Queen Ju Ju of the Blue Crew

 

12417531_10206678095377340_7494687987271158290_nRecently, my husband and I discovered a slightly older, fearless bohemian couple that loves to throw house parties. Joe and I were out at our fav local pub when my charcoal-lined eyes were drawn to a woman dressed elegantly in a black faux fur jacket with red lipstick. She led an eclectic troupe to which I was instantly certain I belonged. Living in a teeny tiny conservative town on the border of Kentucky has its charms and limitations. It’s quaint and lovely and I stand out like either an exotic flower or a lunatic depending on who you ask. Could this lively group of strangers be a local chapter of my tribe?! I emptied my pint determined to do some serious, seductive and saavy sleuthing.  Or at least two of those three kinds of detective work in any combination if possible.

I believe in telling a good-looking woman she is good-looking and a stylish woman that she is well-dressed. Ju Ju was both. Better still, she walked off the street and into the bar like she owned the place. As a fellow “room owner” I was immediately intrigued and attracted. I leaned off the bar stool with as much style and grace as one can who is deep in the game (had a few), and told her she looked amazing. My eyes sparkled at her with interest and alcohol. Ju Ju’s face leapt into a smile and she immediately returned the compliment. I was adorned all in purple – god, wouldn’t it be great if I put a picture in here of that outfit? I don’t fucking have one. DAMMIT!!! I will have to do a recreation… or at least reassemble the ensemble and make my husband take a quick shot so you can appreciate the kind of weirdness that was happening.  This feels important. I am definitely going to do that. I think.

I know an all purple outfit sounds either truly hideous or like something to be found on a senile and sweet 90-year-old woman who is sipping gin mischievously (me in 60 years), but trust me – it was smashing. From my suede lace up booties to my 1950’s hat that dipped alluringly over one eye. I was feelin’ it. So was Ju Ju. Consequently we spent the next quarter of an hour discussing fashion and other things I don’t entirely remember due to the Bell’s Two Hearted Ale in which my brain was doing fabulous backstrokes and a few failed attempts at the butterfly. It didn’t take long for her to introduce our husbands to each other and from there an invite to be issued to their blue two story party palace in a town east of us along the Ohio River.

Even though I am a charming, sparkly, land mermaid with charisma to spare, I am also a hidey hermit who likes to peek out at the world through a crack in my curtains and not answer the door. I’d say it’s 25:75 in favor of the hermit. So when we got the invite, I thought we might attend one or two parties to mingle and play dress-up and then return to our life of hermitage. That would be a typical response on our (my husband’s and my) end.

Perhaps it was reception I received from Ju Ju when I arrived in a 1950’s confectionary prom dress.  You just can’t go wrong at a place where the hostess screams and throws her arms in the air when she sees you. Perhaps it was the cans of Rolling Rock and live rock music. Or the dancing. Or the quirky clan that seemed drawn to the host and hostess like so many paper clips to a magnet. It was a groovy crowd. We left hours later high on life. Strangely, my inner hermit wasn’t scrambling for her curtains and her cave.  She was kind of shaking her ass to a 70’s classic rock sound track in her head.

I was like, “Get it girl”!

She was like “Can we go back? That Ju Ju is a swell dame”.

I was like, “Hell yeah we can go back! Look at you being all social! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANYMORE”!

She was like, “Kiss my tits you bitch!! YOU DON’T KNOW ME!”

I said I couldn’t kiss her tits because they were my tits and they were too small and too far away – to which she responded with a vulgar speech which I prefer not to put into print. It devolved from there but the important thing to take from all of this insanity is that I actually wanted to go back. And we did!

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Over the past month, we have returned several times to what I shall henceforth refer to as the Blue Party Palace. Each time was different from the time before but they all have one thing in common. I can either be “ON” like Donkey Kong or I can be a chill mau fuckah and it’s alright. The mix of people King Marcus and Queen Ju Ju pipe to the Party Palace are goddamn good folk. The Blue Crew are all salt of the earth. Some are weirder than shit (yours truly), but all are interesting and it’s a goddamn guaranteed good time. And what can a vintage fashion icon with a potential multiple personality disorder wish for more than that? Nothing. That’s what. And if you feel differently, you can kiss our tits.

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