You know your week is off to a stellar start when it has Valentine’s Day AND 2 of your ex-boyfriends’ birthdays in it.
Did I mention that both are in long-term, committed relationships?
I didn’t? Well, now I did.
Bitter: party of me.
What made this gay heart weep tears reminiscent of Lady Gaga losing all those Grammys to Adele [that’s right, “album of the decade”, mm hmm] was just making it through the snark-inducing shit I deal with.
Join me, please.
Thank you Brian B for the inspiration from our fb chat.
[Now, picture me in a cute 60s PanAm-esque Flight Attendant outfit ...]
Good Morning, passengers of Gay Hearts Weep Airlines, this is your flight attendant – Benjamin – speaking. You need to board this flight quickly and quietly. Your flight crew appreciates this.
Now, here are some simple rules which will ensure everyone has a pleasant flight and walks away from this plane alive.
There is no need to talk to anyone. It is O’Dark-Stupid in the morning; that means it is time to sleep. No one gives a shit about ANY of your problems. To all children that are under the age of 5, please pay close attention:
Shut. The. Fuck. Up. It is way past your bedtime so NO ONE should hear a single peep out of you! If you continue to make noise? I will pepper-spray you my damn self. You have been warned.
[*ahem* It may be noted here that some have theorized I have a problem with children. Those people? Are perceptive]
Needless to say, I am not a morning person. Nor can it truly be said I’m an afternoon person. Nor much of a Night Owl. Come to think of it, I think I’m set on perma-snarky.
I wonder if it’s a medical condition.
Should I treat it with wine?
Let’s examine this past Monday, as an example of why I’ve such an outlook, together:
I got up at O’Dark-Stupid in the morning to be at work [again, not a morning person – but, thank gawdd for coffee] and wade through a pack of imbeciles.
I mean pleasant people.
No, I mean completely selfish assclaps who seem to spend hours plotting how to make my mornings at work as difficult as possible.
[Some people call them customers.]
Anywhoo, after all of the loveliness of an 8-hour shift with no real break, I hopped in the car to drive my tired ass home [Please note that I refrained from nabbing McDonald’s – my de facto comfort fast food – stoopid diet. Bugger.] only to discover that my front driver’s side tire had a lovely sharp screw.
Embedded in it.
At least something’s getting screwed for Valentine’s.
Yepp, the day before Saint Valentine’s and I am single, dealing with a flattening front tire, fighting that impending-30s spare tire, and fighting the urge to punt anyone in the balls who so much as crosses me.
Okay, I totally took the coward’s way out and called Grandpa to ask what I should do (aside from replacing the tire) – he promised we could spend the next morning replacing or repairing the tire. *Whew!*
Assured of future success with the tire, I threw caution to the wind and let my hair down. Way down. In fact, I asked my lovely roommate Melanie to chop it off.
[One way to lose weight, cut 3-4 lbs of hair.]
Some people deal with things through shopping [guilty], eating unhealthy foods [also guilty], inappropriate behavior [need I say it?], but on a diet and dirt-broke I turned to the old stand-by: snarky and inappropriate commentary and re-invention.
A change-up as simple as hair cut or color can perk up even my shittiest day – of course, pairing it with an over-priced t-shirt would make it complete, but, who am I kidding? Not gonna happen.
With my short haircut – inspired by What’s-his-name-you-know-the-hot-one-on-CSI – and a bowl of low-cal devil’s food cake mix [tastier than cardboard, but not much] I had a bounce in my step.
The bonus? The fact that many 18-25 yr olds think I look 22/23 with it is totally [low-cal] icing on the [gawdd how much I wish it were real chocolate] cake.
Hrmm, perhaps it wasn’t such a shitty week after all.
Or maybe that’s just the wine speaking.
Dogs looking like roosters, tigers, and Elvis? WTF? Those poor painted poodles! While entertaining to watch, the weep factor is off the canine charts. If Fluffy could speak she'd most likely say: Really???? You're going to make me look like a breakfast buffet? Get this shit off of me NOW and get me a treat for my suffering!
By Benjamin Kissell
AKA: Fashion Failures at the Boarding Gates
What makes this Gay Heart Weep tears of Burberry tinted horror at the Boarding Gates? Why, looking up and seeing scads of shabbily, shoddily, scantily -clad passengers hoofing it past me.
Okay, I'm not the paragon of fashion perfection and I'm far from garbed in couture [Gap jeans, white-checked dress shirt from Old Navy, Mossimo blazer and my recently coloured hair], but even I respect the Old School Flying etiquette: Dress for appeal and comfort!
Think Bogart and Bacall, not Spears and Federline.
Arriving at Dulles Intl Airport (at 5:20 - 3 hrs before our flight) we exited the shuttle bus to a complete visual atrocity.
Never had my eyes been accosted with so many tired, greasy and gross combinations of sweats and track-pants. By the time I arrived at my Boarding Gate, 'twas all I could do not to physically cringe each time I saw a Hello Kitty XS tee on a 40something, paunchy Japanese man.
I all-but break out the giant sunglasses to hide behind.
Now, don't get me wrong; there are numerous fine examples of fabulous flying frocks all around me - the lovely woman in pressed white slacks with vintage paisley-patterned blouse.
Or the young man in designer jeans, RalphLauren polo and matching leather jacket and shoes.
And, ooh, the lovely gay couple who seem to be striving for 'Modern Family pilot' (complete with bearded redhead and Korean baby), they're rather adorable.
Yumm! As I type, a lovely 40something woman with blown-out blonde hair strolls by in a perfect combination of 50s hat, midi-trench, slim-fit slacks and heels. She? Got the memo!
Hrmm, the 50something balding Borgnine-type in a black sweater with rainbow fishscales? [The header photo of the article] Good attempt; you get a C for effort. Of course when you pair that with a pair of brown boots (the only colour NOT in said sweater) I must downgrade to a C-.
[Sidenote: for the woman who plopped down with a just-bought copy of Nicholas Sparks' The Choice, please pick up a copy of Stuff That Makes A Gay Heart Weep for its entry on that weepiest of authors.]
But you! Mister Tatty Track Pants, Grody Navy Flip-flops [because I wanna see your nasty green toenails? I think not] and Stained Black 1998 Red Hot Chili Peppers Tee and Oil-Slick-Survivor Cap? You? Oh 'sir' you merit my super-special GayHeartsWeep Fashion Card.
I present this award to you in deference to the extreme care and choosing you obviously went through in the 2 minutes you got dressed in the dark.
I thank you for this sight as it saves me the trouble of letting my stressed stomach roil on its own.
[Writer's Note: this blog was actually written while sitting at the Boarding Gate in Dulles, on 03/26/2011]