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

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