"Sweetie, I promise; after we people-watch - and I finish my lingonberry martini - Mommy will pick you up a nice Lewenhaupt on the way out."
"But Mom, will it match my Hastfer-Bielke?"
What makes a gay heart weep like the insanity brought on by cheaply-made/vastly-reduced Swedish furniture and the nutcases it attracts? I don't know, but, let's NOT fill me in, okay? I've seen enough to last several lifetimes.
[Just because your tee sports the Gold's Gym name and logo front and center, it doesn't automatically make you skinny. Especially when it's at least 2 sizes too small. A muffin-top isn't thin, even when you call it low-cal.]
My friends John and Mike - an adorable couple who nearly give me diabetes they're so sweetly cute together [seriously, if I ever get half as happy in a relationship as they are? I've done it right] - asked me to meet them [read: bribed me with lunch] at IKEA while they bought a few things.
After getting lost trusting GoogleMaps AND the friggin' signs [seriously, how shittily must you label your roads Northern VA?] I went with my gut and classic Ooh-I-sorta-recognize-these-landmarks to make it there.
[You'd think I couldn't get lost taking the straight-shot to a GINORMOUS mall and IKEA; you'd also think I wasn't screaming at every assclap on the road, but, then, you'd be wrong.]
Despite getting lost, I beat the boys there - how the hell? - and waited for them in the everything-lingonberry cafeteria. And despite my sitting ASFARAWAYFROMEVERYONEASFUCKINGPOSSIBLE I was quickly surrounded by cheerful families and bitterly nursing my very-obviously-75cents-burned-coffee.
Glaring and hating the perky people who'd suddenly surrounded me. Despite my love of all-things-possibly-bought here [and a compulsive-shopping form of OCD] I'm always in a bad mood at IKEA.
They found me 10minutes later and, somehow, soon had me laughing [have I mentioned how much I love these two? Because I do].
Much oohing and awing occured (including my awwing over how cute John and Mike are together - seriously, we're talking toothache level of sweet here, people) and we'd soon circled the whole of the place picking up damn-near-everything as we trailed the main floors.
[So many good deals, hideous outfits and how-I-want-to-punch-them-Hipsters float around an IKEA, you'd think it's their spawning grounds]
Despite coming with a specific set of shopping goals.
And spending limits.
While I watch these two friends of mine - and resist the urge to fling the inordinately ugly umlauted-name-tauting hideous whatever-the-hell-it-is into the nearest speaker screeching Lady Gaga [seriously, IKEA?] - I think back on my last two trips here.
"Ooh, look - I can see my house from up here."
"Dude, you can see the curvature of the earth from up here."
In 2006 I visited the church of all-things-Swede with my then-boyfriend, Patrick (a chef), and we did the rounds of the main floor - canoodling, holding hands and being that nauseatingly-cute couple everyone (including me) hates. Focusing on the various kitchens we contemplated just what types of appliances and layouts really struck us.
[Being 23 and 19, we really had no business looking at a future like that - looking back.]
I mean, I loved leaning against my almost-pocket-gay boyfriend for stolen kisses while we judged [harshly] the butcher-block tiered-kitchen-island in one layout. But, picturing a future together after only a month and a half of dating? WTF? He laughed and smiled at all the right moments, but, was reserved when my glance fell away. I should have seen the writing on the wall.
[Read: not have been such a complete dumbass.]
Cut to a week later, he went on vacation with his family.
A week after that? I received a Dear John Letter via myspace e-mail.
Not learning the perils of IKEA on my fragile relationships, I went back in 2007 with my new (and-probably-rebound) boyfriend [okay, everyone sees it coming, right?] Andrew. Together only a few weeks we both needed to pick up a few things from our friendly neighborhood (okay, 25miles away) IKEA.
My obsessive-compulsive shopping - which some have commented borders on lunatic - dragged us all over each of the floors, picking up various items we had no need (or want) of. Of course, I commented on how cute the giant bed with 50s vintage room-set would be if we got an apartment down the road.
[Stupid. Stupid. Stupid me.]
Less than a week later, in preparations for a matching Hallowe'en couple's costume Andrew says he's busy.
And doesn't call me back the next day. Or the day after. Or the week after.
Oh, IKEA, your Banshee wail calls out the death of my relationships.
Of course, most would argue those relationships were doomed and IKEA just helped speed them up. I call those people busy-bodies who need to shut the ... I mean, friends.
As we exit with the LED under-bed lights John and Mike came for in tow - shopping victory I say! - I mumble to myself: True, IKEA seems to hasten my relationships' demises - as it brings out more of my neurotic and rather bitchier sides - but, it isn't my enemy.
As I walk with my friends, and watch their adorable banter [again, so friggin' cute, these two], I know they're in no danger of falling victim to my IKEA-year itch.
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.
...and so is cheap-ass candy hearts that taste like chalk.
Only if it comes with razor blades.
Probably not a good idea.
If your lover loves beer, they will probably hit you with this one.
Even as a joke this is the fastest way not to get sex on VD.
Hooter's wings on Valentine's = Break Up
It sprays poisonous gas too.
The pink gun supporting Breast Cancer may seem like a good idea to make your Valentine swoon, but when she aims it at your balls, you'll regret not going with your first instinct: anything from the jewelry store.
I don't even know what to say... my gay heart is weeping uncontrollable mulitple orgasms over this shocking news. A gay man going 29 years with no sex? I would have died after the first 6 months. He says that even though he's not had sexy time in 29 years, he is no barren wasteland! Hopefully this means he's not including masturbating as "sex" and Tim is getting plenty of hot action by himself with online porn!
Here's the story from HuffPo:
Tim Gunn has made no secret of his long-term celibacy. But the style guru's intimate revelation on the Jan. 24 episode of "The Revolution," ABC's new health and lifestyle program which he co-hosts, came as a surprise regardless.
"I haven’t had sex in 29 years," Gunn confessed during Tuesday’s show, which focused on how to improve your sex life. "Do I feel like less of a person because of it? No, not even remotely."
Nonetheless, the openly gay "Project Runway" mentor added, "It's not as though I'm some barren forest."
When pressed, however, a visibly emotional Gunn said his nearly three-decade-long dry spell had been brought on by a previous relationship. "He was impatient with my sexual performance...it was at the cusp of AIDS [and] I’m happy to be healthy and alive, frankly."
By Benjamin Kissell
Nothing makes a Gay Heart weep tears of embarassed frustration quite like getting into a cell-phone or Facebook war with an ex.
Instant social outlets like Myspace, Facebook, Twitter and our cell-phones have added a new dimension to the Ex-games.
For example, after deleting that asshole ex [bias] from your cell his "unidentified number" repeatedly pops up, causing you to mistakenly answer - or, G*D forbid, momentarily to act civil. Or when perusing your friends' pages on Facebook [yes, we all FacebookStalk, own up to it boys and girls] you see his photos with his "OMG sooo cute" new boyfriend [gag me]. When this happens, Gay Hearts enter what is affectionately known as the "Cell[phone] Block Tango" (where each of you tries to maneuver around and be the first to block and/or delete all knowledge of the other).
When chatting with my friend Andrew yesterday I realized that I have my own Cell[phone] Block Tango [so named from the Cell Block Tango in Chicago, gays and girls] while I was listing off a few of the people I had actually gone so far as to block and whose names are stored as "Ignore" in my cell, from the last 10 years of dating.
The loud snort as I sang "Pop/Six/Squish/UhUh/Cicero/Lipschitz" was possibly heard 'round the world.
In the promise of honesty and love [promise not to judge me too harshly and forgive the Chicago-themed phrasing], here is a version of my own Cell[phone] Block Tango ...
He had it coming. He had it coming. He only had himself to blame. If you'd have been there; If you'd have read it, I bet'cha you would have done the same.
#Bop. You know how some people have some annoying habits? Well, while dating Alvin he sat on the couch all the time. He liked to fart - no, not fart, light his farts on fire. I told him, 'Do that one more time ...' and he did. So, I took the mouse over on Myspace and I clicked 2 warning shots; onto his profile - blocked and reported it.
... I bet'cha you would've done the same.
#Slick. I met AssCole, from Richmond City about a year ago, and he told me he was single and we hit it off right away. So I helped him find an apartment and move. Things were going swimmingly, dinner and flirts. It was like Heaven in one and a half counties. Then he told me he wanted to stay single. Heh. Single my ass. Dating 4 different guys on dating sites. So, that night, when I saw him online ... you know, some profiles just can't hold off a virus.
... he had it coming, he had it coming all the time.
#Swish. I'm sitting there, at the computer minding my own business, and online storms a 20-something drama queen I barely know who starts Facebook IMing me in a jealous rage that I'm ignoring him. He's crazy and keeps IMing that I'm screwing with his head. And then he ran into my block button. He ran into my block button 3 times [Facebook and the 2 dating sites].
... if you'd have been there, if you'd have seen it?
#NuhUh. Хуяк! Хуя нахуевертили! Хули нахуй, хуилы, нахуярили дохуя хуецкой хуевины? Охуели нахуй, хуеплеты хуевы? Нехуй хуевничать, расхуяривайте нахуй хуетень! Aleksander. Ёб твою мать. But, did I block him? NuhUh. I BLEEPING blocked him.
#Sissy'ho. My roommate and I were dating a pair of friends. One night we were all hanging out, boozing and having a few laughs when we ran out of material and my roommate and I went home. The next morning I wake up to a text-message where my marine had texted me Number 2: a Dear John. Apparently he and several of his friends were doing the Spread Eagle. I completely blacked out, I mean, it wasn't until later when I was deleting every photo of us off the computer that I even realized it was over.
... I didn't do it, but if I'd done it, how could you tell me I was wrong?
#Flippant. I enjoyed talking with Shane, more than I can say. But he was a real artistic guy: sensitive, a drinker. But he was troubled, he was always trying to find ways to break down my spirit. Along the way he bruised my ego and attacked my accent. I guess you could say I blocked him because of artistic differences: He saw himself as human, and I saw him as scum.
... the dirty bum, bum, bum ...
If only they had let it air.... Nothing better than watching straight men makeout after too many beers! And number 28 has a hot ass.
While claiming the commerical was not up to standards, CBS released the following statement in regards to the ban: "After reviewing the ad - which is entirely commercial in nature - our Standards and Practices department decided not to accept this particular spot. As always, we are open to working with the client on alternative submissions."
Whatev CBS. Chicken shits.