Stuff That Makes A Gay Heart Weep

ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE DAYS

"Single by choice ... well, not mine, but, someone's"

 

 

Benjamin Kissell

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.

 

Healthy coping mechanism? Why, you bet’cha!

 

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.

I may have spent the better part of the evening reading fantastically funny blogs, twitter-feeds and watching youtube … with some wine paired beautifully.

....

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.

YOU CAN GO AARP YOURSELF

"I swear, you don't look a day over 40"

"I'm 27, bitch."

"I know."

 

Benjamin Kissell

Nothing can quite make a gay heart weep tarantula-mascara track tears down the face quite like that lovely conversation where – after choking on your coffee [or chocolate-laced late lunch martini] – you admit to your impending birthday and actual age.

[True, nothing is quite as terror/fight-or-flight inducing as admitting your real weight in public – not the one you tell dates in hopes they’ll buy it, but the one your doctor reads off as you have a small heart attack standing half-nude on that scale in her office. Wait, is that just me?]

Can you picture it? My best friend Nate and I sitting at a quiet bistro table [okay, a cramped booth at O’Charley’s] discussing the impending doom of 2012. Not the whole Mayan End-of-All-Things bullshit,

No. The unavoidable.

The non-negotiable.

The hunt-you-down-ness.

This summer I turn 29. That’s practically 30. And, as well all know, 30 – in gay terms – is washed-up. Dead. Finito.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I personally don’t hold [much] to this way of thinking. But, the finality of that number still scares the shit out of me.

 

30.

 

My 20s are on a hit-list and the big 3-0 is gunning them down.

In theory I really don’t have trouble with aging – as my Mum says, ‘It beats the Hell out of the alternative’, and she’s right. For other people. In theory.

Of course, I slug back the rest of this delicious chocolate martini to calm my nerves.

This sprang up and smacked me fully in the face when, offhandedly, I mentioned that my family’s vacation ends 2 days before my birthday this summer. 2 days before my 29^th birthday. I may have stuttered, spluttered and felt the need to fetch the smelling salts.

When I regained my breath and double-check there are no giant teary-mascara tracks, I resume my chat with Nate.

I guess you could call this a “lush lunch”.

 

"we're not laughing at you ... well, we are, but, get over it"

 

How did I get to feeling better?

This may sound a tad petty and … well … you wouldn’t be too far off the mark. Nate pointed out how I had hit my prime in my early 20s and was holding nicely. [Whereas he is still en route to his prime, the lucky sod.] I look better – to me – at 28, pushing 29 than I did at 21.

Well, except I had a washboard stomach at 21.Okay, so, I look better clothed at almost-29 than I did at 21. I can live with this.

To top it off, and to make ourselves feel a little more secure in our own aging, we compared how a few of our exes were faring in the same boat. [Catty and more than a little petty, I know.]

 

..................

 

Denny hit his prime at 18 and by 22 was already thin-haired and yo-yo dieting.  

Mitch was balding by 23 and, at 29, no longer sported the trim frame from his Navy days; a heavy diet of ‘the munchies’ and beer didn’t help.

Stewie? Well, he’s still a skinny-scrawny twink, but, the heavy smoking and occasional drug-use have left a Lindsay Lohan patina on him by 24. So not sexy.

And Robert, who had been the most charismatic skater/twink/sexy-gogo guy either of us had known – he oozed charisma and sexuality from his very pores as long as either of us had known him – well? Now, at almost-31 he had lost the battle of the bulge; his always-fine blond hair was becoming a thing of the past and, despite still having personality-charisma, he was far from the sex-god desirable he was even two years past.

..................

 

Small wonder admitting my 29^th birthday this summer scared the fuck out of me.

Nate snapped me out of my reverie, “Ben, I wouldn’t be surprised if ten years down the road you were looking at collagen and botox.”

How did he know? I mean, I’m a little vain – I shall pause to let you recover your breath from that laugh-attack, thank you – but, am I that vain?

Who does he think I am? Heidi Montag [inserted pseudo-timely celebrity riff]?

Admittedly, while Christmas shopping with friend in Victoria’s Secret I ogled the plumping lip-gloss [which was summarily pushed out of my hand]. So, maybe I am kinda that insecure about this whole aging thing. But, I promise – with all that’s in my little black heart – I shan’t resort to botox. I pinky promise.

not an actual photo of me, but, pretty close to my scorn-y laugh

For one thing, I like making scornful eyebrow quirks too much [and have had crow’s feet and mild forehead wrinkles since my teens] to botox them away.

And suddenly the voices of Bea Arthur and Angela Lansbury pop into my head singing that wonderful song from Mame, Bosom Buddies.

Vera:
Tho’ now and again I’m aware that my candid opinion may sting,
Mame:
Tho’ often my frank observation may scald; I’ve been meanin’ to tell you for years, you should keep your hair natural like mine.
Vera:
If I kept my hair natural like yours, I’d be bald
…
Mame:
I feel it’s my duty to tell you it’s time to adjust to your age: You try to be “Peg O’My Heart”, when you’re “Lady Macbeth”. Exactly how old are you, Vera? The truth!
Vera:
Well, how old do you think?
Mame:
I’d say somewhere in between forty – and death!

Shake it off, Benjamin.

No. Diet and exercise. And hair dye. And the occasional trip to the waxer. And flattering clothes. These shall be my allies in the war on aging.

Now, who’s buying me an early birthday present?

Cheap Wine For Passover

Never serve your Jewish gay heart cheap wine for Passover, the weeping will be worse than a yenta not knowing how the story ended! Happy Passover (Pesach) everyone! Bring on the brisket, charoset, and macaroons!

Horrible Hangovers

 
The New Years Eve non-stop Cosmos, Patron Tequila shots, Purple Hooters, Boilermakers, and Dom Perignon champagne seemed like a good idea at the time but hours later the hungover gay heart weeps while bowing down to the porcelain gods vowing never to drink like that again...at least for a few days anyway.  

Be wary of random hangover advice, eating Heuvos Rancheros at a greasy diner to absorb the alcohol will not make you feel better. Check out the Huf Post's 10 Hangover Cures and Cons.

Cheap Champagne

 
Happy New Years Eve! May your gay heart not have to weep if you are poured a glass of cheap-ass $4.00 champagne. And if you are weeping because all you can afford is cheap-ass $4.00 champage, my new years wish is you have enough left to buy some orange juice to kill the taste.

 

Lumpy Gravy At Thanksgiving Dinner

As gay hearts gather together with friends and family, major weeping tantrums often occur in the kitchen as a team of no less than five people attempt to keep the Thanksgiving gravy from looking like river mud. I've saved many Turkey Day dinners becoming the Gravy Master, using the skills that grandma taught me. Of course today we have Youtube and Food Network to save us from weepy gravy disasters.

Flavored Water

For those of us who don't drink soda, this shit is like crack. Yeah, the regular is full of sugar and the diet has sucralose, but that's not why we weep. Gay hearts weep because they realize they just paid a buck fifty for 20 oz of Kool Aid.