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

Live Tweets and Rooftop Drunks

Life-Changer

Monday of last week was life-changing, and I am not just saying that because I am an overdramatic gay boy — I am serious. For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter (Why? Why don't you follow me? Don't be mean — follow me here.) I go through spurts of tweetering. Most days they are nonsensical tweets about how much caffeine I have had or the fashion faux pas I am constantly accosted with on the streets of DC. On Mondays though, during RuPaul's Drag Race, my Twitter feed becomes like a flaming, rainbow-infused, gay unicorn man.

(I told you he would be back.) 

I am overcome with the need to tweet every single thought that comes into my head. I become vicious and protective over my favorite queens, and I'm overly dismissive of the ones I dislike. Last Monday, I was overcome with joy when I discovered that Sally Jessy Raphael, the 90s steamy talk show host, watches the show just as religiously as I do. She tweets at the cast, and they respond, and she has even tweeted back and forth with Queen Bee Ru. (Mama Fab was not a fan of the show and did not like me watching it. Sooo... I watched it every single chance I got. I was enthralled.) 

I decided to randomly tweet at Sally (we are obvs on a first-name basis) at the beginning of the show to let her know I was excited for her updates. I often tweet at celebrities like we are old chums and have casual online relationships. I have thanked Jason Mraz for writing songs from my diary, Justin Timberlake for reminding me what lust felt like, and Barack Obama for the whole gay marriage thing. NBD — we are besties.

Ok, so, I tweeted at Sally, who didn't respond as per usual, and I went on with my business tweeting about the show. Mid-show, I decided to tweet at my old bffl Sally again because she had written something that made me lol, so I told her I adored her. THEN... OUT OF NOWHERE... SHE TWEETED AT ME!!! LIKE WTF!!! 

(She. Adores. Me. More. So. Many. Gay. Claps.)

I, obviously, had a conniption and tried to send a photo of the tweets to anyone who would respond. I don't think anyone could capture just how much I was tweaking out about this magnificent talk show host who tweeted at me. I tried to calmly go about my business for the rest of the night. At the end of the show, I sent a simple tweet off aimed at the show, because it isn't going to be on next week. AND THEN THE SHOW TWEETED BACK AT ME. WHAT THE WHAT IS HAPPENING??

(I'M CLAPPING WHILE I POST THIS.)

Right, so, I obviously had an intense Monday night and I am going to be reeling over this for weeks. I am basically a different level of fame that I wasn't expecting. (Statement dripping in sarcasm.) 

Housewarming

I moved to DC a solid two months ago, and I decided recently that it was finally time to show my place off to my friends. I wanted to make sure that it looked the best it possibly could... or fairly close. Honestly, my apartment could be a poor man's Target ad. (I'm not even saying that for you to feel bad, I am really proud that it looks as good as it does. Seriously. I can't afford a lot... but I got thrifty. *cue Macklemore*) That date was set for April 13th, and I even made a Facebook event... and invited 100 people. CAUSE THAT'S NORMAL. 

(I practiced this in the mirror. I'm going to start moonlighting as a 1950s actress... I think I've finally watched too much Drag Race.)

People began slowly clicking that they were going to attend, some letting me know they weren't able. Out of nowhere, a few weeks prior, I chatted with the parental unit about the party and let them know that I was having it... they jokingly said they were coming. I decided, because they are ridiculous, that I really did want them to come. After a lot of badgering by me (and some convos I made up/promises I claimed they made), they decided to come. I immediately updated the event and let the world know that they were coming and that they were bringing food and sangria... because. they. are. party. animals. (gay claps included) 

I thought I was solid with most of my friends, but the minute I put that Mama and Papa Fab were coming, the flood gates opened. I went from 20 people attending to more than 50. PANIC ENSUED. My friends from NY decided they were going to caravan down, my friends from Baltimore unanimously joined forces to come, and friends of friends were coming. My parents went from being casual attendees to being the main event. Their presence upstaged the whole reason for throwing the party — ME. (Because I am vain. And I like me. Duh.) To be honest though, I was more excited for my party now that they were coming... they even got a hotel room across the street so they could party like rockstars. 

(If Lindsay had my parents, she would be able to party and show up for work. #justsayin')

When the party day finally came, I was a wreck and began to think that no one was going to show. Luckily, I had my NY BFFL, Swifty (She is more than casually obsessed with Taylor. It's, like, a thing), with me to calm my nerves and feed me alcohol. People filtered in and before I knew it, we were up on the roof and my parents were helping me host the housewarming. Papa Fab was on the grill, Mama Fab was making sure people had food, and I was letting people into the building.

My favorite moment came when my Twin's sister rolled into the party with 10 people, all varying levels of drunk, and she freaked the freak out when she found my mother in the kitchen. She immediately began saying that the three of us needed to take a shot together and take a photo to send to Twin (who was in Chi-town... boo hiss). I was positive this was not going to happen, Mama Fab doesn't do things like shots. It doesn't happen. And then. It. Happened.

(Uhhhh DURHBLURP WHAAAT)

There are just absolutely no words. I knew, in that exact moment, that my party was going to be a success no mater what. I took a shot with my mother... and then we took another. Not only did she take a shot of Fireball, she said, "Mmm... cinnamon, that's not bad".... #idie. The night only got weirder from there with the neighbors I met, invited, and welcomed into my home to the shot that my parents took to the rousing round of Slap the Bag (a college game in which you take a bag of Franzia, slap it, and then suck as much of it out as possible). The night was an overall success.

We did, however, receive a noise complaint from the management company on Monday. I knew it was coming: We were loud, we had music playing, we were spread out across my apartment and the rooftop, it happens. My favorite part actually came later in the day on Monday when some of the residents had an unofficial resident BBQ. I sheepishly went up to introduce myself and potentially apologize to anyone who had to hear the party. Instead, when I got up there, I was met with a group of people who eagerly wanted to be included the next time. 

(YASSS *the homosexual way to say "Yes"*) 

Sally Jessy Raphael: My Newest Idol

Gay Unicorn Boy: Just replaced my inner child

Mama and Papa Fab: 10x cooler than me

Fabulously Lost: Flaming Party Throwing DC Homosexual

Why I Hate Surprises...

Before I get into my dating woes (because why would 2013 be any different?), I wanted to tell you a few quick updates about my life situation.

Mama Fab had only one thing to say after last week's post, which had a whole section dedicated to her sass.

Mama Fab: It's about time your friends know where you get all of your fabulousness. 

But, like, how is she right all the time? It's not like she decided to tell me it was a funny post, or that she enjoyed the part that she was in, but, instead, she made it about her. Obvs this woman is my mother.

(Like, I'm not saying my mother is NeNe Leakes, but I'm also not saying she isn't. #realtalk)

(Side Note within a side note: I don't think I could be more homosexual. I'm writing about my mother while watching reruns of RuPaul's Drag Race. I'm a living, breathing stereotype...andddd I lovvvveee itttttt- [said like Oprah])

Ok, the other news I wanted to share with you issss......KG and I....FOUND A PLACE. 

I have been waiting for this moment for.ev.er. I looked for the longest time by myself and out of nowhere I start looking with a friend and now I have a place. I couldn't be happier with the place and I am moving in three weeks. This is all sorts of cray. With all this time, I can guarantee you that I will wait until 6 days before hand and become a dramatic queen about everything up until the move. Luckily for KG, he will be in Israel and will only see me after I have already moved in. LUCKY HIM. I will be writing a farewell post to the best roomies (GET IT MAMA AND PAPA FAB) at some point rulll soon. Mmmk?

There is one other thing I would like to say (after I've had a glass of wine...or two). I am not trying to point fingers, because I'm not that kind of girl, but I feel like it is necessary for everyone to connect the dots. The inauguration just happened and I was reminiscing about where I was 4 years ago during the first inauguration. I was with my bffl Rachie and my big time college Ex (we were together at the time, duh), in my own apartment, casually successful in my job, had a world of dreams in front of me, surrounded by my best friends, slept until whenever I wanted, drank like a fish, and really just living the dream. 

Now, 4 years later I am living with my parents, single, all my friends are spread out across the country, I have to wake up when other people decide I am supposed to go to work, and I have to pay bills. I'm not saying it is Obama's fault, butttt CHU KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING.

(Good point, RIGHT Obamz?)

Alright ladies, it's story time. This is a bit of a throwback to my college days when I was young, fabulous, and broke. (Not much has changed.) Remember that time that I made out with Black Bieber? Ok, well in that post I spoke about girlfriend, who is one of my nearest and dearest friends. We are kinda, sorta like the devils on each others shoulders. We often convince each other that whatever the worst thing you could possibly do in a night would be the best thing to do right then and there. (i.e. alcohol is usually involved)

Anywayz, girlfriend and I had this thing where we would casually go through attraction phases (we would be into the same type of men at the same time), and more than once we would be attracted to the same exact guy. One of these times, we found a guy who we were unsure which way he swung. (Shocker, I'm attracted to a sexually ambiguous man) 

(but...just...love...me)

We, of course, had to turn this into a friendly game where we would invite him to do things with both of us and then also try and get him alone with us. Once, girlfriend convinced all of us to watch Paranormal Activity and let me tell you...this bitch does NOT do scary movies. Apparently neither did our sexually ambiguous friend, we both ended up curled up underneath girlfriend until she agreed to turn off the movie. LET'S just say, we decided he leaned a little more to my side of the baseball end zone. (I'm good with sports)

So, you ask, where did the terrible date come into play?  Well, don't you worry your pretty little head, we will get there. You may also ask when his nickname is going to come into play, because you are aggressive and you can't be patient. You see, our little friend decided to ask me out on a date and wanted to plan it out himself. He told me he would pick me up and he was really excited to take me to one of his favorite places in College Park. I was the giddiest girl in all the land. 

(Isn't he just the cutest? Ugh, I love me some silver fox)

He picked me up and we started driving down Rt. 1 away from most of the restaurants in the area. I began getting excited that we might be venturing away from the places I had become to accustom to over the last three years. But then it happened, just as I thought we were going to get on the highway and drive away from good ol' CP, he turned into the Ikea parking lot. 

(It's just the pits)

Me: So, are we stopping here for a quick furniture run? Need to pick up some tupperware?

Ikea: No, goof, this is my favorite place to eat in College Park! I knew it would be a surprise. I bet you have never eaten here before. 

Me: Yup, you're right. I honestly have never consumed food at this lovely furniture store. 

Ikea: Well you're in luck, because they have the best meatballs ever. They are from Sweden! 

I forgot to mention, Ikea, is as dumb as a brick. He is hands down one of the most attractive men I have ever sort of shared with any of my friends, but the boy is clueless. He was one of those men that didn't need to say much, because he was just so pretty. He had these piercing blue eyes and a smile that made you swoon. So when he says things like "Ikea's meatballs are from Sweden" you just sort of smiled and pretended he never said anything. #denial

When we got inside, it took us twenty minutes to get to the cafeteria portion of this building, because it's an EFFIN' MAZE. I was getting more and more annoyed with every twist and turn and all he could do was talk about how excited he was for these damn meatballs. When we finally arrived, I wasn't even sure I was hungry and I realized I was completely overdressed for this place. This was not the date I had dreamed about throwing in girlfriends face later. (Bittttch puhlease, you know I was gonna make a big ta-do about this whole date. I had out done her! But not really)

Oh, but it gets better. Not only were we on this date where we were having real life Swedish meatballs, my lovely date felt the need to answer a call from his roommate in the middle of our date. 

Ikea: Hey Roommate, is everything okay?

*Pause*

Ikea: Oh man, that sounds awful. You know I'm out with Fab, right? I told you about the whole dinner thing. 

*Pause*

Ikea: I guess I could ask him. Hey, uh, Fab, do you care if Roommate comes and joins us? He likes Swedish food too! 

Me: Sure, that will just be the icing on the cake.

Ikea: Are we getting cake? Aw man, Roommate loves cake!!

But, like, that's just how on top of things he was. It was the moment that I realized I no longer wanted to compete for him. You know, besides the whole ambiguity of his sexual orientation and his general misunderstanding of most normal social situations. Roommate ended up joining us and added just as much to our conversation topics as Ikea had. We eventually did get cake, because I had put it into their minds that cake would be part of the date. 

girlfriend and I have not competed for any man since, but she is still one of the best wingmen I have ever had. 

I am going to casually try and go into hibernation over the next few weeks to save money for the big move. Being as fabulous as I am, this is going to be a very difficult task for a social butterfly. Also the guy who I went on a 3rd date with...total dud. I've given up on 2013 and finding love. (Calling all drama queeeeeens!)

DC: Ready or nottttt

Obama: The reason I am single

Ikea: A maze of both furniture and love 

Fabulously Lost: Curer of homosexuality #datingfail

In My Life

Every once in awhile I like to write posts about the random things that are happening in my life that cannot necessarily be fleshed out into a post. This happens to be on of those posts...BECAUSE I CAN!   (Whenever I say something like that I start playing "It's my birthday and I can cry if I want to")

Smut-tastic 

So last week I was with my entire family and we were discussing our annual trip to the gayest town in Maine when my parents informed us that our grandparents were going to be coming with us. (Just a quick reminder: I went on vacation, went to a drag show, took a lovely walk on the beach with a VT Mountain man and then have lived in relentless judgement from my family ever since) My brothers decided that it would be good idea for our parents to join us a the Drag Show this year...which was just too much for me to handle.

Jeopardy Bro: Mama and Papa Fab, I think you guys should join us. You'd have an amazing time and the show is great. 
Rugby Bro: Yeah, the woman was hysterical! 
Me: I just don't think it would be a good idea. It can be a little raunchy and I don't know if you guys would like it. The crowds. The people. Maybe we find something else for you guys to do with us.
Mama Fab: Maybe you don't have to smut it up for one night. Yup, I said it. 

(You know its going to be a good post when I can bring a housewife into this)

But seriously, Mama Fab killed it. I had nothing to say, she came in with a zinger and we were all in complete shock. I couldn't disagree, I couldn't fight it, I couldn't do anything but say "OMG, OMG", because I reverted to a typical homosexual response to someone who calls a bitch out. Props Mama Fab, props. 

Real Time Chatting

I had a bunch of things I wanted to talk about in this post, and I will get to them, but I am in the middle of watching the Girls season premiere and I am just in shock and awe. Now, this is not because Lena Dunham's tits have been flailing since the 4th scene in, but because of the person they are flailing against. She was banging DONALD GLOVER! *crickets* Ugh, you guys are the worst. For those of you who don't know who he is, Donald Glover is comedian, actor, and rapper under the name Childish Gambino. What I wasn't expecting was for Donald Glover to be dressed and looking like a myriad of my ex-boyfriends. 

(Sorry Lena, you totes asked for it when you added an attractive black man to your cast)

(Ohhh, I'll keep you warm Donald)

Apartment Search

Holy crapballz guys. I have been talking about moving since the beginning of time. I have sweet roommates right now (Shout out Mama and Papa Fab! #single4lyfe), but I am more than ready to be living in Washington D.C. A little change has occurred since I last wrote about this last month. I am now currently looking for an apartment with one of my best friends from college. He happens to be straight, he happens to be a super feminist, and he happens to be super awesome. One of the main things that we bonded over in college was our joint love of Kentucky Gentleman...the bourbon. (Shocker, I have some straight qualities. Cowboy Fabulous) So from now on, in all of our adventures, I will be referring to him as Kentucky Gentleman or KG. (Probably KG, because I'm lazy...yet honest).  We have decided to look for a sleek bachelor pad in Dupont Circle or Logan Circle. This is going to be severely dangerous for my liver. 

(Ugh, she is so judging me)

Live, Laugh, Single

Let's discuss all of the "research" I have been doing for you guys. I have decided that the year of 2013 is my year and that involves taking more time for the things that are important to me. (And we wonder why the older generations call us the "All About ME" generation. You're welcome) Part of this whole declaration was my decision to take a more active role in the success of my dating life. I have this insatiable thirst to set up dates and then slowly talk myself out of them or tell myself how they are going to fail. This includes, and isn't limited to, lying to them about emergencies at home (i.e. I really wanted to get into bed and do nothing), telling them that I have to work late because of an emergency (i.e. I really wanted to get in bed and do nothing), or telling them I have the flu (i.e. I really wanted to get into bed and do nothing). 

(Oh Pinocchio, you little rascal)

This doesn't seem to fit in well with my 2013 proclamation, so I am reverting back to a much simpler time, a time when this whole idea of a blog came about. That's right, I am going back to 2011 when I decided that the only answer I had to being asked on dates was "Yes." It has been less than three weeks into the new year and I have already set up (and not cancelled) three different dates. One of them has successfully turned into a 2nd and a 3rd date. I don't want to jinx it...but maybe 2013 is my year??

(But like, why am I using so many Disney characters? What is the gimmick here? I'm at a loss too peeps)

Diets Are Stupid and Ugly and I hate them

I feel like the title of this section says it all but I feel like I should explain how much of a masochist I really am. Like everyone else in the entire US of A, I ate my face off in the month of December. I ate like food was going out of style. I pretended to be on a diet when I was really just joshin' with myself and really eating globs of delicious holiday food. I ate until the new year came around and reminded me that the world wasn't ending, and at that point I realized that I was going to have to pay for my grievous mistakes and the horrendous way I had been treating my body in the name of Jebus and a good holiday dip. 

(Heyyyy GURL, don't judge. You ain't no summer chicken yo self)

So last Monday I decided to go extreme and give up carbs for 14 days. 

(#gurldown)

No, but seriously, I gave up carbs. Not only did I give them up, but I have kept to it amazingly so. I haven't had any carbs in 8 days. I make a lot of chicken and eggs and salad. I have gone out to restaurants and been able to focus ordering food without carbs. I have 100% told EVERYONE I have been eating with that I am doing #nocarbs2013, because I need everyone to know I am doing big things (It's the half-Jew in me, so sue me)

Real Talk: I wanna cut a bitch. I love bread and bagels almost as much as I love cheese. So this is like a death march for me right now. Not only that, it's like I am in a torturing myself because I have gone to not 1, not 2, but THREE EFFING PIZZA PLACES IN 8 DAYS. I don't even go out for pizza that much on a regular basis, yet I can't seem to get away from them right now. I have also gone on 2 dates in the last 8 days and it is really awkward to be out at dinner and say, 

Me: No, I can't be really cute with you and order an appetizer.

Cute Date: Oh, how come?

Me: Because all of the appetizers have some sort of carb in them that I can't pick out and I am basically constantly sabotaging myself.

Basically, I really dislike dieting but I am, unfortunately, noticing the difference in my body since I started this. No one is more pissed than I am that eating better is actually better for you. (A big old eff you to my body)

(My eyes are in a permanent eye roll) 

Wrap Up

So there is my State of the Union about my life right now. I have some stories about my dating faux pas  that I will tell you about in due time. I am also in the process of planing my Gay Debutante Ball for when I arrive in DC. This will consist of a boozy brunch, oogling of men, and lots of fabulously dressed people. (Nope, I couldn't be anymore more rainbow with that sentence)

(BECAUSE WHY NOT?!?! This was an unreal find and I will probably bring this gay unicorn man back in other posts. Kind of like a Where's Waldo? of blog photos)

Mama Fabulous: Bold and fierce 

Donald Glover: Tired from runnin' through my dreamz

DC: Flirty, Slutty, and Fabulous 

Unicorn Man: Keepin' It Real

Moving: A Horror Story

Guys...shit's getting real. Like RULLLLLL RUL. I mean like...what does that even mean? Welp, what it means is that I have been focusing every waking moment (when I am not working or drinking of course) looking for an apartment in DC. I'm losing my mind and I feel like it should be easier than this. BUT IT'S NOT. (Whenever I write or say "It's Not", I always, without fail, repeat it in my head as "IT SNOT" and then giggle because I have said "Snot". THIS IS WHY I DON'T HAVE A BF OR AN APT).

(I practiced making this face for awhile. My head kinda hurts, but if I were you, I wouldn't wanna piss me off. I have a new cray cray face)

Did you know there was this thing called "Roommate Interviewing" that exists in DC. I have heard of it in other cities, but DC really takes the cake on this one. You basically have to sell yourself to these people in emails first, try to make yourself sound cool but not too cool, fun but not an alcoholic, clean without being Monica Gellar, and awesome without being cocky. ONCE you have sold them on your sweet writing skills you are given a time to go infront of the council of roommates and meet them all. Where. They. Judge. You. I feel like this is some cruel joke that is being played on me where I have to relive all of the insecure moments I had in middle school over, and over, and over again. 

So I have been to some crazy places over the last couple of months and since I have some of the coolest roommates out there (shout out to Mama and Papa Fab, you be real cool), I am not rushing into anything. It's not like I have a deadline of when I have to be out (though they have been giving me the side-eye recently), so I want to find a place that is just right. One of the places I looked at recently had this sweet ad and was located in this amazing apartment building in Columbia Heights. Three girls, 2 Jewish (Half-jew PRIDE), and a private balcony. What more could a glittery gay boy want?

(SO MUCH HAPPINESS. Obamz, you and me, just giggling through life)

There was one snafu in the email and it said that the room was a "shared space" but never clarified what type of shared space. So I arrived to this swanky building and was escorted by the nice jewish girl to the apartment. Along the way, she showed me all of the wonderful amenities. I was in heaven....until we got into the actual apartment. As soon as I walked in, I realized how tiny the place was. The kitchen, living room, and sitting area were crammed into this apartment like sardines in a can. Immediately when I walked in I was accosted with the site of one bedroom that had a small twin sized bed sitting on the ground and a table extremely low to the ground. There wasn't a window in the room and the bed didn't seem to have any blankets on it. (I am convinced it was a prisoners room and they let her out to show the new "roommate" how normal and well adjusted they were)

After short, awkward, conversation, one of the girls piped up that it was time to show me the room. She took me up a windy staircase where I was met with a medium sized open space that had a desk, dresser, and a full sized bed that took up most of the space. The nice girl then said "This is the space you and I will share if you choose to move in"

(Why yes, yes this is Harry Styles from One Direction)

I was in utter shock at this point and had no real control over how my face was going to react to this ridiculous news. These girls were all in their mid-twenties and there is absolutely NO reason to be sharing a room at that age. She kept trying to sell herself to me as this person who could share a space and be "unavailable" if we needed to have "house guests" over. (Granted, this was a concern of mine. But only momentary because, as we all know, #celibacy2012/3). I listened to her talk for awhile before I walked down the tiny staircase trying to contemplate why they thought it would be appropriate for someone to share a room in this apartment, let alone pay $800 for it. (Did I forget to mention how expensive this "room share" was?? Again, I say, biiiitch puh-lease)

I did find one I was really into recently and they strung me along until tonight pretending like I was there top choice, then going radio silent at the last minute. I was so nervous about getting this place but then I ran into one of the roommates on Saturday night outside of the liquor store (because that's where all roommate relationships should start) and she told me that I was their top choice and I should hear back at any moment. Unfortunately, I was told by the house manager I would hear by Monday night and I am still waiting on her email. (Seriously, I am refreshing my email inbox on the reg, looking at it and not willing to accept that I am like the girl who was stood up on prom night. Looking all pretty with no place to go.)

(JUST LIKE ME. Or I will ugly cry like Anne. Don't put it past me. I am not above it)

I was so stressed out about this apartment that I actually had a dream about it last night. I woke up in a cold sweat because the house manager emailed me back to tell me that they were going with someone else who was a DJ. Her reasoning was that they had always wanted a house DJ and this guy claimed to play lots of metal music. I apparently didn't seem like the "metal" type and they really needed that in their lives. I was devastated and unsure of what to do with my life. (Reminder: This was all just a dream). When I woke up I began writing these possible roommates to let them know I was considering getting into metal music. It wasn't until I was half-way through the email that I realized that writing this would make me seem, essentially, NUTS. (Not that I am not crazy, but I don't let my freak flag fly right away. I am a classy lady.) 

Anywhoz, I am in this mad search for an apartment and thanks to some lovely facebook friends, I have a few more prospects to look forward to. Onward and upward my dear friends, onward and upward. 

DC Residents: Judgey and possibly insane. Here's lookin' at you kid 

Fabulously Lost: Homeless (metaphorically) 

Mama/Papa Fab: Sweet roomies who provide free food. 

A Family of Weird

Quick update: I went on a lame date last week with a teacher. I don't have anything to write about...the whole thing was super vanilla. He wasn't a bad person, or weird, or anything. He just existed. I kept trying of things to make the date witty or fun, but it was just there. We went to dinner, we talked a bit, we went home. NO SPARKS. I am, however, going on a date with a lovely British man this Monday...

(I say lovely...but it's a blind date and we all know how well they turn out for me.)

I have a lot of weird tendencies and I am generally a pretty "eccentric" (read also: nuts) person. We all know this and have made peace with this (read also: therapy), but all this wonderful craziness had to come from somewhere...right? Well it did. A lot of my oddness (which I also like to refer as "lovable quirks") comes from Mama and Papa Fabulous. You see, they have been an ever present force in my life from the time that I was really little. They are obnoxiously accepting and are also an amazing role model for what marriage should be about. (They have also ruined my expectations of what should be "normal"....jerks.) They have actually gotten weirder as my brothers and I have gotten older, thus making me feel it was safe to let out all of my weirdness. (I'll show them weird! #stillsingle #celibacy2012).

Until very recently I have been under the impression that Mama Fab had never really drank too much in her younger years and that the one time she did, she got very sick and never had beer again. (To her credit, she doesn't ever drink beer.) The stories began to shift and change after my younger brother turned 21 and we were all above the drinking age. All of a sudden we began drinking a bit more as a family and discussing things that had only been briefly mentioned in passing. We, as a family, enjoy a beverage...or two...

(The blue one looks like a very good bad decision to make.)

Anywhoz, two weeks ago, when I spent the weekend submerged in other peoples love stories, I had a breather moment from weddings and engagements where I was able to go out with my date for the weekend, British Cowgirl. (She was born in Philly, spent 7yrs in England and now fancies herself a life in the wild, wild west.) When we got back to my parents house from one wedding function, we were geared up to grab a cab and go get drunk with some townies. Instead, we were met by Mama and Papa Fabulous who were giggling as they were decorating the house for my older brothers engagement party.  It took me only a few moments to realize that they had been going to town on my box of wine that I was given by my Twin for my birthday. 

(Slap-a-da-bagggg. The only way this moment could have been more perfect is if they were doing this)

There was logic that went into their choice to devour the boxed wine and it was truly flawless. They wanted to have a classy brunch for the engagement and having boxed wine on the counter would detract from the classiness. (A notion I will readily disagree with, but it wasn't my engagement party. And also may be why I am single) Because of their sound logic, British Cowgirl and I decided it was only right to help them out on this quest to rid the house of my prized Franzia. We filled goblets up with the savory Chablis and sat down for a 90min pep-talk with my parents. 

British Cowgirl and I had been making jokes that we were going to form the "Singles Room" at the party, knowing full well that we would be the only singles at the party. I guess my parents didn't take kindly to this, so they began telling us about how we will find love that we deserve. Honestly, it was such a self-esteem booster because they believed everything they said. We sat there and listened and squeezed the bag dry before we left them to finish their decorating and go out. The next morning all parties involved were a little hungover and forced to entertain for hours. However, I will never forget the night that I killed a box of wine with Mama and Papa Fabulous. 

(THEY HAVE BOXED WINE TASTINGS!!!!! It's the little things in life)

Papa Fabulous has other quirks outside of drinking boxed wine, he has also planned out how his funeral should play out and what he wants our grandkids to call him. (Not in that order. Thats creepy.)

When my brothers and I were younger we would ask really weird questions of my parents on our trips up to Maine. One year, right around when I was 9 or 10, we asked our parents how they would want to be buried/where they would want to be buried when they died. (Looking back, we were morbid weirdos...who wants to plan their parents funerals??) Mama Fabulous has always been a bit like the perfect mother. She used to sing us lullabies, held us when we were sick, read us stories with different voices, and volunteered her time at our schools. Her answer to the question fit perfectly in line with what we would have expected. 

Mama Fabulous: I don't want you to have to go visit a grave to "see me." I would love it if you had me cremated and then planted a tree and poured the ashes over it. Then, whenever you see a tree like that, you will see me. 

WHAT THE HELL?? She is like Mother Theresa. Like that is literally the best effing answer you could've ever told a child. Mama Fab for the win! Now, Papa Fabulous took a much different route with his answers. He was also a great parent who coached soccer teams, made us Saturday morning breakfast, and came up with the lullaby "Go to sleep, go to sleep, you rotten little creeps". Anywhoz, Papa Fab took a moment to think about it and then, without hesitation, stated an elaborate plan for his funeral. 

Papa Fabulous: I would like a funeral pyre. Not just any old funeral pyre, but a viking one. I would like for you to wrap my body up, put it on a wood canoe (nothing elaborate!), and then push me out to see or to the middle of a lake. Then you will have to shoot a flaming arrow onto the boat and you can watch it go up into flames. There is no way you will be sad then...that's just cool. 

(there are some really fucked up pics when you search "funeral pyre." Just sayin')

Like...I have no words for that. We all burst out laughing and just said Papa Fab was being cooky and trying to make us laugh. The funniest part, though, is that this still stands 15 years later. We still discuss it and, in all seriousness, my father claims he wants a traditional viking funeral. 

Outside of planning their funerals, my parents also like to plan ahead for when we have children. (They want me to have lots of little gaybies.) Recent conversations have revolved around what they are going to be called by our unborn children. Mama Fab decided that instead of us wondering what our kids should call them, they would just tell us. 

Mama Fab: I want to be called Oma (German word for Grandma) It's easy for children to say and it has history with the family. 

Papa Fab: I don't want to be called Opa. I'm not German. That just doesn't sound right. 

Mama Fab: Then what do you want to be called? No one is forcing you to be Opa. 

Papa Fab: Hmm...I want the kids to call me Thor. 

That's right folks, he wants to be called Thor, like the mythical God of thunder. This began a semi-serious fight with my younger brother, who decided my father should be called Odin, Thor's father. (I think it's secretly because he wants to be Thor, which would make my father Odin. As I write this, I have decided to start calling him Odin. Because I am nice.) 

(Oh hey kids, there's Thor, just smiting some weird creatures.)

My family is fabulously weird and wonderful. On election night earlier this week my mother and I drunkenly sobbed on the phone to each other over the legalization of marriage equality in the state of MD. Weird or not, I am pretty lucky. 

I am currently, moments away, from getting off a bus in NYC. As you all remember, I have torrid love affair with this amazing city and I have also had some weird adventures. I promise to update Monday with the weird happenings of this crazy hipster filled city. 

Mama Fabulous: Mother Theresa with a cosmo

Papa Fabulous: A true viking 

Fabulously Lost: High standards, high tolerance, high chance of destruction 

My Sloth

Remember how I told you that I am that weirdo who obsessively watches random celebrity interviews? (Not ashamed.) Well one of my favorite celebrity interviewers is the constantly dancing, '90s sitcom legend, lesbian talk show host Ellen Degeneres. Now, Ellen has had many gems in her career as one of the most beloved talk show hosts of today, but none of them compare to her chit-chat with Kristen Bell. Bell is formerly known as the title character of Veronica Mars, currently as the narrator of Gossip Girl, and has always been a huge LGBT ally. (I swear to little baby Jesus I am about to make my point) Bell explained to Ellen that it had recently been her birthday and her fiance, Dax Shepard, surprised her by bringing her absolute favorite animal to their house for the party. Below is the clip. Watch it. Now.

She bugs the FUCK out over this little lazy creature. Like not even a little bit, a lot. She is sobbing and convulsing on her bed, all out of joy for the presence of this animal near her home. Welp, I realized within the last couple of months that my "sloth" is...is....Christmas.

(I just lost twenty minutes of my life looking up photos of Christmas)

I wish I could say that I am kidding about this, or that there are other things in my life that excite me more than a holiday, but I can't. I literally start tweaking when I even begin to think about Christmas. I found out that Christina Perri had released her Christmas album on Tuesday and, while listening to it, my heart grew 4x. So much so that I began to tear up. LIKE REAL TEARS. I was appalled with myself but I couldn't stop myself. (It was only like 3 tears...mmmkay?). 

You see, I started to realize that I was obsessed with Christmas at a very young age. This isn't a new thing; I am a life-long glittery Christmas lover.  I was always more excited about it than my brothers growing up and I was always more emotional about it too. (Easily attributed to the fact that I was easily excitable about...everything) I think that it really set in how obsessed I was after I found out that Santa Claus wasn't real.

I know this is comes as a complete surprise, but, I wasn't very popular when I was younger. (I KNOW! I am constantly confused by this too). Let's travel together back to a time when I was a mere 3rd grader in the mid-90s, to a time when I found a rag-tag group of kids who sat in the back of the bus. I thought that I had made it because they let me sit with them and not with the little kids in the front of the bus. Now, they let me sit with them because I was kinda like their punching bag. They could make fun of me and be mean but they also liked me to be just their punching bag, and because of that they stood up for me if anyone else was mean to me. (I found some gems. Realll gems)

(They were a meaner, less cute version of the Little Rascals. #besties)

Anywhoz, they used to tell me (read also: make fun of me) how innocent and how silly I was for doing all of my homework and wearing my cousins over-sized clothing from the late 80's-early '90s. (Interestingly enough, they are actually the reason I got into cursing, before them I was afraid to say anything beyond "darn", so I owe them something right?) Well, right around Christmas time I began getting extremely excited and overwhelmed with the impending season, so much so that I decided to bring up a conversation topic with my fellow back-of-the-bus rough and tumble group of "friends."

Me (imagine pip-squeak high voice): What is everyone asking Santa for Christmas?

One-Eye Tom (he actually had one eye): Wait, is he serious? He can't be serious.

Mini Rosie O'Donnell (Self-explanatory...unfortunate looking kid): Fabulous, you have to be kidding. How fucking dumb are you?

Me: What do you mean? If you don't tell him what you want, he won't know what to tell his elves to make you. I feel like that's PRETTY smart. 

One-Eye Tom: He still doesn't get it. What the hell?

Mini Rosie O'Donnell: Fabulous, you're writing a letter to no one. Santa Claus isn't real. I can't believe you still believe in him

Me: I...I... I don't. I was just kidding. I mean, who believes in Santa. 

Facts: I DID. I EFFIN' BELIEVED IN SANTA CLAUS. 

When I got off the bus, I marched into my house and asked to speak very frankly with my mother. (Sometimes I wonder how this all looks to a parent...like, a tiny munchkin kid with a high pitched voice claims to have something serious to talk about. What the hell is serious about that?)

Me: Mom, I want you to tell me the truth.

Mama Fabulous: Tell you the truth about what sweetie?

Me: On the bus, Mini Rosie O'Donnell told me that Santa isn't real. Is that true?

Mama Fabulous: Do you really want to know the truth?

Me *paused for a moment*: Yes, yes I do

Mama Fabulous: No, Santa Claus isn't real. I am so sorry.

Me *almost in hysterics*: WHAT ABOUT THE EASTER BUNNY??

Mama Fabulous: The Easter Bunny isn't real as well.

Me *tears streaming*": AND THE TOOTH FAIRY?

Mama Fabulous: None of them are real.

Me: YOU LIED TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

I have a flair for the dramatics. Also, did I really think either one of those follow-up questions were going to end well for me? I mean, did I really believe a giant bunny broke into my house each year and just pooped chocolate eggs? How about the small fairy who would poof into my house and steal my teeth? Both sound like things that I have seen on CSI: Miami. Just sayin'. 

 This poor woman had to listen to me as I called her a liar and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed like I just found out that they were giving me up for adoption. (I may have overreacted a little bit...)

(this might have been easier to digest)

You'd think that after all of this I would be jaded when it came to the holiday. Well, then you would have thought wrong. I have consistently gotten more obsessed with the holiday, to the point that I now begin to tear up when I start thinking about my whole family gathered around the Christmas tree,  excitedly giving each other gifts and talking about spending the whole day together. (Literally just made myself tear up typing that...I have an issue.)

1998: I stayed up through all of Christmas Eve because I had wound myself up so much so that I couldn't fathom sleeping. I ended up passing out moments after we finished opening presents the next morning

2000: I asked my parents if we could go to all three of the Christmas Eve services at church...because each is different from the last. 

2002: I decorated the inside of my locker with wrapping paper and garland. It was the first time I had used my locker in high school. I was also still "straight" then. 

2004: I came out 5 days after Christmas...and I actually thought about how neat it would be to share an anniversary with Christmas 

2006: I had just started working at Godiva and they let me decorate the display in the mall by the Santa picture area. I spent 2 weeks on it and went to check on it. Every.Single.Day. 

2008: It was the first time I had a boyfriend at Christmas. Our official anniversary was three weeks prior...our first official date ended at a Christmas party. I was in heaven. 

2010: I forced my co-workers to endure Christmas music and I bought decorations for everyone's desks. 

2012: I...I just can't. Too much excitement 

Christmas: The best time of the year

One-Eye Tom and Mini Rosie O'Donnell: Probz working in gas stations. (they weren't the brightest bulbs on the tree)

Mama Fabulous: A saint for dealing with my antics.

Fabulously Lost: Instead of the Crazy Cat Lady....I'm the Crazy Christmas Gay. #owningit