MetroFusion

New Year’s Eve was a long night in the making.

The evening commenced around 6:30 p.m. with dinner and drinks at Commissary. That was followed by two bottles of champagne at Miss Mona’s Aging Chicken Ranch, also known as lil‘ Rob’s house. Our next stop, sometime around 9 p.m., was a party at a friend’s condo.

At 10:30 p.m., it was time to make our way to our final destination, Town. Squirrel and I led the exodus, only to be among the very first to arrive. In fact, the upstairs part of the club hadn’t opened yet, but we were the first in line. We immediately hit the bar, picked up several party favors: a hat for me, a tiara for Squirrel, and a couple of noise makers. We hovered over the banister and honked at the masses making their way up the stairs. We took a couple of pictures together, made our way to the bar again, and then. … I was separated from the troop.

Earlier that day, I had the idea to create a calendar item on my phone and set a reminder for 2:00 a.m. The note on the reminder read: Send yourself home.

And I did.

Squirrel wishes he had followed my lead.

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Thanksgiving weekend. Shopping with Tinkerbell at Universal Gear in Logan Circle.

We both eye a Ben Sherman t-shirt. It’s red with several rows of guitars on it. There’s something very Austin-y about it and we both want it.

Tinkerbell can’t find his size. Fortunately there is one available in my size.

Unfortunately, Ben Sherman shirts tend to run a little small. I was concerned it was going to be too snug around the middle, so I flagged Tink to come to the fitting room.

He sat down in the chair adjacent to the full-length mirror in the hall. “What do you think?” I asked giving him a view of different profiles.

“Well,” he said slowly. “It’s aggressive.”

I left the store empty-handed.

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The holidays mean sober days are far and few between, especially when they flank the weekend. But I have been known to experience a moment of sobriety or two. This wasn’t one of them.

It was earlier this month, sometime between the office party and Christmas, that I found myself at JR’s. For one reason or another, I was alone and well past my third or fifth drink when I happened upon, “Ryan,” an acquaintance I met several months ago through Moulin Rouge. Maybe it was the spirit of the season or the distilled one in my hand, but something moved me to chat with him for a moment.

As we made small talk, our conversation drifted toward the subject of the Legal Eagle, my friend of a few years. The two went on a few dates after meeting at the last Martini Mayhem Party, but I never pictured a future for the two of them. I’ll just say they’re a different caliber of people. Unfortunately, Ryan lives in a perpetual state of delusion, believing he is many things he is not like witty, hot, and masculine. But I digress.

So, Ryan was sighing something about Legal Eagle while I was noticing that my drink was near empty. But just before I could extricate myself from this bore, Ryan observed, “It’s funny how I went from Legal Eagle to Daniel.”

“Who’s Daniel?” I loudly asked.

A booming voice echoed in my ear, “Who’s Daniel?!”

My first thought: Who the fuck is getting loud with me?

I had been leaning on a pub table, Ryan was to my left. When I lurched my head to the right I found a Floppy Haired Twink attached to the hip of a brunette Amazon at the other end of the table. God knows how long they’d been standing there.

Floppy Haired Twink stood silently, but the Amazon gesticulated frantically, “You should know that this is Daniel!”

No, this cunt just didn’t get grand with me. Did she?

I stood up straight and arched my back just enough to bring my chest just forward. I raised an eyebrow and puckered my lips.

My eyes darted back and forth between the Floppy Haired Twink and the crazed Amazon. “Hmpf. Well ain’t that nice.”

I put my elbows back on the table and focused on the Floppy Haired Twink. “Hello. I’m David.” And turned back to Ryan before either of them could say a word.

“So,” I continued, “How long have you been together?”

As soon as I felt the Amazon scamper off with the Floppy Haired Twink in tow, I told Ryan I needed another drink, leaving him with, “And please give my apologies to your boy. He seems nice. Tell him it would have been a pleasure to have met him properly.”

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This sounds like the start of an urban legend.

I recently heard about a woman named La-a. Now, how would you pronounce that? I think that many of us would understandably make the mistake of pronouncing her name as Lae, Laha, Lea, and so on.

Whenever her name was mispronounced, La-a would indignantly explain, “The dash is not silent! It’s Ladasha.”

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