This morning was rough. I didn’t do anything crazy last night, but I still woke up with an overwhelming sense of guilt.
I hate this feeling. This “morning after” bombardment of regret, grogginess, and the feeling that I am constantly making poor choices. As I sat on the edge of my bed this morning, I had so much anxiety rushing over me that I was on the verge of tears. I drink alcohol because I’m an extremely high-strung person. I enjoy the lack of control, but I regret it because of the same reason. I have no self-control when I drink. A week after my horrible accident, and I’m already back on the bottle. Goddamn it.
I took a deep breath. After pulling myself out of bed, I cleaned up my apartment, made a playlist for Natasha’s dad’s 60th birthday party tonight, packed my bag, and wrote out a plan for the day while heading to the gym. With barely a minute to spare, I did my thing and then messaged Phillip about the car. He had it at his place, and was supposed to bring it to the gym so I could take it up north for the day. Naturally, Phillip was MIA. When I finally heard from Phillip, he told me that he was going to be late because he was “hungry and hungover” – a.k.a. everyone under 30 on a Saturday morning.
An hour later, Phillip showed up with the car. I was fuming. Actually, that’s an understatement. I was in such a rush that I didn’t even wait for Phillip to pass through the nearest intersection. I ran to the car while he was parked at a red light, pulled him out, got in the driver’s seat, and took off. I was extremely pissed, and totally sounded off to Mom on my way home.
The fact that Phillip had the nerve to call me selfish last month is fucking rich. Something is up with him lately. Phillip was already on thin ice with me, but now he’s fallen through the cracks. Enough is enough. Half an hour after Phillip dropped off the car, he sent an apology text. I didn’t acknowledge it. Fuck that.
After a few hours of hectic errands around the sticks, I picked up some Harvey’s and then raced back to the Witch Cave while chowing down on pickles and sending pictures of them to that new Stefan guy. Kurty Tip: the way to a Polish man’s heart is through pickles.
Back at my apartment, I proceeded to shower, change, and then pick up booze as a gift for Natasha’s dad. I sat on a hot as fuck streetcar for almost an hour in black booty shorts and combat boots – an interesting look for a 60th birthday party, to say the least.
When I showed up at Natasha’s condo, I had no idea who any of her extremely sober relatives were. It was in this moment that I also realized I didn’t even know Natasha’s dad’s name. Someone mentioned something about a “Ricky.” When I asked who “Ricky” was, they all looked at me like I was even more of a Martian. My outfit took care of the initial glares.
“Oh, Ricky!” I said, trying to cover my tracks. “I call him Richard.”
I know nothing about Natasha’s family. After over 20 years of friendship, tonight was the first time I had ever attended an event like this for Natasha. Wow. I’m realizing now that tonight was a huge step in our relationship. This was big. This could have been bigger than meeting Konrad, actually.
As usual, I performed my standard “make the mom happy” bit, helping out in the kitchen and party room like the perfect daughter I am. Cleaning, picking up garbage, prepping food, etc. Mothers always seem to enjoy that kind of help. Straight guys, wake up! Actually, everyone wake up! You always want the mother-in-law to like you. If the mother likes you, everything else falls in line. Trust me, I would know. And Mom would certainly know what it’s like when the mother-in-law doesn’t like you. That is not a situation I ever want to find myself in. If getting – or staying – in the good book requires a quick wipe down of the kitchen countertop, so be it.
I wasn’t planning on it, but I ended up drinking quite a lot throughout the night. I started with beer, interluded by large glasses of water. Later, there would be wine. Eventually, Kate, Adam, and Emma showed up, so it was a nice little reunion.
Natasha wanted everyone to get really drunk tonight. She was extremely stressed about the party when I first arrived, and was running around like a crazy person. Having gone through the nightmare of planning and executing MOMENTS in March, I told Natasha that she needed to calm down and have a drink herself. That didn’t take much convincing.
Once everyone at the party had a glass in their hand, things felt a lot more relaxed. In fact, by the time speeches happened, Natasha was crying because she was getting so sentimental. I always think it’s so cute when she gets that way. I mean, it’s a fucking mess. However, it’s nice to know that Natasha truly values her relationships.
I’m jumping forward here for a minute.
While packing things up from the party room, Natasha was with all of us in her condo – which is really nice, by the way – and she was bawling her eyes out. Through heavy breaths, Natasha kept saying that the only things in life that truly matter are family and friends. It was so cute. That girl loathes getting older with a passion.
Anyway, back to the party.
Natasha’s Aunty Christie – the one she used to live with downtown – was fucking wasted tonight. Christie told me that she doesn’t like Natasha’s boyfriend, Konrad. This came after I confessed that I had never met the guy, to which Christie confirmed it was weird. Konrad wasn’t in attendance this evening, because of a cottage trip that he had planned months ago.
“Why don’t you like Konrad?” I asked Christie, trying to get the scoop.
“He’s very Newmarket,” she said, taking another sip of her Pinot Grigio.
“Say no more,” I responded.
I don’t know if I should tell Natasha what Christie said about Konrad. I’ll think on it for a bit.
My playlist was a hit. By the end of the night – after dinner, cake, champagne, and a little bit of wine chugging from the bottle – everyone was dancing with one another. Never in my life had I witnessed a family that drank like Natasha’s. It was refreshing to see, that’s for sure. I am the obvious – and only – alcoholic in my entire extended family. Nobody drinks like I do. It’s insane. Fuck. Oh, well.
Family stuff can always be weird, too. After one of Natasha’s relatives asked if I was her boyfriend, Natasha responded, “No, that’s my gay best friend!” Although Natasha’s answer was said lovingly, “gay best friend” wasn’t something I enjoyed being referred to after over 20 years of friendship.
“I have a name,” I said.
I knew Natasha was drunk, but that introduction was awkward for me. Now, these country bumpkins – who probably don’t know anything, or have a very limited view on gay people – have heard this from Natasha. Suddenly, I’ve become the “gay best friend,” and they’re automatically going to assume things that might not be true for everyone. We aren’t all characters from Queer as Folk, nor do we all act like Jack from Will & Grace. That’s the media representation I have. It’s a problem. Movies and television are slowly becoming more diverse, but who knows what they’re watching in Pleasantville.
I didn’t make a scene, but the whole thing bothered me. I won’t say anything to Natasha, because I know her statement didn’t come from a negative place. In fact, for Natasha to say something like that so casually leads me to believe that she didn’t even think about it. I don’t know.
After dancing to disco music with all of the ladies while the surly men watched the Olympics, the party came to a close. As I mentioned earlier, Natasha was crying in her condo. She wanted all of us – Kate, Adam, Emma, Nicky, and myself – to stay downtown for the night, because, “nothing is more important than family and friends.”
At this point, it was after 11 p.m. Poor Adam had stopped drinking so that he could be drive Kate and Emma home, but it looked like they were going to stay. I’m not sure what ended up happening. I had to put my foot down. At 11:30 p.m., I told Natasha I needed to leave. I jumped on a streetcar, and made my way home as fast as I could. I thought the party was only going until about 9 p.m. Boy, was I wrong.
Despite the amount I had to drink, I got to my apartment surprisingly sober. After grabbing all of my laundry, I drove up to Casa Z in less than 25 minutes. I hadn’t even taken my shoes off at home before I went into the kitchen and took a huge bite out of the chocolate weed sitting in the fridge. It was 1 a.m., but I figured I still had time to get high. The edible would eventually hit me. Sure enough, it did. As I was loading laundry into the machine, I stood up straight and instantly knew I was stoned. Edibles always catch me so off guard.
I wanted to make some Instagram videos tonight, but I was too tired to stay up. I also walked by a mirror while naked and caught sight of the extreme cellulite on the back of my thighs. I was so mortified that I almost walked to the top of the staircase and threw myself down to the basement. Fuck. I cannot believe how bad my body has gotten since the foot surgery.
I am going to fall asleep at any moment. Perhaps while writing this entry.
I think I have to go. Gonna pass out.
Goodnight xo
I love pickles. Harvey’s, Newmarket