Sunday, January 01, 2006

amateur night...

I had a crappy day on Friday. Just a gross, unhappy, shitty day that culminated in a solo 1am death march through a monsoon from Beauty Bar to my house. I crawled in bed and cried, my day was that bad. So I awoke yesterday with a profound distaste for the New Year, much less the required celebrating of it. Zoe was off with Richard, Andy was busy with some boy toy, and Alex and Co. were going to the godforsaken Union Street.
I had three options last night. My favorite straight, Darren, was throwing his annual New Year’s Without The Hype Party, Man on the Inside was having a soiree for which cocktail attire was required, and Dale was having yet another gay extravaganza at his pad in the Castro. After bemoaning my life to Darren and Berkeleyist, I made up my mind. I’d swing by Man on the Inside’s for a drink and commit to spending the bulk of the evening at the pressure-free, kiss-a-drag-queen-at-midnight homo fest.
I put on my cocktail attire.
Now, if there is one thing that could life my spirits, it’s getting dressed. And after the Christmas windfall, I’ve got some new clothes to debut. As I have a mere 2 New Year’s resolutions, (dress more fashion forward and have sex with a celebrity) I’ve discovered a fast track to achieving one of them on any occasion. Before getting dressed, I flip through an array of high end fashion magazines, suddenly inspired to don the huge colorful African necklace, pitch black smoky eye make-up and steel-heeled stilettos.
Who wants to look like everyone else? Certainly not I.
Standing in front of the mirror all done up, I instantly felt better. “I can do this.” I thought to myself. “I can walk into Man on the Inside’s party totally alone in a huge African necklace and people will find me interesting and brave.”
I finished my glass of wine and headed out the door. As if a sign from God, I found parking 3 steps from MOI’s front door. I gathered my coat, my clutch and my courage and opened the door. There’s stood MOI, whiskey in hand, dressed in a near-flawless pinstripe suit.
“There she is!” He screamed. “Let me take your coat and get you a drink. You want wine, right? Uh, what’s that around your neck? Candy?”
Goodbye coat. Goodbye clutch. Goodbye courage.
I walked down the hall to the kitchen, finding Kate’s old roommate, May surrounded by drunken, tattooed strangers. “Holy shit! Beth! Tell us a joke! Oh my god, this is the funniest girl! Come on! Tell us a joke!”
“Hello, May. It’s lovely to see you too.”
I was introduced to the tattooed strangers, one of whom shook my hand with the charming, “I’m trashed“ and once again, informed I must immediately perform some kind of vaudeville act while May loudly built me up as non-stop party hilarity in between her shots of Jameson’s.
I figured, Fuck it, and told a wildly racist and elitist joke which I will not repeat here.
May and the tattooed strangers stared at me. And then, to my immense relief, began laughing like there was no tomorrow. “Ha ha ha ha! And oh my god, I love your necklace!”
Much like Whitney Houston, I exhaled.
Then I found Joey. Joey is the nicest, sweetest, can’t-say-a-bad-word-about-anyone frat boy you’ll ever meet. I was thrilled Joey was there, thrilled MOI was opening a bottle of Chardonnay and thrilled I wasn’t in complete and utter hell. I was actually having fun and went to find my digital camera amidst a pile of coats on MOI’s bed. It is at this point, tragedy struck. Some time between downloading my photos from the previous post to last night, and I have no idea when this time was, my digital camera became irrevocably broken.
I love that little camera. I love it a lot. And I was pissed. But there was nothing I could do. I got myself another glass of wine, ate a lettuce wrap and listened to MOI’s diatribe about Project Runway.
“Are you going to your other party or are you staying?” MOI asked me at 11pm. “Are you okay to drive?”
“Um, I don’t know. I can‘t decide.”
“You should stay for the all important ball dropping.”
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
I kissed Joey at midnight, laughed for another hour and said my goodbyes. Screw the homo holiday. I was going home. MOI graciously walked me to my car, gave me a bottle of water and saw me off. I began my evening dateless and dejected, and left with my spirits mildly rising.
I’m not the biggest fan of New Year’s Eve. And certainly not a fan of my brother and his crew banging on my door at 3am in search of sleep. But having kicked them out by 10, had my first coffee of 2006 and come to terms with my broken camera, I’m feeling better about this new year and this new necklace…


madspork said...

Buck up kiddo. As our cabbie said last night "its gona be all green lights this year!"

Nihilistic said...

Sleep with a celebrity eh? I hope its not Don Riggles your planning on!

wokpefjl said...

Happy New Year, Beth!!!

Spots said...

Nope, but I'm glad you asked. Here is my Top 5 Celebrities With Whom My Bedding Will Fulfill My New Year's Resolution:

5. Eric Bana (recent events have prompted the removal of Vince Vaughn and addition of Eric Bana in hottly contested spot #5.)
4. Will Arnett (is a genius.)
3. Hugh Grant (officially the best dressed man alive. Also, I have a thing for womanizing assholes, although I prefer the term "cad".)
2. Michael Madsen (circa 1991, if possible.)
1. George Clooney (Now and forever.)

In addition to sleeping with any or all of them, I'd also like to throw a fabulous dinner party with my Top 5, where we'd all sit around drinking spectacular wine and they'd regale my friends and I with insider Hollywood stories and witty repartee...