New Year's Eve...Eve?

Let's start this post with me telling you what rabbit hole I have jumped into this evening as I write. I am prone to finding a musical artist, YouTube performer, Twitter tweeter, or Facebook enthusiast and really becoming obsessed with them. I mean, I have read Twitter feeds like they were novellas, feeling like they have become good friends of mine. I've watched a YouTuber's entire videography, and I have listened to many musical performers entire discography. (Thank little baby Jesus for Spotify — the musical artist piece used to be REALLY expensive. Woof.) 

I start to champion for these people in my daily conversations, telling everyone about how funny or talented they are. I find myself trying to figure out how to bring them up in conversation without it being too weird. I obsessively check to see if they have made any updates, wanting a good chuckle or a new song. These obsessions last anywhere for a week to six months, depending on the feedback I get from my peers. (Obviously, I can't like things unless everyone also likes them — what is this 1954?? Not sure why I chose 1954... shhh... just go with it.)

Right now, in this moment, my current obsession happens to be the one, the only... Ashlee Simpson!

(Too many gifs to choose from, too little time.)

So, what does this have to do with you? Absolutely nothing. It means that I am currently writing this while listening to every song Ashlee has ever blessed us with. I also didn't want this to be the only one to know this. I can die in peace now. 

Judgey Reader: What the hell? I am really confused. 

Me: Um, I am not really sure what is confusing, this seems really straightforward...

Judgey Reader: But, what does this have to do with anything? I came here looking for a story. 

Me: OH! OK! SO ALL I AM GOOD FOR IS A STORY? I can't shaaaare with you something that happens to be on my mind??

Judgey Reader: That's not what I am saying, I was just... I don't know. I came here because you told me you would post on Wednesdays. 

Me: And here I am, posting on a Wednesday, and somehow that's not good enough for you. You're really full of it. Thanks for making a guy feel special. 

Judgey Reader: I don't mean to be rude, but does this mean I don't get a story?

Me: Well, to be honest, I thought about not telling you a story, but Ashlee Simpson happens to be inspiring me. So, you know, thank her. 

(This is how I feel after you guys and I sometimes have fights that I make up. I feel like singing about you knowing me. Too well.)

OK, OK, now it's time to tell you all a little diddy about my last couple of days of 2013. In a random turn of events, I decided that I wanted to change up my NYE plans a little bit. I have never been one for the bar scene on that night (shocking, I know), so I have always done it up big at a house party in Baltimore. It is literally the perfect combination of cheap libations, yummy food, and amazing friends. So, what could pull me away from the trifecta from heaven? New. York. City.

(Not even close to the gif I wanted, but it's so accurate. Well done, Karen. Well done.)

While NYE 2014 was a blast and a half, it was actually New Year's Eve Eve that ended up being a ridiculously amazing night. I had arrived in NY on the 27th to travel around Long Island to see family and celebrate some holiday. (JUST KIDDING! WE CELEBRATED CHRISTMAS!) Mama and Papa Fab were kind enough to bring me into the city and enjoy several mimosas over brunch with one of my fav gal pals, Swifty! (No, no, I don't feel good about saying gal pal.)

The next day, Swifty and I headed to our NY office to spend the day casually answering emails and pretending to work. We were torn about what to do with the eve eve of the New Year. The impending "biggest party of the year" was daunting and persuading us to try and have a calmer evening. On top of all of that, Glitter, our other BFFL and my fellow companion of all things bright and shiny, wasn't able to come into the city until the next day. 

While mulling over our options, out of left field, Broadway, my obnoxiously talented, obnoxiously younger, obnoxiously skinnier gay BFFL, came over and requested we do a bar crawl on Christopher Street. For those who don't know, that is quite possibly one of the gayest streets in the world. There is only one way to explain how I felt about this, and I must do it with a photo. 

(Annnnnd, he's back.) 

After a battle royale with Swifty about going back uptown to drop off bags and have dinner, I finally won. Because duh. We went back uptown, consumed Dominos (don't ask), drank a couple Red Bull-vodkas (affectionately named RBVs... as affectionate as you can be about alcohol), and made our way back down to Pieces for $3 drinks and to wait for Broadway. On this fine evening, Pieces had a drag queen throwing shade while watching a movie — surprisingly entertaining and the perfect way to get liquored up before heading to our next bar. 

Broadway has a notoriously low tolerance and is one of my favorite people with which to consume adult beverages. He also knows these bars like the back of his hand, so it made this bar crawl all the more fun. He kept saying that there was a bar he had to take me to, but first we went over to the iconic Stonewall Inn. Unfortunately for us, Stonewall was having a weird drag bingo night and was not on our level of ridiculousness. So, we took a shot, like one should before leaving a bar, and moved onto the next homo hang out. 

At this point Swifty, Broadway, and I had had... a couple beverages. We were loving life, loving each other, and loving everyone around us. Broadway started talking about how much he needed to sing Suddenly Seymour at some point in the evening. Because theatre homo. He still had to take me to this other bar that was perfect for me before we went somewhere where he could sing, but first he we needed to hit up a couple more places. We ended up heading over to Boots & Saddle, a little hole-in-the-wall gay bar on Christopher Street. When we walked in the door, we were met with a beautiful drag queen (notice a theme...) who was lip-syncing for her life on stage. Broadway and I lost it when she started singing "Brave" by the flawless Sara Bareilles.

                                 

Before long, it was time to move onto the next stop on our rainbow bar crawl. It was finally time for Broadway to take me to the bar that was "perfect" for me. As we approached the outside of The Hanger, Broadway got more and more excited, hyping it up. As soon as we walked in, Broadway said, "THIS IS FOR YOU!" I made the very astute observation that this happened to be a predominantly black gay bar. Heaven. 

 

(But, actually.)

I was surrounded by all of these beautiful men, and I had all of the liquid confidence in the world. I didn't even need another beverage. Broadway was so unbelievably right — this bar was perfect for me. We found a group of men standing closer to the back and began having light conversations with them. One of the men caught my fancy, we shall call him Bad Boy. (This seems awkward but it will feel so right so soon) Bad Boy and I began talking and he pulled me closer to the wall away from the group. Like any classy 'mo on New Year's Eve Eve, I macked it with him for a little before being pulled away by the group to go to our next spot. As I am getting pulled away, Bad Boy decided to whisper sweet nothings to me. 

Bad Boy: I'd like to see you later.

Me: Come with us! Bar crawl!! 

Bad Boy: I'm going to stay here with my friends, you should stay here. 

Me: But then it wouldn't be a bar crawl and I don't live here. All of this seems silly. 

Bad Boy: Oh, you don't live here? Let me get you're number. I'm going to send you a text, you better text me later tonight. 

Me: Um, OK!

Bad Boy: If you're a good boy, I have a place for you to sleep tonight. *winks, slaps my ass*

Me: Oh, dear.

                                                  (I knew it was time to go. Oh, did I ever.)

The next bar on the list was made for Broadway — it was across the street from The Hanger and it was a... Daddy bar called Ty. (I don't explain what that is in the Gay Urban Dictionary, but it reminds me I should do a Part 2.) Basically, this bar has lots of older gay men who enjoy the company of younger gay men... just like Broadway. As soon as we walked in, he and Swifty made their way to a group of men by the bar. This, however, is not my cup of tea, so I plopped down at the end of the bar and ordered a beverage so I could digest what had just happened with Bad Boy. 

As I enjoyed my beverage, I noticed a lovely young looking Hispanic man sitting to my right. We began to chat it up, and before long we were macking it at the bar. (Listen, this was sooo 2013. I was getting it all out before classin' it up in 2014!) We would stop every so often to talk a little more. We will call him, Baseball Boy. (His last name was Canseco, so, obviously, I brought up Jose Canseco. He was not amused but still macked it with me. Win/win?)

Baseball Boy: So, how old are you?

Me: 25, you?

Baseball Boy: I'm 21.

Me: Maybe we don't say that ever again. Shhhh...

I realized, in that moment, I was "Daddy" status for him. I played the awful game, in my head, of "Where was Baseball Boy when I was... ?" This lasted for a minute or two before I decided to say "fuck it" and go with the flow. After all, that is how most people celebrate New Year's Eve Eve, right?!?! 

A few minutes after this conversation, my mack session was interrupted with the high-pitched noises coming from Broadway. Apparently, one of the Daddies had called him "chubby" as he took off his jacket. You'd think at that age, they would know never to call a gay man "chubby," especially when they are not chubby at all. While I tried to console Broadway, Swifty used this opportunity to swoop in and talk to Baseball Boy. 

Swifty: I see you talking with Fabulous, he's great, isn't he?

Baseball Boy: Yeah! He's really cute, I like him!

Swifty: He's a really great guy, and I just want to make sure that you are going to treat him well. He's a real catch, you're really lucky. 

Baseball Boy: Uh, yeah, I will. 

Swifty: I mean it, treat him well. He deserves the best. 

Baseball Boy: I promise I will...

But... but... why??? I found out about this conversation the next day while we were eating brunch. It didn't need to happen — I had known Baseball Boy for a total of 25 minutes, and we had talked a total of 5 minutes before I told him we didn't need words. Swifty is always looking out for me, even with casual mackin' it partners.

After I calmed Broadway down, we decided it was time to continue our bar crawl. Baseball Boy decided to tag along, which was good for me. My track record was getting a little out of hand — I didn't want to try and find someone else to mack with. I wanted to end the evening with a little bit of dignity... just a little.

We ended up finishing our crawl up at Duplex Cabaret Theatre, where Baseball Boy and I only came up for air when Broadway made his way to the front of the bar and finally saing Suddenly Seymour... bringing down the entire house. Swifty and I discussed our never-ending jealousy of his talent and how we would have been booed off stage if we tried to do that.

Baseball Boy and I exchanged numbers before we both hopped in cabs going in different directions. We still occasionally text, knowing that this little love affair has run its course. 

Swifty: Extremely protective wingwoman 

Broadway: Young, talented, and definitely not chubby. (Yes, I do hate him for all of these things)

Bad Boy: Not getting this good boy 

Baseball Boy: Young and restless 

New York City: Holder of my heart, my dreams, and my dignity

Fabulously Lost: Makeout whisperer 

New Year, New Me

I wish there was that moment, just one moment, that I can pinpoint as the turning point. The last time I talked to most of you was in August. What. The. Hell? It has actually been almost six months since I last posted on this blog... but it doesn't mean that I haven't tried. This is actually the sixth time that I have started a post, but it marks the first time that I have actually finished one. I have run through the gamut of excuses for why I haven't written:

• Excuse #1: "Oh. Em. Gee. Guys, life has been so overwhelming! I've been traveling so much, and it's so hard to write on the road!"

(Which basically says, "Forgive me for being a privileged little bitch. I am so lucky, I get to apologize for it." #Imtheworst)

• Excuse #2: "Oh. Em. Gee. Guys, I have been going on dates as research! I went on so many dates that I went on several dates with this one guy, and it was awesome. So awesome that we became friends on Facebook. Then he stopped talking to me out of nowhere, and I was really bummed and decided to hide from writing because of it!" 

(Which basically says, "Forgive me for getting to go on so many dates, because I decided to write a blog about it and here we are. Also, I hope you are reading this dude who disappeared — you know who you are!" #coveredinSHADE)

• Excuse #3: "Oh. Em. Gee. Guys, I have been working so much, and it's sooooo stressful, I don't know what to do!" 

(Which basically says, "I think that I am the most unique person ever, and I am the only person who has ever worked a lot. I am so lucky to have a job!" #ungrateful)

• Excuse #4: "Oh. Em. Gee. I took so long off that I started to worry that I was bland and nothing was funny and everything I wrote was drivel. Oh, also, I wasn't inspired and I hated myself for saying I wasn't inspired, because that is literal bullshit. But now I have gone back and forth so much that I should really sleep on it and wait until tomorrow. OMG, tomorrow is Friday, so if I post then, no one will read it and that seems silly. JUST WAIT TIL NEXT WEEK!" 

(Which basically says, "My logic is flawed, but I said a lot of things at once, so I hope you didn't notice the ridiculousness of it." #circleoflogic)

So here we are, four of my main excuses for the last six months for not writing. I have given them to many of you who have asked why I am not writing. I have made empty promises to write more while dancing at bars and empty promises while sitting in bars. (Which is technically your fault for believing me whilst drinking adult beverages, but who's here to point blame?) I have made the same promises to myself. (Funnily enough, also whilst drinking and dancing... alone.)

So what changed, why now? I think I had been writing this blog on and off for so long that I forgot why I was writing it. I was living my life for the stories that I would get to tell you, rather than living life and letting the ridiculous happen. I began hoping that dates would go poorly because I was anxious to write about it. I know this might sound pretentious, but I realized that wasn't why I started this whole thing. I started this blog as an outlet for me to talk about the naturally absurd things that happened to me. I love to tell a story... but the story has to be real for you... and for me. 

("Omg, omg, omg. Shit just got real! Omg, what do we do now???" — Judgey readers of the blog)

Right, I know, things got a little to full of the "feels" for a blog about gay dating and ridiculous life stories. I just wanted to let you know that I took the last six months to live my life without thinking about the stories. I lived my life and ridiculous things just happened. I went on dates, I traveled, and I worked too much and I found out that I still have a crap ton of stories for all of you. True stories that I am embarrassed and, simultaneously, excited to tell you about. 

(I swear... no more emotional paragraphs!) 

SO, what the hell does that mean for you? Well, it means that I am going to post every Wednesday from now until the foreseeable future. 

Judgey Reader: We have heard this before — how do we know you're not full of shit?

Me: Well, you don't.

Judgey Reader: You're not good at this whole being "convincing" thing, are you?

Me: See, I could lie to you and sell you on me, but what fun is that? I will prove to you that I am not full of shit, and I will post every Wednesday. 

Judgey Reader: But today is Thursday. Why did you start this on a Thursday and not on a Wednesday?

Me: You're LITERALLY the worst. I decided this while sitting in a gay bar, by myself, trying to hit the $10 minimum to use my credit card. It was $2 drink night. I was also alone. 

Judgey Reader: So you decided this drunk? Yup, this will last. 

Me: GOOD POINT! SCREW YOU! 

(Queen B said it. You're fake arguing, through a dialogue I made up, and it is now getting on my nerves. So, you know, stop and let it happen.)

You'll just have to wait and see. This blog will continue to transform and will be my commentary on life, my personal life stories, adventures in dating, and plenty of drinking games (ugh Mama Fab — I feel the judgement. Just accept it, I'm a lush.) I hope you are ready for January 29. 

Blog Readers: Hopefully, still with me

Mama Fab: Possibly judging, but also excited for the drunk games

The Blog: Happy to feel the soft caress of a long lost lover. Shhh, baby boy, it will all be all right.

Fabulously Lost: Innocent until proven shady

Summer 2013: Life as a Nomadic Homosexual

Here's the truth: I was going to write an entire post dedicated to the ridiculousness of MTV's Video Music Awards. I was going to discuss Justin Timberlake, *NSYNC, Robin, and of course Miley, but I struggled with it for most of the day.

There were a lot of things to make fun of, and there were a lot of funny things that were swirling in my mind. Anyone who follows me on Twitter saw my reactions first-hand, and I was shocked most of the way through.

However, talking about all of that, for me, would minimize the performance that I think should have been the "bring the house down" moment — "Same Love," performed by Macklemore, Ryan Lewis, Jennifer Hudson, and the perfectly imperfect Mary Lambert. Marriage equality won another battle and that's as far as I want to delve into the VMAs.

(Umm... yeah.)

Reader (that's you): Excuse me? Did you just get all weird and emotional on us?

Me: OMG! NO! Stop twisting my words! I just, sometimes, well, I HAVE ALL OF THE FEELS!

Reader: Way to make this awkward. 

Me: Well, the jokes on you, madam or sir, I have always made things awkward. So, you know, you really had that one coming.

Reader: Touche, Mr. Lost, Touche. Do we still get a post?

Me: Of course! I'm not an ANIMAL. I just wanted to address the giant elephant (or teddy bear, if you're Miley) in the room. Can I tell you some ridiculousness from my summer?

Reader: We have all been wondering why the hell you haven't posted all summer. We thought you gave up on us or life... or both. Did you?

Me: NOPE! Let's talk about the highs and lows together... READY?

Reader: We are never, ever completely ready... but let's go?

Summer 2013: Life as a Nomadic Homosexual, Pt. 1

This past summer was ridiculous, wonderful, exhausting, expensive, and fairly homosexual. I already divulged the details of Pride Month, but now it's time to discuss the aftermath of the booziest month of my life.

(Maybe not huge...)

Ooh Ooh Baby

Not only is that the name of a spectacular Britney song, it's also something that I have been saying in a far more innocent way all summer. You know you all have that one friend who got their life together WAY before you ever did? Graduated from college, got a job, fell in love, and got married in a beautiful ceremony? You're left standing there, asking yourself if it's time for you to buckle down and get serious about finding love or continue going to the same bars every weekend. That's when the DJ drops your favorite tune and a Britney song was on. 

(Hey, I never said I wouldn't sprinkle this post with Miley references.)

Well, those friends with their lives together are now having babies... and I am ramotional about it. Girl Next Door used to live across the street from me growing up and is my oldest friend in ze world. She was even crazy enough to have me as her Man of Honor in her wedding. (I know what you're thinking: She trusted me to give a speech? That she did friends, that she did.) Girl Next Door became pregnant late last year and gave birth to the most beautiful baby boy in mid-June. I have learned three things about pregnancy and birth from GND. 

1. Pregnancy is kinda hard because of getting larger, but mostly because you are forced into sobriety. I made the mistake of handing GND a big ol' bottle of wine the night she told me she was pregnant. 

(We have, since, had wine.)

2. Babies make a crap ton of weird noises and there is a constant flow of bodily fluids. They also have ZERO manners. This little Nugget of mine (Yes, I am calling him mine and he shall be known as Nugget. Shove it.) just let's one rip during the quietest of moments, THEN he expects you to clean it up. Reasons I know I am not ready for a child — dirty diapers and smelly babies aren't "cute" to me yet. 

(Ok, Nugget, you don't smell as bad as Courtney Love. You win this round.)

3. People give you a LOT of crap for having a baby. GND is the first of my friends back home to have a kid, so every time I turned around one of us was handing over some sort of something that we found and JUST had to let Nugget have. I am hoping because I am the only gay one in many of my groups of friends, that when I have a kid everyone will just hand me things because of the novelty of a homosexual having a kid. I just have to figure out how to monopolize on this before every gay man starts having a kid...

(Maniacal laughter ensues)

Campfire Nightmares

Guys... guys... GUYS! A couple weeks ago, I went to British Cowgirl's lake house in the boonies of PA. It was actually really fantastic to get out of the hustle and bustle of... D.C.? (I felt terrible and cliche for typing that. Who says that? Us big city folks need to unwind and go somewhere quiet and quaint! Ugh.)

This town has a population around 340 and is literally up in the mountains. Every year, for British Cowgirl's birthday, we head up to the house and party like its 1999. That was all fine and good... except this year the "group" decided to go on a hike. I agreed to go because of my love for British Cowgirl, not because I find the outdoors exhilarating. (I take my father's philosophy on the sightseeing — "They are nice to drive, boat or fly by.") Five minutes into our hike, my best friends decided to go OFF THE TRAIL. 

("Death comes to those who off-trail hike." It's in the Bible or something.)

I want you to understand how ill-prepared I am for hiking in general, let alone "off roading" it. Everyone was ecstatic this year because I remembered to bring sneakers, instead of flip-flops, for hiking. While everyone else was getting into their spandex, tank tops, and other sporty gear, I put on gay-ish cut-off shorts and a plaid button-down. (Plaid = lumberjack = appropriate hiking wear. Do the math.) I basically looked like I was heading to Bear Happy Hour. (Yes, that is a real thing). I knew my casually cute outfit would be lost on the nature creatures that were most certainly going to eat me, but I trudged on like a trooper to appease the masses. 

Slowly, our little group started to realize that, even for the most experienced hikers, this was a little bit much. We were literally hanging on to rocks to keep from falling into the water. I had been quietly afraid of poison ivy and attempted to avoid touching any plants. Then, it got to a point where I was either going to submerse my body into the plants or tumble down the side of the mountain into the river.  Suddenly, it was decided that the best way to get back to our cars would be to CROSS THE RIVER and see if the other side would be easier. 

(I'm probably just going to use J. Law to explain my emotions from here on out.)

I had two options in this sick version of Hunger Games my friends had thrown me in. (See, I am even using her movies. #obsessed) I could either venture across the mildly raging river with them and hope for an easier path home, OR forge my own way back up the mountain and hope that I could do it without assistance this time. Since I had no Louis to my Clark, I decided to trek with my friends.

(This is calm compared to what I crossed. OK, OK... maybe, JUST maybe, I am exaggerating.)

My first of many mistakes was taking off my shoes to cross. As soon as I stepped out onto my first rock, I started to lose my balance. I watched my friends cross one way, and I decided to try and cross just half a foot over from their path. Fail. The first step I took on my own path led me into water that was up to my upper thighs. (Remember, I am wearing cute cut-off shorts, not hiking shorts.) Laughter ensues from my friends, and I contemplate all the ways I am going to murder them. 

I hobble back to the regulated path they had sort of created and tried to very slowly follow my other friend, who is as close to Pocahontas as I am to Bear Grylls. I watch her stumble and submerge her shoes in the water. The laughter switches over to her from me for a few minutes, and I quietly thank baby jebus that my shoes are still dry.

The rocks feel like they are getting more unstable with every step, and I am losing my confidence in my poor coordination skills. What upsets me the most about what happens next is that I decided to stand, completely still, and figure out what my next moves were when my center of balance decided to shift and my legs buckled. What it looked like to all of my friends was that I randomly decided to SIT in the water up to my shoulders.

(Fear not, I was not as graceful as this.)

I sat in the water for a moment, contemplated just laying completely down and letting the river do what it wanted with my body. Instead, I got up and trudged through the rest of the river with a bit more confidence, because I had nothing left to give nature — my dignity had floated away already. The rest of the hike wasn't terrible, even though I was soaked.

I took a total of five showers in a 48-hour period, because I don't do dirty. For all of my complaining, the weekend is usually a lot of fun and it's my chance to be "outdoorsy" like my dating profiles say I am! 

Four Days Later

I woke up last Wednesday with red bumps all over my wrist. I panicked and immediately sent Mama and Papa Fab an email, asking them if I had bed bugs and giving them a brief overview of my will. I spent an hour and a half at work, on and off, looking up bed bugs and trying to decide if all this work to get rid of bed bugs was worth it, or if I should just move. (Thank. God. I. Am. Not. Dra.ma.tic. *gay claps*)

I worked myself up into such a panic that I left work early to go to the doctor and have her tell me when my expiration date was. Much to my shock, awe, pleasure and dismay, she told me I was being ridiculous and that this was obviously poison ivy. 

(My second worst fear, behind bed bugs, of course.)

The doctor sent me along my way with steroid cream, a renewed outlook on life, and a reason to email all of my friends and talk about myself. 

Miley: Oh, dear.

Readers: Apparently, you are very judgey in my mind. I don't appreciate it, so stop. 

Babies: Small aliens...

Hiking: Dangerous and could lead to getting your arm chopped off, "127 Hours"-style. 

Fabulously Lost: Diseased and on the verge of death. Or, I might be cured in five days. 

Sweatin' Like a Pig

Remember that time that I talk about sweating a lot? No? OK, well, check THIS and THIS and THIS. (Ugh, looking for the posts about sweat made me realize I how often I write about sweat. UGH, now I'm sweating because it's making me nervous. #theworst)

I hope you read each of those little posty-posts and saw that I have a major hate-hate relationship with sweating. The thing I hate more than actually sweating itself is dealing with people's various reactions to someone sweating. SO, I've decided to tell you all the APPROPS and INAPPROPS ways to talk to someone about how much they are sweating. Just call me your Sweat Sensei.

("Ah, yes, young one, come learn all you can about sweat." — said, literally, no one ever)

Inapprops Ways

1.  It's not a disease.

If it's hot out or anywhere above 80 degrees, I am generally going to sweat. It's not that abnormal for someone to sweat when it's hot outside, and at certain temperatures, EVERYONE is sweating. I tell people, all the time, that my body runs 10 degrees warmer than whatever the temperature is. The worst is when someone treats it like a disease.

(Scene: It's 82 degrees and sunny. We are outside in line for something. I'm not a fucking playwright so I don't know what I am standing outside in line. Ugh, you're needy — fine, we are standing in line for the N*SYNC concert.)

Disease Worrier: Are you... OK?

Me: Yeah, totally. (Wipes sweat from brow.)

Disease Worrier: But, seriously, is everything OK?

Me: I'm sorry... did a tumor sprout up on my face in the last 10 minutes? (Pats head in hopes of finding that my hair is randomly not affected by the sweat. Defeated look follows pats.)

Disease Worrier: No, it's just that I'm worried about you.

Me: I'm more confused than before. (Searches anxiously for napkin, towel, or random blow dryer plugged in. Outside. In line for God knows what.)

Disease Worrier: (in a whisper) You're just... you look overheated. I just want to make sure you are OK. 

(Cher always knows.)

Sweating isn't a disease. EVERYONE does it. Granted, not everyone sweats like I do, but unless blood started seeping from my scalp, I think we can go ahead and calm down. 

2.  We are both aware of the heat.

(Scene: It's 94.8 degrees outside. That's effing hot — for everyone.)

Weatherman: It's, like, really hot outside. I can't believe this. 

Me: Yeah. It's all, like, fuck you global warming! Right? Right? (Wipes sweat from... all over.)

Weatherman: You know, heat affects people different ways. Some people just get really, really hot. 

Me: Yup, that's generally how weather works. (Pats head. Realizes there is no saving this, head is drenched.)

Weatherman: Everyone tells me I sweat a lot when it's hot, do you get that ever?

(Oh gurl, you have seen better days.)

Seriously? Do I ever get that? I look like I took a shower fully clothed. 

(I want to point out, for a hot second, that these aren't fabricated situations that I am pulling out of nowhere. These are legit things people have said, in more than one way, to me while sweat pours out of me.)

3. Yup, I know I am sweating.

(Scene: Do I really need to set the scene at this point? It's not winter. Or it is and I'm just giving a presentation. OR I'm having a convo with a hot guy. OR... really anything. I can't control my glands.)

Captain Obvious: Omg, are you OK? You're sweating a LOT. 

Me: Yeah, I'm fine. It's a gift and a curse. Mostly a curse. Okay, all curse, but I deal! (Takes out own roll of paper towels and begins to soak up sweat.)

Captain Obvious: But, that just seems like a lot of sweat. I have never seen that before.

Me: I tried to join the circus before for this trick, but they informed me that it was totally normal and not a trick. (Trying to catch a cool breeze or find a magical fan to stand in front of. Defeated when realizes they are outside in stagnant air.)

*Conversation continues on for a few minutes. BROUGHT TO A HALT... for no reason*

Captain Obvious: Are you sure that's normal? Boy, that must be uncomfortable! 

Me: Somehow I've survived almost 25 years. I'll let the doctor know your prognosis next time I go. 

(Gurl. Don't step closer.)

You know what's fun about this one? Word for word, this is a convo I had while I was on a business trip not too long ago. Business. Trip. The issue I had here was that it was a one-two punch for my sweat glands. A little "hot as balls + constant nerves" turned me into a one-man rain machine. I really belong in a zoo or something... except I am not an animal. 

Approps Ways

(Scene: I am sweating, no one else is, and I keep wiping my brow and trying to cover up my sweat stains.)

Me: Man, it's really hot out there. 

ANYONE ELSE: Yup, it really is. 

END. OF. STORY. 

(Dr. Elliot Reed is my spirit animal.)

You see, this is the only way to respond, because I am brutally aware of my sweat glands. If I bring up the heat, it is a subtle way of acknowledging the bath I am giving myself, but there is no need for further comment. I trust you, in all my antics, if I was ill... everyone would know.

Perspire: Got that
Schvitzing: Jew know
Sudation: A word I just learned on thesaurus.com
Fabulously Lost: More educated and very excited for Fall 

The Bitch is Back

Guys, I am exhausted. The past month and a half has found me all over the East Coast, and I made my first foray into the Midwest. (Hayyyy Chicago, you be good gurl.) Should we take a little journey to see where I went and how fabulously lost I still am??? BLOKAY, sounds good!

Miami

Gurl. GURRRLLL. Gurl DOWN. 

(Gone. With. The. Wind.)

Have you ever been to Miami? No? Because it's not a real place, not even a little bit. It is the land of beautiful people, topless swimmers, outrageous night clubs, and expensive restaurants. Miami also has the Ke$ha-esque ability to turn any atmosphere into a glitter filled, alcohol infused, parental disappointment worthy party. Of course, all of that being said, the first night that I was there on "vacation," my friends and I promptly fell asleep at 9:30pm and slept until 9:30am. Like they always say, when in Miami.... sleep for 12 hours? 

(I've never been so refreshed and disappointed in myself at the same time. Blarg.)

We spent the next couple of days making up for it by laying by the pool and drinking many a "Bucket-O-Liquor," which was the specialty of the hotel we were staying at. I can honestly say that I feel like I did everything I wanted to do in Miami. It's a ridiculous city that I am glad I visited... but I don't know if I'll go back anytime soon. The one thing I did not do was find love in that place. I realized, unlike most strippers, I do not tend to do as well in climates that require less clothing. I am one of those people that would do really well in a place that involves sweaters and layers, like Canada. (Its aboot time I move further north, EH? I'm done. I swear.) 

DC Pride

Holy crap ballz. Last year, for DC Pride, I drank far too much at brunch and ended up falling asleep at 8pm. I saw some of the parade and ended up with a press-on tattoo. (On. My. Face.) This year I wanted to do Pride the way it was meant to be done. I wanted to remember everything. I wanted to feel the pride of my people. I wanted to enjoy adult beverages. I wanted to attend the parade. I wanted to dance at the gay clubs. I wanted to see the festival. I wanted the weekend to leave me bleeding rainbows. (I said all of those in my head like Veruca Salt. You know, from Willy Wonka.)

(She understands what's important in life. Ain't nobody got time to be good.)

I decided to throw a little pre-parade BBQ for all of my lovely gays. We dabbled with drinks, danced in the heat, and pounded some meat. (Ew, pervs, I meant burgers and hot dogs. Grow up.) The parade was spectacular and over-the-top, like it should be. There were bears on bikes, Mormons in cars, gay boys in underwear, cowboys in ass-less chaps, and Wonder Woman (literally — Linda Carter) leading the parade. The true fun, however, began after the parade and post-survival nap. My friends and I owned the night by pre-gaming at my place and then dancing up a storm at Cobalt, in the heart of the gayborhood. What I wasn't expecting was my lovely departure from classy, upstanding citizen to drunken, dancing floozy. 

(Too soon? Sorry, Reese.)

After a few (many) drinks at the bar, I decided it was time to make my way to the bathroom. Unbeknownst to me, on this simple walk across the bar I would encounter two gentleman friends. One of these gentleman I knew from a previous date, whom you have never heard of. (The date had gone well... I can't jinx that shit!) When I got semi-close, he pulled me in and began to dance with me. I shimmied and shook and maybe even Mac Daddied it up with him a little. Once my confidence was boosted, I realized my bladder had slowly begun to take over my entire body. No matter how much I tried to Vulcan Mind-Meld my bladder into disappearing, I had to abandon my impromptu make-out to take care of nature. 

On my way out of the bathroom, I went a-searchin' for the man of my dreams (for one night only). Instead, what I found was his friend, who decided that it was now his turn to shimmy, shake, and Mac with me. I decided that all this attention was a gift from the Pride gods, and I needed to accept my new fate as the Pride Vixen, otherwise, I would be disappointing the fates. Much to my chagrin, the original shimmy shaker walked up and decided to throw a hissy fit. Unfortunately for me, it was not because I had made out with both of them, rather it was because the both of them... WERE DATING. 

(Mothertruckin' ass dogs.)

Other than assisting in being a homewrecker, the rest of DC Pride went perfectly. I saw Icona Pop and Emeli Sande play the festival, and I took home a new award in the amount of sweat one person can sweat in a 90-minute period. It's really a gift. 

Chicago

I'm not gonna spend a lot of time discussing Chicago. 

NY Pride

DOMA was repealed four days before NY Pride happened. I can say, from the bottom of my heart, I have never cried so much during a parade in my life. (Except for that one time in Disney World. We still don't talk about that.)

The night I arrived in NY, Swifty, her husband, and I made our way downtown to the West Village to go to a gay bar or club. We found ourselves, first, at Pieces, where the bar was completely and totally overcrowded. To our surprise, there was a coat check available at the front of the bar... a coat-check in JUNE. Turns out it wasn't a coat-check at all, it was a CLOTHING-CHECK. That's right: You could check your clothing at the door and walk around in your boxer-briefs, briefs, or JOCK STRAPS. 

We stayed standing for an hour (obvs oogling) before heading to the next bar. We decided to head to Stonewall... yes, of the Stonewall Riot fame. For those of you who know me, I am more than mildly obsessed with social media, so it should come as no surprise to you that I am an avid user of Foursquare. (Because it isn't creepy that someone can track your every move.) Well, I went to check into Stonewall and was surprised to see there was an event I could check into. The event was titled "LESBO GO-GO."

First I felt: 

Then I was all like: 

After I realized it was dancing, I was like: 

(Cause, bitch, I DON'T PLAY with my music)

We rolled into this history-making bar and bee-lined to the upstairs and downed a few drinks. I don't think I have been around that many dancing lesbians ever in my life. It took me a few minutes to get over the fact that I had changed the color of my shirt with my own sweat. (I'm impressive like that.) Just as I was getting over this not-so-secret fabric changing power I have, my friend Nomad (she, like, travels lots, duh), showed up and immediately pulled me up on the stage in front of all the lesbians. Much to my surprise, I danced like my life depended on it. At one point, whilst on stage, I thought I was so impressive I could definitely try out for So You Think You Can Dance... or at least their drunk bar version of the show. 

The weekend only got better from there. Brunching, dancing, and lots of eating ensued. There was the emotional Pride Parade — Edie Windsor was the Grand Marshall of the parade. I got ramotional. It was quite the weekend. 

Match.com

So, over a year after I originally talked about it, I finally took the plunge and purchased a membership to match.com. When I originally dabbled in it, I didn't pay for it and kinda let it hang by the wayside. On Sunday, however, my good lady friend Simba and I had our own little Sunday Funday that ended with buying a SIX-month membership. I don't know how things got so aggressive. 

(THIS IS WHAT MY INSIDES FEEL LIKE ABOUT DATING.)

The six-month membership comes with a guarantee; the site guarantees that if you do not find love within the six months that you paid for, then you get a SECOND six months for free. Because I am half-Jewish, I casually want to not find love and get another six months for free. (Hey, it's a deal! Gimme a break people.) I'll be sure to let you know how it goes. 

Miami: A new meaning to Hot Mess

DC Pride: Politically incorrect and loving it 

Chicago: Shhh

NY Pride: Am I a lesbian now?

Match.com: Jesus, Joseph, and Mary

And Then There Were None

Where have I been? That's a really good question. I have been awkwardly neglectful and stressed about my absence. Part of it is my own fault, part of it is work, part of it is doing research. (Research? Did I just try to make myself important? DID I? Yes, yes I did.) When I say research, what I mean is that I have been tirelessly going on dates for the last month. Remember that time that I made a promise to go on a certain number of dates before the middle of May? Cahmmm ahnnn, you remember. Fine, read it HERE. Well, I want to discuss the dates with you... in detail... now.

Date One: The Peaceful Snob

The first date I went on was at the very end of April. It was casual and friendly and not filled with any of the sparks or butterflies that you would want from a relationship starting date. The guy was a hippie teacher who had spent a couple of years in the Peace Corps. (Do you see where issues might arise? DO YOU?) I had decided that this date was going to be amazingly interesting and culturally enlightening, or a complete and total whack job. 

This was kinda the opposite of everything I thought it was going to be. The date started off normal enough with us making small talk about our lives and where we are in our careers. He fit all of the basic criteria for a mate: 29, teacher, tall, seemed to be grounded, witty. Then things took a turn when we began discussing his time in Africa. Out of nowhere he became a travel snob and started discussing his family's wealth. 

(Joan is perfect for expressing CONSTANT SURPRISE and mild annoyance. Thanks, Botox.)

I was slapped in the face with this. I wasn't expecting it. How does one prepare for this? You have just spent TWO years of your life working for the needy, the poor, the down trodden and the thing you want to discuss with me is the traveling you did? Not only did he tell me all the countries he visited, he then went into the trips he was able to take with his family. I think he told me about this one kid he helped once, and it was "like pretty cool."

I wasn't really sure how to continue the date after that. We tried to move on but I was so dumbfounded that I am sure I didn't make sense. Peace Snob just went about his business and continued to bring the convo back to himself. We parted ways with an awkward handshake/handhold thing and a promise of a second date... THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

Date Two: The Intense Latino

So date two was a bit more promising than the first. The guy was a hefty Latino man who worked as a lobbyist. We met at my go-to place, Crios, in Dupont Circle. I go there for two reasons: (1) It's easy/close to where I live, and (2) They have fucking delicious margaritas, and if I can't enjoy the date I can at least get tipsy.

Latino Heat was obviously into the idea of a Mexican restaurant as well. We had decent conversation at the beginning and then got really deep into family shit. I usually get weird about this stuff, but I let it slide after the second marg. (Let's cool it on the judgement. Two more margs and we would have an issue.) After we finished our dinner, we slowly made our way up the street and when I turned to say goodbye, he went in for the kiss. Because I am a gentleman I didn't stop him... but I felt... nothing, literally, nothing. It felt like I was kissing one of my best girlfriends... nice to have lips on me but not really doing anything below the neck. (Wink, WINK.)

Despite the less than exciting experience, I decided to go on a second date with him to see if the sparks could be found. Unfortunately for him, our second date coincided with a massive work emergency that ended up consuming my attention for most of our date. We went to Mellow Mushroom in Adams Morgan, also not far from where I live (I'm a man of convenience), and nommed on some pizza. The sparks were far from present, and as I walked back to my apartment, I decided to let this fizzle out. 

Unfortunately for me, Latino Heat seemed to think we were a match made in heaven. He began texting me incessantly about hanging out again. I told him about my busy work schedule and then decided not to text him back. Then, in a period of 24 hours, he texted me 8 times. Eight. OCHO. ACHT. ATE. EiGhT. 

(ZOINKS)

I didn't know what to do with all of them. They ranged from normal checking in to increasingly creepy and clingy. 

Text 1: Hey, I know you are busy and stuff, I just wanted to check in and make sure you are okay. 

Text 3: Hey, I haven't heard from you. I was thinking our next date could be something casual and intimate. 

Text 5: So I really think we could have something special, let me make you dinner this week. 

Text 8: I have looked at your OkCupid profile a few more times, and I really agree with it that we are a match. I think we should make a go of it. 

I'm sorry... you are continuing to look at my OkC profile? WHAT? WHO ADMITS THAT? He might be admitting it because you can SEE when someone has looked at your profile. He actually looked at my profile every day for a week. I just... I just... I can't. MATCH FAIL. 

Date Three: Tiny and Bland

To round out this trifecta, I decided to go on one last date in May before I headed to Miami for my work/vacation trip. This guy was cute, dark, and gainfully employed as a consultant. (Read also: my dream man.) We were messaging back and forth, and he had some painfully adorable lines that swayed me into a date. The one thing that was holding me back was his height. Tiny Dancer was all of 5'6" to my 6'1" frame. 

(Just not my cup of tea.)

I sucked it up and went on the date anyways. I had somehow convinced Tiny Dancer to go to Crios with me after a rather long Friday at work. (Man. Of. Convenience.) We had a lot in common and the conversation just kinda flowed between us. There wasn't a great deal of attraction, mainly because I considered bringing a booster seat on the date, but he was nice, nonetheless. We had a few sticking points where I knew we wouldn't work out in the long run — beyond the height. 

1. He had a rule against having any alcoholic beverages after 9pm. Ever. 

     2.  He was a Republican. (No offense, Republican readers... I'm just... I... well, it's a thing.)

(This is from Aubrey O'Days stint on RuPaul's Drag Race. She, surprisingly, is not a drag queen.)

     3. Finally, the worst offense, he didn't like reality TV, especially Bravo. 

(If anyone can give a "Bitch Please" face, its Madame Hillary Effing Clinton.)

I am fairly certain he felt the same about my liberal, reality TV watching, hard partying ways. Plus, I was a giant next to him... and girl, that ain't cute. As if he needed an extra thing against me, the gorgeous host at Crios called me out. Close to the end of the date, the host swung by and stood near me, looking me up and down for a second. 

Cahhhute Host: You've come here before. A lot. You always have fun boys with you. 

Me: *shocked* Way to blow up my spot! 

Tiny Dancer: Fun boys?

Me: I hang out with a lot of gays? I like Tex-Mex. THEY HAVE GOOD BRUNCH.

Cahhhute Host: See! I told you, you're so funny! 

Anddd, another one bites the dust. 

Last week I was in Miami, this weekend is DC Pride, next week I'm in Chicago, and then I am going to NYC Pride. I want to update you on all of these things, Amanda Bynes, and the future of my liver. (Hint: It's not a bright one.)

Peace Snob: A new type of terrible 

Latino Heat: A hunk, a hunk of CREEPY LOVE

Tiny Dancer: Fell just short of being terrific. (See what I did there, DO YOU?)

Fabulously Lost: Hot Mess, since '88