmare. Firstly, all of the time spent prancing around outside in costumes in the freezing “Nawthun” weather could lead to frostbite, or death, or WORSE, attention from Jewish Democrat boys. MORE importantly, daddies have to worry as to whether the annual “pepper-spray-keychains-in-Christmas-stockings” have lasted through the year. After all, having 8 backups may still not protect you from those awful Yankees.

 3. The amount of time spent on the Internet during the month of October squealing over pictures of animals and babies in Halloween costumes greatly exceeds ANY time spent studying.

 Last, but not least:

 4. Sexy costumes.

 My mother sewed all of my Halloween costumes (excluding the Pink Power Ranger costume at 4 years old) THROUGH the ones I wore to my high school’s senior-year Homecoming Spirit Week. Combined with the facts that a) the length of time between now and summer has left me looking NATURALLY like a ghost and b) finishing that last pack of Halloween-themed Sweet Tarts while watching Hocus Pocus, I am just not suitable for sexy costumes. I have mentioned before that I am not sexy. When I modeled my new lingerie last week, my British roommate asked if I bought my intimates at the Grandma Store. The “sexiest” things I can pull off are my running spandex (read: “Professional Athletic Lesbian World Tour”), and I get really uncomfortable thinking about dressing up as the sexualized version of Oscar the Grouch. It’s not a “feminist” thing, I just – well – y’all, He LIVES IN A TRASH CAN and HAS GREEN FUR. Also, there’s the graceful concept of a walk of shame in costume. Yikes. There’s no fooling anyone that you’re headed to a “Halloween-themed costume brunch”… Bless your heart.

 If you are like me and inherently pull off sexy about as well as Richard Simmons, I have some costume ideas:

 – Scarlett O’Hara. If you can make a D-I-Y antebellum curtain dress, more power to you. In fact, I’ll probably commission you to make my costumes for the rest of forever.

– Paula Deen. The costume is not complete without 1 or more sticks of butter. Perhaps someone could dress as a stick of butter to accompany you? I won’t push it.

-A debutante. Because OF COURSE I didn’t bring my extra elbow-length gloves/tiara to school with me for any chance to wear them in a costume-type setting. Or, you know, when I get bored.



If you’re at a COMPLETE loss, just borrow what your New Jersey friend wore to class that day. (Just kidding) (Or am I?)


Ode to the Big Brother(s)

13 Oct

In August of 1990, I decided it was my time for my world debut. This was a month earlier than anyone else had planned for it, of course – I play by my own rules – and so my mother rushed to the hospital alone. My father and brothers, then 10, 8 and 5, had gone out to Colorado for some mosquito-free, humidity-free, getting-out-of-my-enormously-pregnant-mother’s-face-related fun, unaware that I would pull my first stunt at such a young age.

My brothers had feared my arrival for months, and rightly so. There were rumors that there would be a girl coming into the family. They tried EVERYTHING to convince my mother to have another boy instead, short of begging for potentially-female-me to be put up for adoption, and maybe there’d be better luck next time (reports at this time are unclear on whether this may have actually happened). Their main concern: A girl would be simply unacceptable for playing the fourth Ninja Turtle. When my mother called on the ‘car phone’ to announce that there was a new girl in the family, audible groans could be heard from the backseat.

My absolute favorite picture of my brothers and me was taken when I was roughly a year old. We’re all out at the farm. I’m sitting in my carrier, pudgy-in-pink in one of the dresses my mother loved to sew for her only daughter. The boys are all standing around me, dressed head-to-toe in camouflage, guns in hand. Because it’s a “sibling photo”, our bird dogs are naturally in the picture as well.

There is nothing quite as lovely as being the only girl with three older brothers.. I was the “princess”, the faultless child who never got spanked (despite loud protest), and the one who always got everything first, according to the boys. Not only was I disruptive, nosy and bossy (we won’t argue about verb tense here), but I always got my way and got IN the way. When putting the enormous fake spider in front of their doorway lost its effectiveness (not that I figured out that it wasn’t real, but that I learned how to jump over it), all hope was lost.

As everyone who’s ever had siblings knows, though, the ‘kangaroo court’ always prevails. Punishments for the Super Brat (me) were sneaky. The most devious of all, however, was replacing the icing of an Oreo with toothpaste and tricking me into not only eating it, but sacrificing all of my Easter candy for it as well.

Despite all of the torment, I worshipped the ground they walked on. For years, I was Human Bird-Dog, Roping Dummy (forced, not to simply stand still and be a target, but also to run around and ‘moo’), Livestock Manager, Snack Concocter, Wingman’s Accessory, Secret Keeper (largely, a failure), Taste-Tester, Alarm Clock, Gate Opener and Closer, and Bank With No Interest or Guarantee of Repayment. The notorious “25-to-1 Rule” stated that, if I hit one of them, they were allowed to hit me back 25 times (a-la How I Met Your Mother, to be delivered when it was deemed most agonizing). In return, they were my protectors, my motivators, and chauffeurs. They even occasionally shared their beef jerky or French fries. They planned my future for me, declaring that one day I’d be World Rodeo Queen or the number-1 girl javelin thrower, or sometimes just the assistant in their internationally-renowned knife-throwing circus acts.

Now we are only three, spread out across the United States and fulfilling the dreams that none of us ever planned for each other, or even that we’d planned for ourselves. I’m no longer Stable Hand, and they don’t have to put the bait on my fishhook. I serve now as Private Consultant for Male Fashion and Wife/Girlfriend Gifts. They check my résumé, if I ask in a timely fashion, and they’re the best swing-dancing partners a girl could ask for.

I still maintain, like Dolly from the Family Circus comic strip, that I have no idea how girls can fall in love, because I have brothers. I still think they smell terrible, and they still make fat jokes and make fun of every boy I’ve ever dared to bring home. The “25-to-1 Rule” still gets enacted, on occasion. I haven’t fallen for the Oreo Trick in a while, though.

Even though I never was allowed to be the fourth Ninja Turtle, they kept me around, and I’ll always be the ‘princess’ (brat) that brought them sandwiches and Cokes during dove shoots. I think I got the better end of the deal.


(Let’s be clear on who never relinquished the crown.)

A BWAPE Primer

6 Oct

Earlier this week, I admitted to my family that I, their loving, pearl-laden Bitch, had created a blog. My father, who cautions people that I’ve become quite “avant-garde” since leaving for the “Nawth”, was not surprised. (“Your cousin KK has a blog-thing about her wonderful time nannying in Spain and her wonderful husband. You DO remember that they got married at the Biltmore Estate, don’t you?” Yes, Daddy. And I tend to fall for Jewish Democrats. It’s a terrible little ‘habit’ that, with any luck, I’ll grow out of soon.)

My mother, who is now the self-appointed Ebert and Roeper of BWAPE, got straight to work. “Some of these are funny,” she started. “Some are funnier than others.” After giving the breakdown of her thoughts surrounding pearls, men, and my ‘habit’ of wearing workout clothes to class just a little too much lately, she laid down the heavy-hitter. “So….Why are you doing this, anyway?”

I didn’t have an answer for her then. I think I do now.

It took less than two weeks back at Georgetown in my senior year to lose two of the most crucial items in my tool belt. The first was my Alabama driver’s license. Luckily, I have another photo ID, which allows me continue what I consider to be my ‘habit’, drinking men under the table and walking away unscathed. (Think Raiders of the Lost Ark, with more “bro tanks” and fewer Nepalese.) I briefly considered “taking the plunge” and getting a Washington, D.C. driver’s license to replace my Southern one. That notion didn’t last for long. DC is a mix of cultures – an exciting amalgamation of all that is cosmopolitan and Barbour-coated. I, however, am one in many cultures. I’m a Southerner.

Two nights later, I lost one of my beloved pearl earrings. I have worn pearl earrings every day since I got my ears pierced at 13. Nothing else seems quite as fitting. I’ve tried diamonds, dangles and other sad substitutes, but I am a girl of the pearl. I immediately set to work finding a shop in the area that sold pearl earrings. This seemed like an easy enough task, as there are five or more in close range at home. I came up empty. I was, from that point, the Bitch with a Pearl Earring. Only one. The lonely survivor sits on a monogrammed jewelry tray, one of the souvenirs of my debutante ball days.

It took me losing that simple pearl and finding it impossible to replace to realize what had been missing from life since I stepped, breathless and glistening (Southern girls don’t “sweat”, obviously), onto the Hilltop. I needed the South in my life. I had been denying it from time to time, embracing it at others. Each attempt to walk away from the foundation of myself as Bitch has reeled me back in even harder. I won’t be able to replace my lost pearl for another few months, but if anything I say can help other “displaced debs” remember and love where they came from (and if it can give non-Southerners a little insight into ‘our kind’) then it will be like I never lost that pearl at all.

As it reads in A Southern Belle Primer, “There is something about Southern upbringing that never goes away”.

Moreover, Southern women always like to feel that they are being useful. As I told a hapless Yankee earlier today, I adore doing things for others and giving advice when it’s requested of me.**

**Sometimes I even give advice when it is not requested of me. This is met with mixed reviews.

Or maybe it’s exactly what my exasperated, British best friend always says to me — that I love to hear the sound of my own voice. Now I just love to hear the sound of my own laptop keys.


Why I Love Gay Men, and Why You Should Too

2 Oct

There comes a time in (hopefully) every Southern girl’s life when she leaves the South for at least a little while, and she can choose to accept the sad realities of everywhere else in the country – that men are boys, that talking to strangers is odd, and that hair ribbons past the age of 10 is an association with Catholic schools, cheerleaders and/or a Lolita Complex, among other tragedies. In voluntarily casting ourselves out of Eden/ Mayberry, there are changes and consequences. There are some changes and new identities, however, that can and should be embraced. The best of all of those is gay men.

Now, let’s get one already-obvious thing abundantly clear: I find nothing “chic” or trendy in collecting many, MANY GBFs. I am not chic. In fact, please let me know when Otis Redding, Lilly Pulitzer and swing-dancing become “it” again, because I’ll march myself right into Vogue and submit myself as the cover girl. I’ll never take a man clothes shopping for myself, regardless of his orientation, and I have loads of wonderful friends that are male, but not gay, and even more that aren’t even male at all!

In my tiny elitist training compound of a high school, “gay” was unacceptable. I know more derogatory terms for homosexuality than I care to admit, and there was more than one individual verbally chased out of my school by nasty words and accusations of that sort. I know that this is equally true for many of the Southern men who now find themselves in New York, DC and Atlanta, struggling to embrace their heritage and reconcile the parts of their identity that our particular heritage does not always warmly embrace.

Here are just a few of the ways in which all Southerners are secretly gay men in disguise:

1. Southerners are blunt. We are rarely shocked or appalled, and passive-aggression does not factor into an argument. I have a 98% likelihood of going ahead with a terrible plan if someone is not going to be abundantly clear about it being terrible.

2. We have a love for the classic, the vintage, the sophisticated, and general decorum. A bowtie and a seersucker suit, Billie Holliday and Patsy Kline, and the simple elegance of fresh flowers never escape the notice of a Southerner. Write me a thank-you note, not an email. Appreciate the wood paneling in Daddy’s study or the importance of walking out the door looking put-together. And, God forbid, do NOT begin a text conversation with me after 9:30P. It’s rare that I’ll answer.

And, most importantly of all:

3. We’ve experienced struggle and have the strength it takes to cope with a heritage and identity which is frowned upon by plenty of others – to look our past in the face, and accept ourselves for what we can’t change, and, frankly, what we have no desire TO change.

I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, nor am I Grace Adler. There’s more to my life than what their fictional lives hold. I am a young Southern woman who has had the privilege of meeting some of the South (and North)’s formerly best-kept secrets.

All Hail the “Y’all”

27 Sep

Someone get the UN on the phone – I’ve had the ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction in my back pocket for years.

The Southern accent, when used appropriately, can lead to extreme personal gain.  I became aware of this fact after leaving the South.  My middle- and high-school self-distancing from Southern culture had involved beating my natural accent back behind one of the generic, American ones.  The Mid-Atlantic region alerted me, like Pavlov’s Dog, to the benefits of bringing out my more “at-home voice”. A borrowed chair here, or a few free drinks there, and I found myself subconsciously switching from my fairly Mid-western-ized accent to a sweet Southern accent dripping with syrup whenever I needed something. It became something which happened without my noticing, but, when it did, it always yielded fabulous results. In the past week alone, Dr. BWAPE and Miss O’Hara have been quite busy devastating the hapless population of DC with their acts, procuring everything from free alcohol to bungie cords to random acts of manual labor.

Southern accents can be useful in many ways, particularly in the way that non-Southerners perceive what the accent means.  Movies and TV have given all “Yankees” the impression that anyone with an accent is innocent and helpless. To boys NOT from the South, it brings out a deeply-buried chivalry which is always rewarded with a big smile. My Southern male friends up here are not so easily fooled. Whether it involves delivering groceries or delivering a well-deserved punch to another male, the Northern Knight, in his Nike Frees/tube sock combo, (nearly) always comes to the rescue of the poor belle. If only there was a way to make sure such good “bro-havior” stuck around all the time! The “holder of the accent” should always make sure to thank them graciously in an attempt to achieve permanent results. (Might I suggest homemade baked goods and/or sweet tea?) Works 85 percent of the time, all of the time. The hilarious thing is that, while I appreciate the cart gifted to me yesterday by the wonderful store manager at Wagner’s, he doesn’t (and will never) know that I was carrying THREE bags of cattle feed at a time by kindergarten age. No harm, no foul; as an added bonus, my hair ribbon stayed both intact and sweat-free.

In the job environment, the accent must be used in a loving but firm manner – it’s the belle’s greatest tool to acquiring her dream occupation. Many a successful Southern businesswoman before me have left me with these parting words: “Whatever you do, DON’T lose your Southern accent – you’ll need it ‘up there’”. In this context, our WMD is a beautiful weapon towards achieving beyond what we, or anyone else, thought possible. The same movies and TV programs which taught men that we are helpless taught women that we are incapable and foolish. Call me ignorant, if you will, when I open my mouth, but don’t be caught with your jaw open when what comes out is much more than you ever expected.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on Y’ALL.

To those well-traveled ladies who have found themselves shoving “y’all”’s and “yes ma’am”s in their skirt pockets for years – let them roam free! You may be surprised at what good comes from the sunshine of your unique and beautiful dialect. I would apologize for “ruining” our “best-kept secret”, but, while the Midwestern accent prevails as the norm, our accent will prevail as the sweet, elegant, and only slightly misleading (in a good way, of course!)


I Am the Lizard Queen

25 Sep

There comes a special moment in only the most “privileged” of Southern girls’ lives in which she gets to be a debutante.

I got to be one four times.

A tradition reviled by the rest of the world, the debutante ball is an age-old event in which fathers either show off their daughters or attempt to make them look better by parading them around in large, white dresses with trains. This event historically coincided roughly with the time at which fathers decided that their daughters should be sucking the monetary life out of some other hapless male in the community. Girls would take off entire years of the university schooling they weren’t actually participating in to plan dresses, menus, and guest invites. I’ve been told by many that anyone who can survive a debutante ball can survive a wedding.

My first “debut” occurred at the ripe age of 5 years. Despite the still-unexplained disaster of cutting all my own hair off the day before the event, I appeared on stage looking just as well as (read: considerably more adorable than) the other “princesses” and “pages” (dressed in outfits which indubitably would later turn one or more of them gay). I curtsied twice, as I was a perfectionist from a young age and dissatisfied with my first performance. Then, some hag in roughly one million sparkles attempted to steal my spotlight. I allowed her to do this, mainly because I was jealous of how brilliant her dress was compared to mine. After my ‘presentation’, it was time for the “party” portion of the charades. I drank red punch in a tiara while being doted upon by older people and chasing boys around the dance floor. It set me up quite well for what I proceeded to do three nights a week roughly twelve years down the road.

15 years later, I was informed that it was my turn to be that hag who both impressed and intimidated me as a princess. Other deb balls had come and gone, and I had been left at twenty-one years old with a skill set particular to the world of debutantes:

  1. I had, and always will have, perfected my curtsy. It is a swan-like maneuver of elegance and pretentiousness which will serve me well later in life, when I meet my mother-in-law, who will obviously be a European royal head of state.
  2.  My abilities to appear dead sober in conversations with “adults” after morose amounts of alcohol are bar-none the best in my entire high school and university classes. Additionally, I can drink like an English football fan without spilling an entire drop on my white gown and/or gloves.
  3. I can effectively make a horrendously uncoordinated, university-aged male look less like an idiot while doing the waltz.
  4. My high-stakes smiling endurance is both powerful and unwavering, and I am able hold a dazzling thriller of a toothy grin for 45 consecutive minutes.
  5. Lastly, but not least, I can carry a ten-pound bouquet of flowers on a plastic post, directly above my belly button, for several hours, whilst wearing slippery dead animals on my hands.

Ergo, I am more or less the champion of the world of cummerbunds. Nothing could prepare me, however, for the ordeal that was to be my night of queendom.

In my particular area of being raised, debutante balls consist of a court that is comprised of the “queen”, her “king”, her “maids”, and their escorts. Dress for these balls ranges from ridiculously elaborate to “secret society”- level outlandishness. Girls spend hundreds of hours and, subsequently, thousands of dollars in searching for the ultimate gown. Many a silkworm and baby goat gives up his life for 6 hours of drunken glory. When everything is put into action, and after all of the parties, luncheons, dances, after-ball breakfasts, and brunches are over, everyone has gained several pounds, an entire community’s economy has been sustained for a year, and all have enjoyed themselves tremendously, save the one set of parents whose debutante had to get scraped off of the ladies’ bathroom floor.

“Project: Turn an Awkward Nerd into a Queen” was destined to occur from the night I was put to bed as a 5 year-old princess and commenced full-throttle in the spring of my sophomore year. Both my father and mother made endless calls to me each day, which was particularly embarrassing, as I attended a university which had approximately two debutantes in its six-thousand-member student body. What’s worse is that my father’s Southern drawl heavily exaggerates my own, and NOTHING is more obnoxious than the girl walking around talking to “Daddy” about how many sequined gift boxes I wanted to be ordered, and when I needed to have my fittings, and “LAWD, girl, you have GOT to find an escort, and he can NOT be one of your gay friends in disguise.”

This was the biggest problem. When a debutante does not have a boyfriend, it becomes exponentially harder to find a date. When she is queen, this figure is multiplied by infinity. Going to a school in the Mid-Atlantic region made this a nearly impossible task, because it would involve explaining a debutante ball to a stoned guy in a lacrosse jersey. I finally settled on an old friend from Texas who vaguely knew the ropes, warning him that he would be asked over one thousand times if he and I were “going steady”. He was. Thank goodness he took it in stride.

This boy, however, was not my “king”. No, the queen is paraded around with a friend of her father dressed in knickers, makeup and faux-facial hair, who, when in full costume, bears a striking resemblance to the Burger King. My “king” was the most fantastic “good ole boy” the ball had ever seen, and the most Burger King-esque; thus, he had been the king approximately eight times before. My dad began referring to him as Henry the Eighth. I was nervous enough already and therefore not amused.

With everything lined up and the date fast approaching, I flew to my hometown and prepared for the “dress rehearsal”, which I highly anticipated upon as being a nightmare, and I was correct. It was at this rehearsal that I first became aware of my status as “the Lizard Queen”. I have never been appreciative other than at that very moment for my “athletic” build, because I was placed in an Elizabethan collar and a cape which weighed no less than 100 pounds. I asked an assisting member’s wife to bring me a mirror, in which I saw myself for the first time. “Jesus Christ; I look like a frilled lizard that’s just been startled.”

Six hours later, and, miserably, only one drink in, it was time for the presentation to begin. I had my hair and makeup done that afternoon and conceivably had never looked better in my life. I had simultaneously never been more nervous, and was constantly being threatened with questions about my love life and requests to remember people’s names who had “known me since I was five and in smocked dresses and bare feet running up the aisle to the front of the church for Sunday school (breath, agonizingly long, Southern-dialect pause) so are you dating that handsome young man with no accent?” I thought I would faint when it was time to put that godawful cape on. People with their best intentions were feeding me ice cubes soaked in whiskey and fanning me with the booklet accompanying my Swarovski crystal “scepter”. I needed a moment to be alone, so I stepped away to peek through the curtains onto the stage, just in time to see the last princess execute her little curtsy, turn around, and glance over at me in terror. “Great,” I thought, “I’m the hag that I saw 15 years ago, way too old to ever go back, and now I’m going to ruin what my father and my entire community worked so hard to put on for me.” As I shuffled in my enormous dress to my fate, I passed a mirror, in which I proceeded to give myself a good, hard, look. Then I practiced my smile, one last time. “No. I’M the Lizard Queen.”

Or, you know, the Pope.