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

A Glittery Guide to Getting Ready

A couple of weeks ago, I had this major epiphany that I wasn't taking an active role in my dating life. (I can literally hear you all going, "Uhh duh. All you write about is getting drunk and sports. Get. With. It." Please don't gay clap at me, I'm fragile.) So I made the executive decision to set up three dates with three different people before the middle of May. The only way I would divert from this plan would be if I fell madly in love with one of the first two gays and couldn't complete the trifecta. (HAHAHA... yeah, right, love.) So, I have done (sort of) just that!

I actually had a date this past Monday, and I have one set up for this upcoming Sunday! Instead of telling you about Monday's date — in complete fear that I will jinx it, because it went well — I am going to give you a A Glittery Guide to Getting Ready. ("Oh Fab! That's the title of the post too!" Yup, thanks genius... you really saw that coming.)

(These men are constantly in my head. Also, I wanted to do Kyan, bottom left. His. Name. Is. A. Seasoning. #intoit)

1. Grooming: This is something you should do all over. Start with the head. It's got to look fresh to death. You wanna make sure your quaff isn't an unruly mane. (Unless that's what you're going for — then make sure it is perfectly out of place. Must. Be. Perfect.) Don't stop there, though — you want to make sure every hair on your body is perfectly groomed and trimmed. (Ewww, why did I go there? BECAUSE THIS IS SERIOUS. THIS IS GAY DATING BOOTCAMP.) If you feel good, it shows through.  

(Groom yo self.)

2. Pump Up Music: I say this one because I have made the mistake before of playing methodical music before a date, and it has ended horribly. Playing Ingrid Michaelson or James Blunt (you know, the guy who sang the sad song about being beautiful) can easily put you in a thinking mood. You shouldn't be thinking before you get there. You end up doing things like deciding how you are going to fail at this potential relationship. You begin to pick apart all the things that this persons profile didn't match. You end up breaking up with him before you get on the date... because that's normal. (I may be speaking from experience, because I am coo coo for cocoa puffs crazy.) Anyways, listen to music that brings out the fun side of you and not the Emily-Dickenson-jump-off-a-bridge side of you. 

(Look how HAPPY she is. Bitty's been listening to happy music. You. Should. Too.)

3. Wear Shitty Underwear: "That seems super counterproductive, Fab. You just told us to look good on the outside, and we will feel good on the in. Now you are telling us to do the opposite — which is it?" Ugh, you are like ON TOP of shit today. I get it, this doesn't make sense... yet.

You see, from my many years of playing the field, I know that the only time someone wants to go out with you again is if there is a little mystery. I also know, from friends of course, that sometimes if you give up your goodies too early that mystery disappears. I also heard that that sometimes leaves you with a carton of ice cream and the Golden Girls wondering how Blanche Devereaux makes it through all of her lovers with her sanity intact.

To help me... I mean my friend... in this department, I say: Wear shitty underwear. If there is anything that gay men take pride in, it is their ridiculously expensive underwear. You do not want to be going to do the hokey pokey and showing off your off-brand ripped Target underwear. It's just not cute. 

(Soo... umm... yeah. It needed to be said. Sorry I'm not sorry.)

4. Dress the Eff Up: This isn't high school. Wearing a sweatshirt on a date is unacceptable, especially a first date. You have your favorite outfit/shirt, wear it. Hell, I don't care if you have a designated first date outfit because you feel good wearing it. (I would reevaluate it if you are still single and you wear it on all your first dates. Just sayin'.) You can dress appropriately for the climate; I am definitely not forcing anyone to always wear ties or pants. Just look good and find a friend to do a once over on you before you walk out the door. Spray on the expensive cologne to top off the outfit. Just make sure you don't bathe in it — there is nothing worse than a man who looks bangin' and smells like they fell in a vat of Ralph Lauren Polo. It ain't cute, yo. 

(If you happen to be Ryan, then you can wear whatever the eff you want. Because you're Ryan. Effing. Gosling. I think his middle name is Effing, I read it somewhere.) 

5. Bring Your Wallet: I have forgotten my wallet once before. This was a messy experience that led me to feel awkward and obligated. You should always bring your wallet because it holds your ID, and when you are over the age of 21, getting a drink on your date helps to lubricate the conversation. If you forget your wallet, you are unable to get that lubrication. This also presents the awkward conversation at the end of the date when the check comes. (Remember: You haven't had the social lubricant to make this convo easier, because you're an idiot) So you have to do the whole:

"Oh MAH GAWD, I'm a fool. I am so sorry. I will get our check the next time!"

And there you have it. You're a complete dumbass at this point. You not only forgot your wallet, so you can't drink, but because you haven't had that drink you don't think before you speak. Just like that, you sign up for another date with someone who you hoped would look better with your beer goggles on, AND YOU have to pay for it. So, please, tap your ass, check your purse, and make sure your wallet is with you. 

(FAHK)

6. Think of a Good Story: This one is all for you. If the date starts to tank and you don't know what to do, think back to your favorite story from another friend. It's usually 1/4 of the way into the date when I know if it is going to go anywhere. If the date is tanking, I start to make shit up about myself. 

• I lie about traveling. My favorite country to "visit" is Zimbabwe for its tropical atmosphere and the friendly people. Really great resorts. 
• I talk about famous people who I pretend to kinda know. I have "played" pool with Mark Wahlberg and "taken shots" with Lindsay Lohan — at the beginning of her downfall. 
• I tell little lies too, like going to sleep away camp most summers and having two dogs growing up. (I went to week-long sleep away camps and I had two turtles... not dogs.)
• I have also made the mistake of lying about moving. This used to be a rookie mistake — you never tell people you are going to do something and not follow through. I used to do this if things were really tanking, and I didn't want them to ask me out again. I was always moving to NY within the next month, except I never did. Then I would run into them at the bar and awkwardly clam up and take a shot by myself. Don't do this one. 

You see, it's not because I was trying to be mean, it's all because I secretly want to be an actor and I pretend to put on a character. (I'm normal. I swearrrrr.)  

(So many jokes, so little time.) 

Those are the six steps I use to get ready for my dates. Take them or leave them, they have done pretty solid over the last couple of years, exploring the tedious world of dating. I have gotten a few good stories and a few bad ones from following these. I also realize I just gave you advice on how to get ready for a date, and I am currently sitting on my couch in similarly colored sweats and gym shorts. Single. Someday, my friends, someday. 

Fab 5: My inspiration in life

Getting Ready: A glittery mess 

Dating: An expensive ugly beast

Fabulously Lost: Possibly looking for a new routine  

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