Archive for January, 2008

28
Jan
08

God sees the truth, but waits*

By shawnster 1 Comment
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , ,

Well, I may have inadvertently stumbled on the worst pickup line in the history of the world, or at least in the history of Russian literature. “Hey, I just finished reading War and Peace. Want to help me celebrate?”**

But give me a break–you try reading a 1,215 page Russian novel while staying COMPLETELY SOBER, and then not talk about it endlessly, even at a birthday bash for a 23-year-old.

img_5883.jpgErin S.–still with her whole life ahead of her to read War and Peace!

It was Saturday night, and I’d finally finished the Tolstoy classic I had started reading Jan. 1. Diligent adherence to a regimen of 40-50 pages a day had kept me on track, with a few days to spare before reaching my goal of Jan. 31. The thing was, I’d made a deal with myself to stay sober for all of January; then I decided well, 28 days should do the trick. Then I realized, I deserve a reward for finishing this doorstop, and so the bargain was made—when I finished reading the Russian epic I could have a drink.

 

Well, the joke was on me in more ways than one. I mean, have you ever read War and Peace? Not only is it long but—okay, here’s the thing. It’s really good. I mean, obviously. It’s great. Some parts require more concentration than others—the battle scenes, for instance. But the drawing-room stuff, the relationships between family members and lovers and friends, all that stuff’s a breeze and a joy to read. Tolstoy was a master, after all. But and so. There you are reading this big book and enjoying the characters and everything, and then the main story ends and there’s an epilogue of about 70 pages. Keep in mind at this point you just want to finish the damn thing and have a big glass of vodka. And then you realize that nearly all 70 pages is a dense, practically unreadable discourse on history, how we can never really know the causes of an event, and on the nature of free will.

 

But I persevered. And, upon finishing, I had that drink, and then another. By the time the Wingman picked me up I already had a buzz on. But again, this being a night fate decided to play a big old joke on me, and my first buzz in nearly a month came crashing down when I encountered, upon reaching our destination, Wingy’s completely tanked, giggly, and Taser-worthy buddy Ivan (a Russian! how fateful is that?), and his equally messy date.

 

We found ourselves at the Lamplighter (http://www.thelamplighter.ca/), a Gastown nightspot that has undergone more facelifts than Courtney Love—from a drug bar with classic rock cover bands to an indie-rock club with live original music. Now, it’s part of a local entertainment chain and features DJs not old enough to shave spinning Electric Light Orchestra.

 

Anyway, to bring it all back home… we were there for Erin S., a co-worker of Wingy’s celebrating her 23rd birthday. She introduced me to a few of her cute friends but I could only talk about War and Peace. For some reason this doesn’t seem to be a turn-on for girls! The wingman spotted a locally-based VJ and we went over to talk to her and her friends, but then drunk Ivan, who’d been sitting in a corner with his date the whole time, insisted on going to go to another dance club up the street. To cut a long story short, a few minutes later, after Wingy had left to get Ivan into the other place, I found myself experiencing one of those moments where, if it had been a movie, the room would have been spinning around while distorted faces laughed and fingers pointed in my general direction and Rod Stewart’s “Young Turks” played on the soundtrack.

 

If all that wasn’t enough to prove a Tolstoy kind of fate wasn’t on my side, I woke up the next day hung over—and determined to not drink again. At least until I’ve finished Remembrance of Things Past.

*Leo Tolstoy

**Shawn Conner

27
Jan
08

Hottie neighbor, I never knew ye

By lenatic 1 Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , ,

Ah, well, gosh darn and heck. My hot little (not so little–about 6′2 actually) neighbor is moving away tomorrow, and I am bereft. I always thought I might hook up with him some day when we both had the time. But I was always roaming around the freakin’ world, hanging out on fishing boats and at casinos and in various Chinatowns in various cities…and my neighbor got bored of the South Bay, and off he goes.

I wonder what his girlfriend thinks about all of it. She used to glare at me because he said ‘hi’ when we saw each other in passing. She must seriously be Medusa-faced now that he’s ditched her for a $50K pay raise and a change of scenery.

(Girl. A tip from me. He’s 26 years old. That’s what boys that age do.)

When I first thought about sleeping with my neighbor, a wise and jaded former friend-with-benefits said, “Don’t do it. You’ll bump into each other all the time, and if either of you happens to be with a girlfriend or boyfriend at that moment, things will get super-awkward.”

This made sense to me, so I decided not to jump on my neighbor, even though it would literally have taken just one jump: right over the little iron railing and onto his balcony, where he’s always hanging out on the weekends, shirtless, with six-pack abs and dimples and a leftover buzz from the night before. He’s the jock you can’t help but like–the one that gave a damn about school and went quasi-corporate and goes on heli-skiing vacations and is as adorable in adulthood as he was growing up.

I have a weakness for those guys, I admit it. They’re so…mellow. Like Labs, kind of. Yeah, I wanted to sleep with him, but I also wanted to scratch him behind the ears and give him a biscuit. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why it never panned out.

Instead, I entertained vague but enthusiastic notions of introducing him to various girlfriends of mine. (“He’s sweet, he’s tall, he’s got a nice body, he’s an attorney…what more do you want?” I would demand of them.) And I promised him that I would come out drinking, or go to his house and engage in drinking, or that he could come to my house and there we would drink. But when all was said and done, I don’t feel like hanging out with frat boys in my spare time, and he was always in the midst of a pack of them. So…

 Au revoir, neighbor. I can’t for the life of me remember what your name is, but I’ll miss seeing your smile. And your abs. And I’ll miss bumming cigarettes off you at 1 in the morning when we’re both more drunk than we should be. Good luck in your new home…and I hope you find a new girlfriend who’s less of a jealous bitch than the old one.

Oh, and stop dying your hair black. I realize it’s your last vestige of schoolboy rebelliousness, but it’s more trouble than its worth, since your hair is only an inch long. If you really want to make a quiet counter-cultural fashion statement, pierce your nipples. That’ll get me over your balcony in 2.2 seconds flat.

21
Jan
08

Looking for the heart (hic!) of Saturday night

By shawnster 1 Comment
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , , ,

“What do sober people do for fun at night?” asked M., as we drove around last Saturday evening.

This was a question on our minds, since we’re both trying to minimize our alcohol intake in general and during this frigid, dark month of January in particular. Also, I’m writing a piece for Lava’s online magazine Click about the subject. “Do they go bowling? I think they do. I was searching online and–hey wait, is that a cooler?” I stopped the car and looked. It was, indeed, a cooler—red-and-white, next to a BFI container, obviously someone’s trash. “That might be good for filling with booze and taking to Wreck Beach* in the summer,” said M.

 

I stopped the car and backed up. She got out of the car, opened the cooler, and returned with a scowl on her face. “It stinks,” she said. “And it’s full of empties.” 

We continued on to the meeting. “What about theatres, art galleries, coffee shops, things like that?” I asked.

 

“Yeah,” said M. “Maybe.” She didn’t seem convinced. “But coffee shops? Who wants caffeine and bright lights at night?”

 

We’d already been to a birthday party thrown in a commercial garage where, not knowing anyone, and lacking the (for us) necessary social lubricant, we’d stood around like a couple of statues. It didn’t help matters that M., who was standing in as my wingman (wingette?), was thoroughly uninspired by the selection of humans on display. “Bald heads and bad speeches,” she said with characteristic diplomacy. Needless to say, we hadn’t lasted very long.

 

“What about there?” I said. A sidewalk gathering attracted our social eagle eye as we drove past a small gallery not far from the party. Investigating, we found a cartoonist’s jam going on inside the Jem Gallery—several artists sat at tables where they were industriously penciling and inking comic strips. Sure, beer was in evidence, but it seemed of secondary importance compared to the work going on. So here was one alternative to drinking on a Saturday night: cartooning.

 

Neither of us was inclined to pick up a pencil, though, so we headed to the Biltmore Cabaret (www.biltmorecabaret.com/). Plush red banquettes and a bone-rattling sound system in the once-notorious hotel’s newly renovated bar (not to be confused with the lobby pub) have generated much buzz amongst the city’s indie-rock and hipster set as an alternative to downtown clubs and bars.

We didn’t last long there, either, though. The pounding dance-rock, the smell of alcohol, the proximity of attractive, gimlet-eyed boozers—even M. didn’t have anything negative to say about the hipster boys lounging casually on the banquettes—was too much for our sobriety addled noggins. That said, we were impressed by the décor and I thought the DJ’s selection (M.I.A., that “House of Jealous Lovers” track) was solid, though we were a little put off by drink prices more in keeping with what you’d find at a centrally located establishment with duck confit and mango cocktails on the menu.

 

Don’t worry—I only know about the drink prices because I bought Jen, who was celebrating a birthday, a beer. That night, I fell into a deep, dream-filled, alcohol-free slumber. Can’t wait ’til February, though.

*Vancouver’s nude beach.

20
Jan
08

How Many First-Date Flowers Equals Creepy?

By lenatic 7 Comments
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , ,

Love was in the air-conditioning at Whole Foods Redondo’s checkout aisle #3. As I waited to pay for my carrot sticks and crostini crackers (just got back from the Caribbean & Vegas, ate like a piglet, more on that later)… a dude walked up behind me with a bouquet of something sunshiney, inexpensive and long-stemmed. Daffodils, maybe? Miniature sunflowers? I dunno. Alls I really noticed is that, even before he’d paid for the flowers, he was busily shucking off the plastic wrapper and taking the bouquet apart.

I wasn’t the only one to notice…the checker was looking at him w/her eyebrow raised, like “Excuse me, weirdo? Why are you dismantling the foliage?”

He either noticed her or just felt a bit uncomfortable, because suddenly he burst out, “You guys in Whole Foods won’t let me buy just one flower!”

“One flower?” she said. Our minds were one at that moment, I do believe, and both of us were thinking, What kind of cheapskate are you?

Right before I could say, It’s for your own good, sir, he made a great recovery.

“I’m going on a first date, and I want to bring her flowers, but a whole bouquet is too much!”

“Awww!” said the checker-girl, who was about 19 and gangly and probably has been on about three dates in her life. “It’s not too much.”

“Yes it is,” I said.

Call me unromantic, but I get totally weirded out when someone brings flowers on a first date. I love them later down the line, but upon a first meeting, it muddies the waters. I remember when some sweet gentleman brought me a long-stemmed rose, which would have been sweetly romantic except I knew from the first minute that I wasn’t attracted to him. Still, I said ‘yes’ when he asked if he could see me again because he was just too damn nice to say ‘no’ to. Then I accidentally left the rose at the table after dinner, and not-so-accidentally never returned his phone calls. I still don’t know which I feel guiltier about.

 So anyway, needless to say, I fully understood why the guy at the Whole Foods checkout would be tearing his bouquet apart.

“One flower is good. No more than that,” I said knowingly.

“Save the rest, and you can bring them on your other first dates,” suggested the checkout girl, suddenly displaying some unexpected and seriously jaded wisdom.

“I mean,” she continued, as I started laughing my ass off, “maybe you have another first date planned for Sunday night, and another for Monday…”

“No, no, no!” said the guy, all shocked. “Hopefully this one will go so well that–”

“You should have gotten a multi-colored bouquet, and then you’d be covered whether you see her again or not,” I said.

“Look, why don’t you two just take the rest of the flowers?” said our poor overwhelmed romantic, as a small audience of bored Saturday evening Whole Foods patrons examined him curiously.

I demurred, since I’m leaving town again at 6AM on Monday. But maybe the checkout girl took ‘em. I hope so. Would hate to have all that sunshiney yellow bloominess go to waste–but at the same time, I think our man was right: Maybe in the ’50s a first-date bouquet was mannerly, but these days, it’s just creepy.

14
Jan
08

Seinfeld was never like this

By shawnster Leave a Comment
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , , ,

In which the gang goes to the Taboo Naughty but Nice Sex Show on an otherwise blah Saturday afternoon in January. Featuring your blogger Shawnster; M; Allen, and Wingy. All are single except for Allen, who may be soon, since he seems to be headed in the direction of a breakup with his partner of three years. 

Opens in M’s living room. The gang, all present but Wingy, contemplates its upcoming foray to the Taboo Naughty But Nice Sex Show, held at the Vancouver Convention Centre Jan. 10-13.

M: I’m really looking forward to this. Yeah, baby! Sex show!

Shawnster: Who’s driving?

Allen: Maybe I’ll look for a rubber fist. You know that Doug Stanhope routine about the rubber fist? If you’ve already got two up there, what do you need a third one for? “I feel a gap”?

M: Maybe it’s for pirates. 

Shawnster: Sex toys for pirates! Can I use that?

Allen: What’s the line?

Shawnster: About the rubber fist being a sex toy for pirates.

Allen: I don’t get it.

Shawnster: You know, pirates. Captain Hook? A hook for a hand?

Allen: You’ll have to make that clear in the joke.

M: C’mon, you guys, let’s go. Maybe I’ll get me a new vibe.

Shawnster: What about parking?

Cut to: the gang at the sex trade show. Busy, busy, busy. Scantily clad girls– one of whom wears pasties and is  on stilts—as well as, bikers, punks, and suburban-looking couples roam the  aisles of  booths offering sex aids, party favours, porn offerings, clay body castings, bondage demonstrations and equipment, nude photography services—everything sex-related, and some (hot sauce, protein supplements) not. Shawnster, M, and Allen are at a booth selling vibes, lubes, standard sex toys. M holds a large, futuristic-looking vibe, which has  all sorts of bells, whistles, a remote control, everything but electrodes and stirrups).

M (bored, hanging the item back in its place): Sheesh. I was hoping for something new and exciting.

Shawnster (holding a two-pronged prostate massager): Really? I mean, yeah, I know what you mean. (Reluctantly hangs the prostate massager back on the wall.)

Allen (holding a pair of handcuffs): Hey you guys, what’s going to happen when I have to date again?

Shawnster and M. look at each other. 

M. Oh, don’t worry, it’ll be fun.

Shawnster: Yeah, it’s great. I’m having the time of my life. (Nods at the cuffs.) Make sure you have a pair of those on hand. Cuts back on commitment issues.

Cut to: A stage. On it are two topless models, one female and one male. Two bristly-haired jocks are licking the chocolate off the fake breasts of the girl, and two girls are doing the same off the pecs of the guy, who wears a fireman’s helmet. An MC, a TV-pretty dark-haired woman, encourages the participants. A modest audience whoops and hollers its support.

Shawnster: Why is it a fireman’s helmet is automatically supposed to be sexy? (To M) You don’t find it sexy, do you? (Her eyes are glued to the fake fireman’s torso.) Do you?

Wingy (arrives on the scene in time to see the licking): Hey guys, what’s up? (looks up at the stage, sees the girl being licked clean). Hey, I know her. She bought an ad from me once.

(Audience cheers as the two jocks back away, revealing the big fake boobs licked clean.)

Allen: They’re doing amazing things with saline and chocolate these days.

M: This is totally lame. Let’s go check out the anal sex seminar.

 

MC: Now we’re going to pour chocolate on their asses! Can I have some volunteers, please?

Cut to: “the dungeon.” This is a separate, enclosed space at the show where demonstrations of various bondage and S&M acts and equipment take place. Sounds of whips snapping and male  screams in the background.

M: Well a lot more Vancouverites than I would have thought are interested in anal sex. Although I don’t know why they’d need a seminar on it. It’s pretty simple, really. (spies a guy in a black leather harness behind one of the Dungeon counters. He’s handing out flyers for upcoming fetish nights.) Oh my God, I went to kindergarten with that guy.

Shawnster: You never know whom you’re going to see at a sex trade show. I just saw a former neighbour. She makes leather corsets now.

Wingy: We really haven’t done very much here. I’m not really in the mood. Those girls who popped their breasts out at us weren’t even attractive.

Allen: Who? Where?

M: Let’s go guys. I’m even more depressed now than before I came here.

Shawnster: Yeah, it’s kind of a rip-off. Twenty bucks to get in so you can spend more money?

M: It’s enough to put you off sex.

Wingy: Yeah. Don’t forget to get a stamp on the way out so we can get back in later.

12
Jan
08

It’s a Thing Now: The 4th-Date Getaway

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Just had a press release forwarded by my lovely editor Kim, and it seems that, much as I suspected, singles and their unfettered, highly disposable bank accounts are being noticed and targeted as an increasingly desirable demographic. Not just by reality TV show producers and dating sites like this one, but by hospitality companies who want to capitalize on our freewheeling ways.

 The release was from the Fairmont Hotels group, announcing the rollout of their new “Holidates” promotion. Not sure about the logic of using a “holiday” inspired name 8 days after New Year’s, but whatever, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Fairmont is not only endorsing the 4th-date (or 5th, if you’re being circumspect) mini-holiday, they’re encouraging it. They’ve come up with all kinds of themed packages, like the Break the I.C.E. at the Fairmont Chateau, which includes a ziptrek eco-tour (dunno what it is, but it sounds tres healthy) and a chalet fondue (I know what that is, and I like it very much).  There’s the Moon Dance Celebration on the Riviera Maya, the Wooed in the Windy City package (in Chicago, obviously), and Drunk with Love at the Sonoma Mission Inn. Having been raised in Sonoma, I can tell you w/certainty that you’ll be drunk on other things as well. 

AND. Having gone on a few of these weekend getaways myself, I can tell you that they’re fun. Awkward, but fun! It kicks the dating ante up a notch: How will you get along when the time commitment is more than just dinner, drinks and possibly 3rd-date sex and a cuddle (if you’re that way inclined)? Will you both opt for room service over dinner out at a restaurant? Or will you decide to hit the town instead? Or will one of you want to stay in while one wants to go out, and then you’ll go through an uncomfortable silence that only ends at 11PM when you’ve split a bottle of wine? When you go out in public, are you going to pretend like you’ve been together forever? When old ladies ask you when you’re getting married, what the hell are you going to say?

Ah. These are the things that sweet memories are made of. I’m sure some haters are going to say, “WTF? Four dates? That’s way too soon to drop that kind of money.” And to you I say, “Fine. But you better not be expecting the sexo until, hum, two months seriously seeing each other and you’ve met the parents.”

Go Fairmont! Thanks for being way more culturally tuned-in than I ever gave you credit for. If I lived within 2000 miles of Whistler, I’d totally be up on that I.C.E. weekend. Well, if I had someone coming within 4th date territory I would. Here’s hoping. 

08
Jan
08

Year in review

By shawnster Leave a Comment
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , , , ,

2007 wasn’t a great year for relationships, sex, and dating for yours truly, but it was pretty good for personal revelations. However, that and a bus transfer will get me downtown.

 

Best breakup scene for use in the screenplay I’ll never write: We both knew it had to end–indeed, it had ended already, really. But I called her up for a last lunch anyway and, after being put on hold so she could talk with her stockbroker (yes, that should’ve been my first warning sign), we agreed on a time and place. Over lunch she howled with laughter recalling the figure-skating satire (Blades of Glory) she had watched the night before while I stared at my congealing clam chowder. After we left the restaurant we paused on a corner to say goodbye. She played with the buttons on my coat and told me she missed me, then turned and walked into a clothing store to do some shopping.

Best ex sighting: The break-up was in March. Just before Christmas, I spotted her standing outside a bar, smoking a cigarette with one hand and holding onto her hip with the other in that way she has, and talking to some dude. She had her back to me. I breezed by, went inside and saw the band I’d come to see, and left without a word or glance between us. I’m not sure if she even saw me.

Best advice: From my former Wingman, on my ex: “Shawn, there’s no reason for you to ever talk to that woman again.”

Worst advice: From my former Wingman. “Shawn, tell me you’re all over [as in, making a move on] Tatiana.” Three days after I make a play for Tatiana, she gets intimate with one of my friends.

Best wingman: The force of nature whom I refer to in this blog as Wingy came along at a time when I was at loose ends. My former wingman was getting serious with a new girlfriend and I had no one I could call up at the last minute to attend wine tastings, restaurant openings, and Spice Girls concerts. Wingy came through, and since we started hanging out I’ve never met more women. Unfortunately, they all think we are a gay couple.

Best friend: M, who was always there when I needed to complain and gripe about my love life, and who always has my best interests in mind, except when they conflict with her dog’s.

Best text message from an ex who lives in Toronto and owes me money: “Happy New Year’s Eve from San Francisco.”

Best near-fling: A brief flirtation in the summer with my yoga instructor after we bonded (she’d gone to Croatia to study dance) over the “Zagreb” T-shirt I wore one day to class. It lasted about a month, the highlight of which was a Sunday night spent on her futon watching a depressing documentary about the life and death of a glam-rock musician. It didn’t go any further than a few more yoga classes, a trip to a nude beach and a stop at a New Age bookstore, though she did follow up with phone calls asking me for concert tickets.  

Best kiss: C. and I have years of sexual tension built up between us, and one night it simmered over. We were at a show by Juliette and the Licks, the rock band fronted by actress Juliette Lewis, when we spotted each other. We were both a little drunk, and instead of our usual hug we ended up in a lip-lock. For some reason, C. leaned backwards and went limp, I lost my balance, and we crashed to the floor. Embarrassing, but memorable.

Best date: Emma, just before Christmas. The evening began at a hoity-toity hotel lounge and ended up at a cheap-o doughnut shop. I know how to show a girl a good time.

Worst date: At a restaurant opening, Lucinda the paralegal insulted me, turned her back on my friends, and then showed us all pictures of her parents’ million-dollar house as it was made up to look like a castle for a straight-to-DVD fairytale movie. I hate to use the words “rude” and “spoiled” but if the glass slipper fits…

Best prospect for 2008: She says she’s “on the rebound.” She says she’s being “cautious.” After three “dates” (if they can even be called that) she barely lets me kiss her, and I have a feeling her ideal is a cross between Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol. What could go wrong? 

07
Jan
08

Bad Cupiding and a Countdown Group Smooch

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , ,

New Year’s Eve found four ladies and one gentleman out on the town, leaving the numbers a bit skewed when the countdown came around. One of the date-less ladies actually has a boyfriend–he just decided to stay in for the night. That left me and Remy as the singles. Remy seemed a bit wistful about not having a date that night. She was sad about not having anyone to kiss. (This I don’t understand–my feeling is, there are 364 other midnights in a given year, and all of them offer equally fine opportunities for kissing.)

We were at Mighty in San Francisco, seeing Krafty Kuts, who’s supposedly the most popular breaks DJ in the world at the moment, but whom I found pretty damn underwhelming–like a white, stubble-headed version of Simply Jeff at his most commercial.

About a half-hour before midnight,  Remy fixated upon a short bald man who was running around near the DJ booth with a camera, snapping pictures of nothing in particular. She confided her attraction to Greg (the only man in our party). I have freakin’ no idea where it was stemming from–I think it was on the grounds that if this guy was so physically unimpressive but was still allowed VIP access, he must be somebody.

“Stop that!” I hissed when I saw her staring googly-eyed at the petite camera-wielding stranger. “You’ve gone insane.”

(Remember that this girl’s last nightclub conquest was a 25 year old Rhodes Scholar from New Zealand who was over six feet tall and one of the most gorgeous boys I’ve seen in years.)

“I can’t help it,” she giggled. “There’s just something about him…”

“Like what? That you could lift him up in your arms and carry him over the threshold?”

This is when Greg, four sheets to the wind and sassy, decided to play Cupid.  Which I don’t mind as long as it’s done well, but Greg is the worst. His tactics fly in the face of every courtship and diplomacy rule that’s ever been created. You never know what he’s going to say, but you know you’re going to be embarrassed.

First I saw him smiling, gesturing, saying something suggestively at the small bald man. Then, the bald man looked at us with alarm.  Then Greg got even more enthusiastic. Then the bald man backed away. Then I grabbed Greg by his shirtsleeve and said, “Knockit off.”

“He’s married,” said Greg.

“Good!” said I. “I don’t have any interest in talking to him.”

“What did you say to him?” asked Remy, curious about her small moving target.

“I told him that one of you lovely ladies was interested in him, and then he said thanks, but he was married…”

“One of us?” I spluttered. “Why did you have to bring me into it?”

“And then I said what did being married matter at the New Year’s Eve countdown, and that if he just forgot about it for 15 minutes, he wouldn’t regret it.”

“You did what?” said my sister, who’s engaged to Greg but still occasionally shocked by his bizarre social maneuvers.

“Are you trying to get us in a fight?” I asked.

“Oh look,” said Remy, pointing. “I think that’s his wife.”

Sure enough, a woman was at the small bald man’s elbow, dragging him off the stage and looking in our direction suspiciously.

At that point, I decided that this conversation was not worth wasting the last 10 minutes of 2007 on, so I began to guzzle the disgustingly sweet sparkling wine that passed for champagne, dance around like a dreidl, and ignore the space on the stage where the bald man had been.

I’m not sure who he was kissing at the countdown, but I know that all five of us–four blondes in big shoes and strappy tanktops, plus Greg, the Inappropriate Man With Many Dates–got in a tight little circle and hugged and exchanged dozens of kisses. All on the cheek, since most of us are related, but still it was a nice way to ring in 2008, and much fuzzier than many of my Countdown kisses-with-boyfriend have been.

And I do hope that Remy felt the same, and that she doesn’t regret not celebrating the new year in the arms of a tiny bald stranger with an angry wife waiting in the wings.

 

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