MONDAY Mop Up 01/01/07
Hey, look! We made it to the new year! We're all older, hopefully wiser, and probably glad to get 2006 behind us, no? 2007 promises to be a real challenge for me, both personally and professionally. On the off-chance that work isn't kicking my ass on any given day, I intend to be kicking my own.
This week's Mop Up falls on Monday, because of my pre-occupation yesterday with The Big, Gay New Year's Eve Party to which I was invited. Ummm, due to "lessons learned" from the The Big, Gay Christmas Party (which will be divulged here shortly), I will just report that I had a great time. Sex did, in fact, occur, and I was not involved, thank you very much. If you ever have a chance to party with a bunch of hairy fat gay guys, I promise you that you'll have fun. Seriously, you will laugh!
So, let me go put on a pot of coffee, and I'll get to cleaning the cobwebs off of the random crap that happened to me in the past week and shine it up for you. I'll be right back...
The Ghost Of Christmas Past
I spent my birthday with Rich and Dave. I think I kinda forced myself on them. I offered to bring over some grub and a movie so I did, and we stuffed ourselves with beef fajitas and all the fixin's, carne guisada tacos, cheese enchiladas, and chips and salsa. Well, I stuffed myself. I love that shit. Then we fired up "Little Miss Sunshine". I had seen it in the theatre earlier in the summer, and thought I'd share it.
But on the way to their house that night, my cell phone rang.
"Is it a better birthday gift to sing "Happy Birthday" to you, or promise NOT to sing to you?"
It was The X.
"Wow!" I replied. "Sure, sing to me."
"You've got to be kidding me!" He burst out laughing.
You see, The X is, perhaps, the most severely tone deaf person I have ever met in my life. A tone deaf person who, by the way, takes great joy in singing at the top of his lungs to any and ALL of the Dreadful Disco Dance Hits Of the Seventies. Oh yes, I spent five years listening to him butcher and shred music that I could not tolerate performed competently, let alone his Nails-On-A-Chalkboard versions. "I Will Survive", "Ring My Bell", "Knock On Wood", "More, More, More"- if it sucked, he knew all the words. Long road trips were particular torture for me. I used to beg him to stop. That only encouraged him.
So, that I told him that he could sing to me took him by surprise. And, quite frankly, I couldn't believe I said it either. But, I hadn't heard from him since August, and my brain was busy back-filling with memories and emotions and I don't think I can be held responsible for anything I said at that point.
Fortunately, he didn't sing.
Then, I did something I hate to do; I yacked on my cellphone to him while running around to pick up dinner and rent the dvd at Blockbuster. Yes, I was one of those people that I fucking HATE: standing at the checkout counter with a cell stuffed into my face, doing a lousy job of paying attention to the transaction at hand and slowing down the line because my phone conversation was so damned important. I suck.
I miss him.
Christmas has always been his favorite time of the year. He told me about spending time with his father, hanging out on Christmas Eve with the Mexican Mafia (his boyfriend is an Hispanic Papi who has a huge family), spending Christmas Day at the swank Driskell Hotel and sharing an elegant meal with his closest friends. When he mentioned names, it stung a little. These were people I had grown to love and who, out of allegiance and loyalty to The X, cut me out of their lives when we split up. I don't blame them a bit. Failed relationships are hard on the friends of the couple, too, ya know.
I found myself sitting in the driveway at Rich and Dave's, dinner getting colder by the second in the passenger seat, my new friends waiting for me in their house right in front of me, and yet hanging onto every word from a man who decided two years ago that he didn't love me anymore and left me. Wait a minute here.
I thanked him for the call, told him it was nice to hear from him again, but that I had friends to get to. He thanked me for allowing him to sing to me, if he had wanted to. We both chuckled about it. I hung up the phone, and as I was collecting the bags of containers of food to take inside, I had to kind of shake off the melancholy swirling around me. But it was easier to do than I expected. And that's because I knew there were people on the other side of that front door who love me and accept me for who I am and who wanted to be with me on my birthday.
When I rang the doorbell, I was grinning from ear to ear.
The Ghost of Christmas Present
Okay. The Big, Gay Christmas Party was fun, remember? I met lots of people, right? I shook alot of hands, kissed alot of faces, and swapped email addresses with anyone who asked. I even mentioned my blog to some of these guys. I'm an attention whore, we all get that by now, okay?
Well, remember the gentleman who I portrayed as loud and drunk and chasing me around the party?
He emails me two days after the party. "Ummm, Jim," he writes, "I read your blog and I think you were referring to me as the monster at the party. I'm really sorry if I offended you in any way. Maybe I should call the hosts of the party and apologize for my behavior."
Oh. My. God! What kind of insensitive asshole am I? I gave a guy my blog address and then write smack about him? What kind of dick does such a thing? I swear, I don't remember giving the address to him. I did NOT do this on purpose!
"Hi, my name is Jim, and I'm a really nice guy who is actually a two-faced bitch, and if you go to this website tomorrow, you can read my snarky, self-centered opinions about you and, with any luck, it'll hurt your feelings. Take care!"
What a fucking jerk! I wrote him back and apologized profusely. I still feel bad. Dude, if you are still checkin in here, I am SO SORRY!
Bloggers beware, mofos.
So, when it comes to reporting about things like social events I attend, I'll be glossing over the specifics about individuals from here on in. Holy shit!