Fey, Fi, Faux

Last weekend, I was invited to the moment I had been waiting for. The moment to sing the jingle of Army's tune into the ear of a good looking, sweet young man. And in his brain, that tune would be lodged -- gestating, vamping, tickling. And slowly it would grow on him until he realized what he could have with me. And then, we'd make sweet love... er... music together.

Of course, this young man was non other than Jay, my new boyfaux. Who happens to have a legitimate live-in boyfriend. Meh, details.

Rules of Engagement

Jay had invited Feyonce to a Christmas party at his place, and she was able to bring along a friend or significant other... or in our case, her signifauxcant other. It was my shot to size up Jay's boyf to see who this character is, what state of bliss (or discord) they shared, and how I could wreck it all with my charming ways. Yes, neo-conservative so-called Christians... this is truly the only gay agenda out there. And it doesn't concern you at all, so go fear things up elsewhere.

So Feyonce and I rocked out another party before hitting this all-important one. And like any Army, I needed to devise specific rules of engagement:

Rule #1: Make sure I get on Jay's radar.

Rule #2: Employ defense mechanisms when necessary. For instance, it was imperative going into this knowing that his boyf was quite inferior to me. Their relationship had to be in shambles.

Rule #3: Lots of ammunition. You can't win the offensive without being loaded. Inhibitions slide, your guard is down, and maybe some action is seen.

Rules in mind, we get to Jay's apartment complex, and basically everything is covered in ice. No salt in the parking lot, on the sidewalks, or anything. So we're sliding our way to his door, when we encounter the frozen steps from Home Alone. And no railing to grab hold of. So Feyonce and I are crawling up the steps, praying we don't land jaw first on concrete, cracking up the whole way there.

Let The Games Begin

We make it alive and Jay greets us at the door. He looks adorable in his collared shirt and sweater. Jay makes the introductions to the seven other people there (one of whom I knew already), and I spot the boyf. The enemy. The distraction. And he's well, kinda cute. But somewhat of a stereotype. Little bitchy. Little sassy. In my unbiased opinion, I think Jay could do much better.

I crack open a Guinness. And out comes the dreidel. For a drinking game. I felt a bit at ease that a Jew was in the group, like it was kosher and all. And thankfully, Jews don't believe in Hell. Let's just say that "Gimel" meant everyone drank. I forgot the rest. I was focused on making eye contact with Jay whenever it was appropriate. My message was subliminal, an unconscious code.

Jewish Girl mentioned something about Yiddish, and I commented that Feyonce and I were beschert (meant to be). We laughed about that for a while. I broke out a few other choice Yiddish words I knew from my viewings of Seinfeld and Sex and the City. My mis-education.

Then came the wine. First red. Then white. Then more white. And then things loosened up. We played some other game that didn't work out too well. I was certainly feeling tipsy. I kept hitting the food like it was nobody's business. The pepperoni, cheeses, spicy pigs in a blanket, cookies, et al. -- I was Bogarting the buffet every bit as much as I was "Beau-guarding" the boyfaux.

As a subplot, Feyonce was interested in one of the other attendees. She, too, had gone into the evening with some intentions to reconnoiter this gentleman. We both made sure to dress as dapper and smart as we could. A couple of sexy fauxances ready to divide and conquer our men. I had my Jay. She had her Billfriend. He seemed like a cool guy. Feyonce confesses to liking slightly nerdy guys, and he fit the bill. Literally.

Now the rest of the evening is pretty much blanketed with some of the most bizarre things I've ever said. And sadly I have forgotten most of them. So I'll attempt to recreate the few I recall with the following vignettes:


Jay: "I want to sing karaoke, Feyonce."
Army: "What would you sing?"
Jay: "Something from the ballad genre."
Army: "You can't sing a genre, you have to give us actual song names!"
Fey: "Whoa now, Fauxance. Well what would yours be?"
Jay: "Yeah?"
Army: "Love Shack and Grace Kelly by MIKA!" (a bit too self-satisfied)


To Feyonce: "Yuck. I'm burping gross weenies."


Not a specific quote, but I used the words fabulash and luscious way too much. Sometimes luscious meant "tasty" or "excellent." Other times, it meant "drunk."


So the short of it was, I got sauced, and then I got saucy. I ended up doing this dance in the kitchen as Jay air-conducted to the marching band music that was playing. It was as if we were both vying for Feyonce's attention... but we didn't know it at the time. She had to keep sober because I had imbibed a bit too much of the wine. So much for my gay agenda.

In all, it was a great evening. I enjoyed the group's company, I got to interact with Jay and the boyf, and have more fun with my Feyonce. I felt better knowing the boyf had some flaws, and it actually made me move on a little. Thankfully when I'm wined up, I don't become a depressed boozy old fairy.

Driving Miss Hazy

So the night ended with me scooting down the Home Alone steps and then "walking" with my hands and sliding on my feet across the ice rink. Thankfully, Feyonce drives manual. I gave her mild sass for stalling Andrew right away, to which she deftly replied, "the drunk person cannot criticize my driving." Touche.

I crashed at her place and woke up at 5:43 a.m. to record the details that eventually became this entry. In the background, freezing rain was pounding on the house, encasing my car in a shell, and creating a new layer of danger to the world. But I had no hangover. Nor did I have any hang-ups about my boyfaux sleeping with another man.

Margaritas En Masse

If the term en masse is defined as "in a single body or group," then the powerful potion I imbibed on Friday was contained in my single body. And by powerful potion, I mean the 26 oz. salt-rimmed frozen mug kind.

It was my Friday "girls" night out with the Lovebrarian and my humor twin Watson. First stop was authenticate Mexican (for the Midwest) and a little love potion #9 - the frozen margarita. Or in my case, the sleep potion. Tequila is my slow-acting roofie. Guess I drugged myself. Bad rule of thumb if you plan to take advantage of yourself.

Not that I was planning on such a thing...

Anywho, Watson heard about this free Christmas concert going on that evening and thought it would be interesting for us to attend. It took place in a Catholic church, which is generally a no-fly zone for yours truly, but to be honest, I was desperate for a blog entry. What a "writer" will do for some good material!

Little should I have known the clue in the title... it was a Christmas concert alright. In a beautiful church. Where the congregation was so stoic, I thought it may have been a funeral. At a cemetery.

I can only imagine that I wasn't struck by lightning because my thoughts were too clouded. I confess: I may or may have not been tipsy. In a church. My margaritas en masse had become margaritas in Mass. And my head was swimming in a dazed haze, crawling through the strange passage of time, set to the sleepy backdrop of stoic caroling and chanting. If being boozy in church is bad form, then being dozy is just plain uncouth. I slipped in and out of consciousness. My powers were useless against them.

I don't know how the hell long we were there, but at one point, Watson, who was noticeably uncomfortable for us the whole time, said we should roll. And roll we did. She felt bad, being the only religious one of our trio, because the concert was a joy-bust. But hey, how would she have known? It wasn't her usual church.

After the spell broke, I did come away with a few thoughts. No more tequila for me. I passed out by 9:00 p.m. Bad news bears. And secondly, it was reaffirmed that I truly do not understand organized religion. I get that it moves people and provides meaning and inspiration. I can see how it lifts up others. But it just doesn't do anything for me... even when I've had a few.

Then again, maybe this visit wasn't the best example of a dry run (in more ways than one!).

Things That Were Said

Army: "I don't know, there's just something about a jockstrap that I find... creepy. (Pause) I'm not sure why... I have to get to the bottom of it."

B-Dub: "There is no bottom of it!"


Army: "There's just something about long hair on a guy that I find unattractive. Cut it short already! Long hair is for girls!"

Mamabean: "I think he's hot either way."

Army: "Oh c'mon! That's not even a hairdo... it's a herdo."


Mamabean: "I'll make the general's chicken and you can bring over some eggrolls."

Army: "Deal. Should I also bring over some pot tea?"

Mamabean: "Um, pot tea?"

Army: "Yeah, that was supposed to be hot tea, but who knows after today. (stops to ponder) Can you even make tea from marijuana?"

Lil' known fact to me: Actually, you can.