mister, mister and one drunk santa

Round about 8 p.m. on Saturday, when my tacky sweater Christmas party was set to begin, I was sitting in my apartment alone in a snowman cardigan drinking a beer and fielding text messages and phone calls left and right from everyone in the western hemisphere to let me know they couldn't make it to the party. Everyone. In the whole hemisphere. Even people who weren't invited. And people I didn't know. And probably people in other hemispheres, too.

Eventually I took off the snowman sweater because, frankly, it felt like a step down the path to alcoholism to drink alone in your house on a Saturday night in a holiday themed outfit. While watching "Invasion of the Christmas Lights" on TLC. And eating rotel straight from the crockpot.

You'll be relieved to know that around 9:30 people did show up, the sweater went back on and the party got started. Only four people actually wore Christmas-themed outfits, but frankly by the time they showed up I was half in the can anyway. As it got later and the festivities were dissipating a bit, a few of us decided to head down to Cooper Young and hit up a bar. This was under the auspices of "picking up guys," but we could not have known at the time that the male population in the Young Avenue Deli that night was 70 percent toothless rednecks, 29 percent guys happily goo-gahing at their girlfriends enough to make you want to gag yourself on a long-neck bottle, and 1 percent Drunk Santa Claus.

Yes, Drunk Santa. He almost got into a fight with one of the toothless rednecks.

Anywho, we go to the Deli, we're drinking our beer and snacking from a bag of Doritos that had been stealthily rolled down and shoved into an open purse (we had Kristen to think for that, Kristen who also shot video of Drunk Santa following his near-brawl with Cleetus the Slack Jawed Yokel). Next thing I know, my phone buzzes. It's a text message.

From Mr. November.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I had texted him earlier in the evening. But only because he'd texted me the night before. Do I sound like a five-year-old yet? MOMMY, HE'S LOOKING AT ME.

So I'd texted him earlier, because, and here I go again with the full disclosure, I thought he might have some information on the recent dissappearance of Mr. Whoops. If you haven't put the pieces together on THAT situation yet, well, I think you might be beyond help. Anywho, in that series of texts he tells me that, SURPRISE!, Mr. Whoops is there with him. Instantly, I'm fairly embarrassed because a.) I don't know how much of this texting he's shared with Mr. Whoops; b.) I'm now acutely aware of the fact that I am texting Mr. November ABOUT Mr. Whoops and just the very unbelievable ridiculousness of the whole thing; c.) if Mr. Whoops is aware of the texting then I may have just landed myself securely in the THIS BITCH IS CRAZY category. I speak from experience, no matter how sane you are, it's quite difficult to wriggle your way out of that one.

So instantly, when he tells me this, I cut my losses. I figure, well, that's about all I've heard from him. I text back for them to have fun. I leave it alone.

So imagine my surprise when a few hours later, that phone is a-buzzing. And it's Mr. November. And what he wants to tell me at almost 2 in the morning is really not too shocking -- use your imagination. As I'm reading the text, literally seconds after I open my phone to look at it, I'm interrupted by an incoming call. It's him. And since I'm really not all that drunk at this point, I decide it's safe to answer.

Hindsight: 20/20. ERROR.

I go outside. We talk. First about the topic of his text message. Then about what happened. The big disastrous thing that happened between us. Some 15 minutes later my phone is dying, and I tell him I'm going to have to go or it's going to die on me. We keep talking for a minute more, and I tell him again, my phone is dying. We have to finish this conversation another time. He hangs up.

Naturally, when I got off the phone I felt a fairly volatile mix of emotions. Do I miss Mr. November? Yes. Absolutely. Did I think he would ever speak to me again? No, I didn't. Did I pursue something with Mr. Whoops because I felt like there was a connection between us? Was that the wrong thing to do? Do I regret it? Yes, yes and yeah, now I do. Now, because it seems like I was wrong. And maybe my perception of the situation was entirely wrong. And maybe I messed up something pretty good for something fleeting.

Fuuuuuuck.

Meanwhile? There's Mr. Barely Legal. New character? What? CAN YOU STAND THE EXCITEMENT!? Well, hold on to your pants. Who knows how long this one will last. Because when I say Barely Legal, I mean 21. And so young. Just so, so young. Stefanie told me last week she wouldn't be surprised if she caught me cruising the high school parking lot to pick up guys. But hey, if drinking beer alone in a snowman sweater doesn't make you an alcoholic, then I figure hanging out with 21-year-old guys doesn't make me Mrs. Robinson. Yet.

Mr. Barely Legal is extremely new to the picture, and already I'm worried that we might be a little upside down on this mortgage. I think he might have a little more invested than I do. I'll keep an eye on the market and update you regularly.


cheers,
elizabeth