January 2005 Archives

After looking mournfully at the pile of gifts sitting in a corner of my apartment gathering dust, I realized that perhaps I should treat myself by unwrapping them. As I tore through the paper, I started to grasp why Peter took the approach that he did, and I saw that I had inadvertently done the same. Here, finally was the Seinfeld box set that I had been hoping (to no avail) that Santa might bring me. And a pair of socks with glow in the dark skulls on them that would look smashing on my gorgeous gams. With each present that I opened, I realized that luckily, I had only gotten gifts that I wanted myself, and I was intoxicated by the fact that they were mine, all mine. A glimmer of hope flickered in my mind, and my future gleamed with the shiny glow of consumeristic bliss.

During this painful, yet exhilarating, recovery phase, I’ve also found that buying expensive jeans and polka dot sheets have brought me some solace. I’ve tried to spend time attempting to understand the real me and have posed such philosophical questions to my mother as, “Is it possible to be attracted to someone’s language usage?” and “Why do I find the use of the word ‘hyperbole’ when pronounced with an English accent so incredibly titillating?” I’ve tried to understand these things about myself, and barring that, accept them, and spend more time in hot tubs. I’m not sure if that will help, but it certainly can’t hurt. I’ve been searching for answers during these long days of introspection, but thus far I’ve reached few conclusions. I have, however, vowed to clean my apartment more frequently, and I can’t honestly ask more of myself than that.

Crap, I thought. There is nothing more embarrassing than having your father send you flowers at work. I slunk towards the reception desk and picked up a beautiful bouquet of pink and red tulips, and then waited until I was safely alone before opening the card that was attached.

“SNAP OUT OF IT,” the card read, “Love, Holly”

I returned to my desk, smiling. I realized that perhaps despite the fact that no one ever calls me besides my parents, my friends cared about me. Over the next few days nearly every time someone walked past my desk, they commented on the beauty of my tulips.

”Who are they from?” they would ask. “Oh, my friend Holly,” I would reply with a grin.

It wasn’t until a girl I kind of new gave a look of surprise at my answer that I realized that she thought that Holly was my “friend.” I turned to my co-worker and asked her if everyone who had asked about my flowers now thought I was a lesbian. “Well,” she replied, “I’d say that about 50% of them think you are an avowed homosexual. You did say, 'friend.'” Apparently 'friend' is the new 'lover.'

I wrote to Holly and told her about our newfound love for each other. And because of her impending motherhood, I wrote, “I guess that means that I’m having a baby.”

She wrote back, “You mean WE’RE having baby.”

Later that night I told my mother about what had happened and she said, “Well Lina, if you’re going to go gay, Holly would be an excellent choice. At least she knows how to treat a woman.”