Life's what you make it, indeed.
Well, I'm back.
By last Friday, even I couldn't stand being me. I'm working ridiculous hours (I mean it's only furniture, fer chrissakes!) and when I'm not working I'm moping around, or trying to project manage all the ills of the world I've been presented.
I give up.
By Saturday, I'd come to see the humor in my situation. I was clearly being tested. When it looked like things couldn't get much more bleak, a simple jest of God snapped me out of my doldrums. I won't discuss it here; never the less, here I am.
Friday, after a full week of maniacally trying to save the world, Tim fixed me dinner. I had two Martinis before hand, and we polished off a bottle of wine during dinner. After dinner we tried some awful pear-flavored crap that someone had gifted us with. It was definitely not Poire William, and I tossed mine into the sink. It's the time of year when the apres-dinner drinks assortment has dwindled down to a pitiful selection. Instead I opted for a couple of fingers of scotch. Mistake. As Sebastian Flyte might say, the wines were too various. I woke up on the sofa at 3:49 with a splitting headache. I crawled into bed, and when I woke many hours later, it felt like my brain was scarred.
I kept a rather low profile during the following day. Tim and I subwayed up to 86th Street and wandered down Madison Avenue at dusk, window shopping. We got back on the train at 59th Street, and heading home for some hair of the dog. I fixed a couple of Manhattans for us, and following the advice of a fellow blogger, cranked up the stereo and sang along at the top of my lungs. Of course, I don't think he had the Ronettes, Darlene Love and the rest of the Phil Spector oeuvre in mind, but it worked somewhat for me. We headed out for a quiet neighborhood dinner.
After dinner, we wandered across the street to Dick's Bar. I know. Usually at that hour there's maybe 4 people there falling off their stools. We like to visit the bartender, Carmine, who just won the prestigious Mr. Metrobear sash. I know. Instead we were delightfully greeted by Gregg, Erik and Liam, who were there to check out that new event, Bear Cave. I know. If you were out over the Halloween weekend you might have seen the three of them dressed as Pigs. As we were clearly the only bear-types and more importantly patrons there, we decided it was time to move on.
A mini-crawl ensued...including visits to Urge, The Cock and of course The Phoenix.
I woke up in much better shape the next morning...never mix, never worry. Hit the gym for a couple of hours and went to the Dugout. Some gentleman was insistent that we'd been having major chats on Bear 411. Um, no. And he definitely needed to take pictures of my beard. I was a bit more gracious about that. Met some new fellas and hung out with some old buds. I had fun, dammit.
I woke up on Monday morning like a character in a 1930's horor movie after the vampire's been laid to rest. The air had cleared and there seemed to be blood coursing creakily through my veins again.
I have some major issues that need to be addressed, but you what? I think I can handle them.