10:03am-- A Liberally Beglittered Soap Opera

Hullo and good morning, my furry chums!

You might have noticed it's been quiet around here lately, and that has everything to do with the fact that I've been taking a break from dating to focus on writing and not spazzing the fuck out all the time. Also, it's winter in Chicago, which means everyone who lives here is taking a break from life in general and happiness specifically.

Luckily, our old pal Rupert (whom you like better than me, anyway) has taken up my slack and herewith will regale you with some 2010-esque musings.

Get ready to pee yourselves, as always.

Happy New Year!

I was reading the internet today (I’m about halfway through, I just finished the part where someone fell down – classic!) and I came across the phrase “liberally beglittered soap opera.” Guess to whose life my brain thusly flitted? Affirmative. So, I took some time out of my busy day to review recent dealings in the life of Galatea George: Bad Decisions, Good Stories, and Chewing on Christmas Lights. I made it no further than the recent entry detailing her New Years 2010 adventure. Try to imagine my surprise as this shameful, decadent story unfolded, then immediately stop trying to imagine my surprise because that surprise doesn’t actually exist.

For all of those who are unfamiliar with what happened to Galatea on New Years (a group that could actually elect Galatea as its president) I will briefly sum it up the events in song parody form (the classiest, purest form of wit):

Never gonna give you up,

Never gonna let you down,

Never gonna run around and desert you,

Unless you’re my phone and I’m blackout drunk.

As I read this harrowing tale of confusion and sleeping, I kept checking my calendar to make certain I hadn’t accidentally slipped through a magical time portal and ended up in ye olde days of any time since I’ve known Galatea. “A liberal dose of drinking at a party, a pinch of making out with someone unexpected, a cup of sass, liberal beglittering, and a dash of regret and reform,” I humorously thought to myself, “I’ve been served this pie before.”

But then I humorously went on to think “Hold your roll there, Judge Dredd, what kind of progress have you made over the last few years? Maybe you should start with the man in the mirror on this stuff. And maybe you should also go ahead and update your movie and song references.”

And you know what? I’m totally, awesomely right. If I expect anything in this world to change for the better, I’m going to have to change for the better first. Then I’m going to have be super-arrogant about changing for the better, and tell the whole fucking world about me changing for the better. Only then, when the world is sick of hearing me go on and on about changing for the better… only then will the world change for the better. Maybe.

So, I’ve gone ahead and made a few New Year’s Resolutions that I will take the time over the next however long to actually think about whatever and trying to want to do in some things and such. Wow. That last sentence fell apart on me, but I haven’t got the time to go back and change it now – I’ve got resolutions to list!

Rupert's New Year’s Resolutions: 2010

1. Make a list of resolutions

I can’t recommend this trick enough people. When making a list of things, make making the list one of the things on the list. It’s like rolling doubles in the game of kicking ass. See? I can already cross one thing off my To Do list and put it on my To Did list, yo.

2. Say THE Baby Jesus

I don’t use the term ‘Baby Jesus’ very often. When I do, it’s usually as an exclamation (along the lines of “Santa Maria!” or “Mussolini’s Whiskers!”), a sarcastic reference (“Every time someone quotes Twilight, Baby Jesus cries”) or, to a lesser extent, as a direct reference (“Hey look, it’s Baby Jesus over there by the water slide”). I’ve decided that if I’m going to go through the trouble of saying Baby Jesus, I might as well class it up a little bit and say The Baby Jesus. Sure, that doesn’t sound like a major, important change, but it’s like James Joyce once said “Classing up your wording is like giving your conversations a monocle.”

3. Quote People

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said “Quoting my literary predecessors gives gospel to my thoughts.” Except no, he didn’t. I just made that up. It doesn’t even make any sense. Here, try this one: “Citing quotes is like drafting an army of seasoned veterans to battle in aid of your argument.” You know didn’t say that? Gandhi. Look, here’s my point: Using quotes from famous people is like yelling “I’m super-correct!” after everything you say, except more effective than that. So what does it really matter, you know, in the grand scheme of things, if the quote itself is just something you made up? All you have do is make the quoter someone sort of obscure or someone who said lots of stuff all the time and make the wording kind of flowery. That way you sound super-smart and people will stop arguing with you and give you money or sex or both. It’s like Jean-Paul Sartre said: “Quoting is rad to max!”

4. Become Jon Hamm

‘Mancrush’ would certainly be the word to describe my feelings toward award-winning actor Jon Hamm, if there was a word to describe my feelings toward award-winning actor Jon Hamm, but there isn’t such a word. The feelings that I have toward Jon Hamm are complex, strange, and confusing to say the least. I’ll attempt to sum them up (I’ve bullet pointed the following short list to make it seem manlier):

• I would like to go on an adventure with Jon Hamm, where we fight enemies together and fire crossbows and somebody saves somebody else from a deadly fall by grabbing their arm at the last second and screams “don’t you let go!” and maybe there’s a castle at some point.
• In another scenario, I’d like to walk through a busy casino with Jon Hamm in slow-motion. There would be a sense of urgency in this walk; we’re not rushing, but we definitely have places to be. And we’re wearing really nice suits.
• I’d also like to relive the events of the movie Space Camp with Jon Hamm, but in real life.

Now, I could question these feeling and do some soul-searching and probably realize a bunch of things about my life, but that sounds like a lot of scary, time-consuming work, and then all I’d end up with is a bunch of realizations. It’s like Ayn Rand once said, “The only place where ‘Results’ come after ‘Realizations’ is in the dictionary, motherfuckers.” So, instead of thinking it through, I’m going to go the other way with it and slowly turn myself into Jon Hamm. That’s right: I’m going to Single White Female up Jon Hamm. I shall be the Cory Feldman to his Michael Jackson. Because those two examples turned pretty well, right? So, the next time you see me, expect me to have a haircut like wavy milk, a rugged jaw line that could make a dinosaur poop itself, and a 5 o’clock shadow that could steal your wife.

5. Get a Cohort

While I’m killing time becoming Jon Hamm, I’m going to start trying to find a cohort. You see, I have a problem - In high-pressure, social situations, I tend fold like a skinny, bitchy house of cards at the Gap. (That metaphor should have been better, I’m sorry) When I’m faced with such a situation, or any sort of threat for that matter, and I need to come up with that snappy comeback, I’m more likely to mumble or cry or run away then actually say something clever. To rectify this situation, I of course need a cohort. A scrappy, hotheaded, colorful character with a mindless devotion that could easily buy me a few seconds with a sassy rejoinder. Maybe a street urchin, if they still make those, quick with an gruff exclamation of disbelief, and always ready to deliver a vague threat to take most of the pressure off of me. Observe:

Scenario One

Without a cohort:

Them: Dude, are you trying to look like Jon Hamm? You’re an idiot!

Me: Oh – oh, yeah? Maybe – uh – you’re the idiot… dude.

Them: What was that?

Me: I am running away!

With a cohort:

Them: Dude are you trying to look like Jon Hamm? You’re an idiot!

Cohort: Who do you think you’re talking to, assneck?!

Me: Easy, Nails, easy. In the words of Roald Dahl, sir, “Judge not a man before you’ve walked a mile in his shoes” Might I suggest that you direct that particular mile – off of the nearest short pier.

Cohort: Nice one!

Them: I am bested!

Scenario Two

Without a cohort:

Them: Out of my way!

Me: But, I was in line before you, good sir. 

Them: What are you, the line police? Ha ha!

Me: You’re… the line police.

Them: Are you crying?

Me: Yes.

With a cohort:

Them: Out of my way!

Cohort: What is this shit!? Who do you think you are, fuckleg?!

Me: Put that knife away, Gravelly Joe. Clearly this man is in a hurry. I imagine that I’d be a bit rude if I was late to Asshole Practice with the Douchetown Players!

Them: Egad!

Me: Conversational checkmate!

See? It’s a win-win. I get to formulate my zingers, the cohort gets – I don’t know, yell at people, I guess. And if shit goes down, it’s never a bad idea to have someone on your side that could be described as ‘stab-happy’. And imagine being able to start a story with “So me and Gravelly Joe were – “ That story is most certainly headed straight to Awesometown, my friends.

And that’s all it takes, folks. Five little steps between me and becoming the living embodiment of awesomtacular. 

But can I do it? Well, my friends, I’ll never know until I try, because it’s like they always say “All you have to do is take a little ‘try’ and add a little ‘umph’ and the next thing you know – you’ve got yourself a triumph.” You know who said that? The Baby Jesus.

And while that takes care of all of my problems, what about Fogesty Ross, here?

What about Bad Decisions, Scenes Missing, here?

What about Radiohead’s Amnesiac, here?

What about Memento II: Less Tattoos, More Leggings, here?

What about Jim Henson’s Drinky Fish Lake featuring Blackout Trout, here?

Well, it ain’t so bad, is it? 

You get drunk sometimes, you make out with people sometimes, and you wake up on someone else’s couch wearing different pants sometimes.

But maybe what you do in those situations - after checking for knife wounds – is reflect on the fact that you had people to help you put the pieces together. And while those people aren’t necessarily mad, just disappointed, you can always remind them of the mornings you helped all of them put the pieces together.

And maybe what you do is promise yourself not to make out with so god damn many people all the damn time – I mean, come on already. But then, if you screw that up, what’s your punishment? Making out with someone. Win-win, bitches.

And maybe what you do is look at the whole thing and swear to never do it again – maybe put yourself on probation from this, or try to be a better that, but in the end, having folks in your life who help you through life’s experiences, from responsible to drunk to making out to phoneless to bewildered and then back to the ever-present middle-ground of regretfully informed with a decent story – Maybe that’s not such a bad place to be after all. Maybe it’s all up and up from there.

And with that: Happy New Year.

2:11pm--If Only Old Acquaintance Could Be Forgot

Two posts in one day! I know, right?

It's not that there isn't work stacked in my inbox, it's just that I have my priorities straight.

Ish.

So. New Year's Eve 2010.

Lordhavemercy.

I co-hosted a major party. As in, Super Major. As in, agendas for the planning meetings.

We'd been planning for two months, and when NYE rolled around, all the ducks were in a row. All the best people were going to be there, the music and photography were to be professionally handled, and the food and bevs were of the finest quality. We had a guest list and a schedule for the door. It was on like kong, y'all. I was so ready.

Personally, I had no concrete plans for romance at this shindig, and I was totally fine with that. I looked hot, I figured I'd kiss whoever was standing next to me at midnight, and I'd have a perfectly fun evening with my pals and head home alone in the wee hours. Straight off my wonderful visit with John Patrick over Christmas, I was (for once) out and about but not on the prowl. I was going to be a good girl. I was going to be. But the road to rehab is paved with good intentions, I suppose. That's what I'm finding out.

Maybe I should ALWAYS have some sort of scheme, in all situations, so things don't go terribly awry. Because, boy howdy, did they ever.

The party, or what I remember of it, was a blast. Blake and Jack showed up, but Jack had with him the girl he's seeing. Fair enough, no hooking up there. No hard feelings. Jude was a no-show, though he'd told me the last time I saw him that he planned on attending. That's probably for the best, I thought, no sleeping with Jude tonight. There were plenty of nameless, faceless dudes around, but as I said, I wasn't prowling. The music was great and most of my incredible friends were in attendance, and we danced and laughed and toasted the night away. For the first few (coherent) hours, anyway. Everything after about 12:30 is a complete blank spot in my memory.

I woke up at 11am on New Year's Day on the couch of the hostess of the party. This would have been fine and not at all mysterious, had I been dressed in what I'd worn to the party. Instead, I was wearing jeans and t-shirt (mine), which seemed to indicate that at some point in the evening I'd left the party, gone home, changed clothes, and returned. Unfortunately, at the moment I woke up I had no recollection of any of this. What I did have was a pounding headache and the overwhelming urge to vom. The owner of the couch entered the room at this time and informed me that she was pretty sure I didn't have my keys. I checked my nearby coat pocket and realized that this was the truth, and then remembered with a sinking feeling that neither Jen nor Ava were in the state at the time. I was well and truly screwed, key-wise. I was going to have to call my management company to be let into my own home, and they'd charge me $50, it being a holiday and all. I called my management company to arrange the let-in, and then lay in a fetal position until such time as they called back to inform me they had arrived. I then paid for a 6-block cab ride to get home, after apologizing profusely to my friend for the bananas bullshit I was sure I'd perpetrated the night before. "At least," I thought to myself in the cab, "I didn't go home with anyone." Little did I know, Peaches. So little did I know.

After I was let into my apartment (and not charged! New Year's Day Miracle!), I promptly vomed and passed out in my bed. I slept until about 8pm, at which time I woke up, desperately thirsty, and still feeling like death not even warmed over. I looked at my phone: 14 text messages and 3 voicemails. I looked at my room: destroyed. Destroyed? Did I do this? When? I looked around and found my keys on the dining room table. Aha! What?

I needed to make some phone calls.

I first contacted Blake, who had left two "are you okay? where did you go?" texts the night before.

Blake: Hey, buddy, how ya feelin'?

Me: Ugh. Like I should be shot.

Blake: I can imagine.

Me: What happened to me last night? Do you know?

Blake: Not really. One minute you were dancing, having a great time, and the next second you had your coat on. Then you disappeared.

Me: Really? That's all you got? You can't do better with the clues?

Blake: I was drunk, too, Gee. Call Maddie. I saw you talking to her right before you left.

Me: Maddie. That's more helpful. Thanks.

Blake: Feel better.

Me: Doubtful.

I proceeded to call Maddie.

Maddie: Oh my god, how are you?

Me: I feel like merde, friend, and I am on the trail of mystery.

Maddie: Did you get back into your apartment?

Me: Yes! So you knew about that?

Maddie: I saw you when you got back, don't you remember?

Me: Not as such.

Maddie: You left and then you came back and you had changed clothes and locked yourself out.

Me: Why did I come back to the party?

Maddie: I have no idea.

Me: Well, how did I get home in the first place?

Maddie: Seriously?! NNG took you home.

Me: NNG was at the party?!

Maddie: ...SERIOUSLY?

Me: I told you, I don't remember anything!

Maddie: Holy crap, Gee. Did you roofie yourself? You and NNG were totally going at in the corner.

Me: Crap. I was on autopilot.

At this juncture, I felt it prudent to call NNG.

Just to make sure that I hadn't done or said anything totally idiotic or embarrassing. Although that seemed like it was going to be a given. I was fairly certain we hadn't had sex, although the fact remains that we were alone in my apartment, apparently, for some length of time between when I left the party and when I went back to it. Did he destroy my apartment? It seemed unlikely, but there was only one way to know for sure.

Me: Hi. It's Galatea.

NNG: I know.

Me: Well, I'm calling because I just found out that you're the reason I got home safely last night, so thanks.

NNG: What do you mean you just found out?

Me: Well, I don't remember going home, actually.

NNG: Seriously?

Me: Why do people keep saying that to me?

NNG: You don't remember being at your apartment with me?

Me: Actually, I didn't even remember you'd been at the party at all. Maddie just told me.

NNG: Well nothing happened. With us. I mean, nothing bad happened.

Me: Do tell.

NNG: Well, I got to the party late and you were already pretty far gone, but we did hang out for a while and then we went back to your place, and you know, whatever, but then I said I didn't want to do anything more because I was drunk and you were soooo drunk, and you said you didn't want to do anything more either, so I left.

Me: Mm. Mm-hmm. Did I then destroy my apartment?

NNG: Not that I recall. But you did keep saying you didn't have your phone.

Me: Aha! That explains it! I went back to the party for my phone!

NNG: You went BACK to the party?

Me: I must've walked.

NNG: You WALKED back to the party? Are you crazy?

Me: Vodka is a hell of a drug, NNG.

NNG: Thanks for calling.

Finally, all the pieces fit. I had flirted with NNG at the party and taken him home with me, but once there had been so drunk that he'd left. Which either means that he's a pretty decent guy, or that I was so non-functional that romance was clearly a lost cause. A little of column A, a little of column B, probably. After he'd gone and there was no one to reign me in, I'd decided to go back to the party for my forgotten phone, but hadn't been able to find my keys, since NNG had probably used them to let us in. I'd changed into jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers. I'd then proceeded to destroy my apartment looking for my keys, and when I couldn't locate them, I'd determined that I'd be okay and left without them. At this point I walked about 15 minutes through the freezing snow and crowds of intoxicated homosexuals to the location of the party, astounding everyone with my reappearance. I'd passed out on the couch and woken up at 11 the next morning, feeling and looking like six miles of bad road, locked out of my apartment, having amused/annoyed/offended/worried half of my social network.

It took me half an hour and three phone calls to piece this together.

I am Sherlock George of my own life.

The effort of constructing a cohesive narrative of my misbehaviors was so exhausting that I went back to sleep and didn't get up for another fourteen hours. I am a physical hazard to myself and all who know me.

But now I have had a few days to dwell on this and mull it over (and accidentally sleep with HWSNBN again after over a month of being really good about not doing that, but I am glossing over this, because it was a momentary lapse in judgement and not at all the re-start of something, and that is all I am going to say) and I have decided that I am not going to beat myself up about it. Any of it. Even that stuff in parenthesis right there. The holidays were wild (17 parties attended between Thanksgiving and NYE; two brunches missed on New Year's Day due to the fact that I was conscious for less than 60 minutes of said day) but the holiday are over.

It's time to get serious.

It's time to prioritize.

It's time to buckle down with the writing, and the scheming of ways to get John Patrick to fall in love with me. It's time to stay inside with Ava and Jen and watch TV and order Thai food some nights, instead of feeling like every second of my life has to be spent chasing... what? Guys? I've caught as many as I'd like to catch for a while, thanks. Sex? I can definitely pretend I can do without that for a while. Friends? I've got a ton of them. I should try to reinforce those bonds that already exist. I think that winter lends itself to this kind of scaling back and personal development, because it's too fucking cold in Chicago to be frivolous. I mean, clearly I found a way, but that was then. This is now.

I can do this.

I can grow up.

9:35am--Christmas Cheer

Christmas 2009 went swimmingly.

Heck, Christmas was golden!

I went home got to hang out with some of my very favorite people that I rarely ever see.

Of course there was plenty of quality family togetherness with the Georges.

I spent time with Adele, my best pal from childhood.

(who incidentally requested that I update the Peeps: A Comprehensive page. which I have done, ya welcome.)

I put in quality tripod time with Lydia and Charlotte, and cuddled Charlotte's two-month-old baby who is my new favorite person ever.

I had a sing-along with Edward and Edward's guitar next to my parent's Christmas tree.

I generally ate and slept and took long baths and luxuriated in the fact that it was 65˚, sunny, and green every day.

But wait?

Am I forgetting something?

Ah, yes.

John Patrick. I spent a lovely Christmas evening with JP and his family.

Of course I'd been thinking about seeing JP at Christmas since mid-October, the last time I laid eyes on him in Oregon. I'd been planning and hoping and trying not to be too pushy and wondering whether or not to get the moms involved, and though JP and I had been exchanging texts and emails in the weeks leading up to our simultaneous trips home, he had never made a move to lay down concrete plans. As the date drew nearer, I began to panic (slightly) because I was only going to be in our hometown for three nights, two of which were Christmas and Christmas Eve, and he had no idea because he had not asked how INCREDIBLY SMALL THE WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY WAS. But I tried to relax and trust that if it was meant to happen, it would. Just like it did when I went to Oregon. Just like all things that are predestined.

On Christmas Day I sent him a "Happy Isaac Newton's Birthday" text message.

You see what I did there? Because he's a scientist?

That's funny. That's cute. That's how I do.

He responded and we got into a textversation, and I asked him if he'd be around the next day, ie, my last day in town. He said that his family was going out of town, and asked what my plans were. I told him that the day after Christmas was pretty much it, and I'd be gone. As it was about 8pm on Christmas night at this point, I figured that his next message would include the phrase "well, sorry we missed each other."

But then, the Baby Jesus saw fit to grant us another Christmas miracle.

John Patrick responded that his family was still awake if I'd like to come over to their house.

I was full-to-bursting with holiday joy.

As the George family was, at that moment, en route back to our abode from that of my grandmother, I had to twiddle my thumbs for half an hour before I could fly upstairs, change my clothes, throw on some makeup and perfume, and dash out the door. Then it was a three-minute cross-town drive to John Patrick's parents' house, a quick knock on the door, and I was in. And he was there. And the whole world just slowed down and held its breath for us.

We sat around and chatted, playing dominoes. Me, JP, his parents, his sister, her husband, and their adorable one-month-old baby boy. We laughed and told stories and tried to strategize, passing the sleeping baby back and forth. Everyone but me was in pajamas, winding down after the long day. JP's mother's hair was wet from the shower. There was no pretense, no introductions were necessary, it was just as though I were home. It was more home than home, because JP was sitting next to me, rubbing my back occasionally, cooing at his nephew in my arms. It felt more right than anything that has happened to me in Chicago in a really, really long time.

Eventually, JP's parents went to bed. Then his sister and brother-in-law and the baby.

It was just us two.

I know, based on what you read here on a regular basis, that you probably have all kinds of notions as to what happened next, but I can assure you that it was completely G-Rated. We caught up a little bit, talked about our upcoming plans, and then he walked me to the door and gave me a big hug. That's it. That's all. Not even a kiss. And the strangest part of it all, is that there didn't need to be one. It had all been so perfect that I didn't even worry about it. I was so glad to have gotten to see him, and to have spent several wonderful hours in the bosom of his family. Any time I can be near him is enough. Lovely enough. A few minutes later, just after I arrived back at my parents' house, John Patrick texted me to let me know how good it had been to see me, and how glad he was that I'd come over. I thanked him for inviting me and told him to keep in touch. He said he would, and goodnight.

And then I had to explain to my mother the stupid grin on my face.

So, yes, Christmas back home was delightful. Just perfect.

New Year's Eve in Chicago, however...

Le sigh.

Are we never to be free?

Tune in later today for a transcript of that nonsense.

9:40am--Ugh.

Can we not talk about how I went to Christmas party at Claude's last night?

Or the fact that I have somehow been tricked into meeting HWSNBN for dinner tonight?

Good.

Let's don't, then.

1:49pm--Not yet ready for the final frontier

Well, it turns out my "risky business" does have a limit, and it was indubitably reached on Friday at the office holiday festivities. Elaborate? I thought you'd never ask.

This past Friday was the company holiday party, and I once again did little to cover myself in glory. Don't you love stories that begin that way? The party rocks all day long, from when we arrive at the office and start guzzling mimosas and bloody Marys at 9am, to whenever we fall out and decide to leave the after parties (usually around 7 or 8pm, because honestly, we're either tired of our own shenanigans or hooked up with the night's prize by that point). This year was no different. After "working" for about half a minute while consuming breakfast drinks and chatting up some of my long-lost office mates, and then feasting on a delightful Indian buffet, my coworkers (who were by this time my bestest pals in all the land) and I cabbed it over to the Hard Rock Hotel for a 4-hour open bar reception. Needless to say, it didn't take 4 hours for me to sufficiently rocked, so by the time I made my way over to begin talking to MFH (who'd been invited by one of the guys in the company to tag along, though he doesn't actually work for us), I was feeling pretty confident that FRIDAY was going to be THE DAY that I put that million years-old crush to good use and seduced him. Sadly, he revealed to me that he'd be attending the same concert that night that Teeny had tickets for, which meant he'd be leaving the festivities about 5pm. And there was really no point in imagining a different possible outcome for the evening, which is why I kept to myself the one thousand "WHY CAN'T WE MAKE THIS HAPPEN??" thoughts that leapt to my mind as MFH and I chatted up a storm. We tentatively made group plans for this weekend, but if there's anything we know about that particular gorgeous Irish Catholic Southside boy, Ducklings, it's that he's quite adept at wriggling out of commitments big and small. So I'm not holding my breath.

After scanning the crowd for Alex first discreetly and then not-so-discreetly, I sidled over to the IT guys and inquired after my former flame. Grover informed me that Alex had left work sick the day before and hadn't come in the morning of the party, which is just... I mean... how am I supposed to continue the Disappointment Hit Parade that has BEEN my month of December, if I can't flirt with and hopefully take home at least one coworker who has already been a romantic disappointment?

It was at this juncture that I decided on a new tactic.

I went and found my coworker Schroeder, because I knew he'd have insider information about the after-parties some of our clients were throwing. In our industry, you see, vendors and clients work very closely together, share buildings and sometimes floors of office space, and thus usually hold their holiday gatherings on the same day, which means that two days of work aren't lost, and we can all attend each other's parties. As I suspected, Schroeder knew the location of our very biggest client's very biggest after party, and was more than willing to cab it over to said location with me when we tired of our party, which turned out to be around 5pm.

Schroeder, Teeny, Lilly, Riley, and I all hopped into a cab and headed north to somewhere West Loop-ish; I was drunk and not really paying attention. It turned out the party we were about to crash was being held at a 4-story warehouse/nightclub with blacked-out windows and heavy security. We flashed our work IDs and were admitted without a problem. I was greeted by four floors of free food, booze, and loud music. Not to mention about 1000 people shouting and dancing in the darkness, delineated from each other only by glow-in-the-dark necklaces and bracelets. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.

We checked our coats and bags and headed to the bar for more free drinking, but before Teeny could even turn around to ask me what I wanted, I was gone.

I wandered the four floors of bodies, scanning for familiar or attractive faces. This particular company is huge and I only know a tiny fraction of their employees. I saw a few acquaintances and got asked to dance by a few strangers, got offered drinks by a few more. And then, on the top floor, I hit the jackpot. I spotted the perfect prey. A weedy hipster-ish sort of guy in a skinny tie, black pants, and black plastic glasses. I'd seen him around our old office plenty of times, we'd probably nodded at each other cordially in passing, but I wouldn't necessarily recognize him out of context. He'd do nicely. And he was making his way over.

After embracing in that hearty way that drunken people have, and lamenting how much we'd missed each other since I moved to the new office, this guy and I exchanged names. We then proceeded to "catch up," which could have taken us a lifetime since we didn't know anything about each other to begin with. We made the kind of small talk people make in noisy bars: loud, and about nothing. This went on for a few minutes before he asked me if I'd like to go check out another floor. I agreed. And somewhere, a moment later, in the crush of bodies near the door, he took my hand. Yuuuup. Game on.

We made a round of the third floor, then the second, then the first. We got down to the basement, by far the least populated dancefloor, and bypassed it immediately to perch on a little banquette off to the side. Where it took us approximately 3 nanoseconds to start making out. In front of everyone there, none of whom I knew, but several of whom kept whooping and calling my companion's name. Classy. As per usual. After a long stint of kissing, he asked me if I'd like to go to my place. Since he'd earlier told me that he lives in Logan Square, a neighborhood from which there is no escape route, I agreed.

When we arrived at my apartment, after a frantic, drunken makeout session in the cab, I realized it was only 7pm. I realized this because Ava looked at me when we came in like I was going to have A LOT of explaining to do in the morning. I introduced her to this dude, and as he made a quick trip to the bathroom, her eyes got really slitty and she hissed at me "You don't know him AT ALL, do you?" To which I responded that no, 90 minutes ago, I hadn't. But now we were long-lost reunited semi-coworkers and everything was totally legit. Ish. Ava rolled her eyes, grabbed her purse and coat, and left me to my own devices.

Now that I knew how early in the evening it was, it occurred to me that, even as drunk as I was, it was way too early time-wise to be having sex with strangers. So, I plunked myself down on the couch and turned on the TV, and my visitor had no choice but to sit beside me. I made him sit through a two-hour documentary on How the Great Lakes Were Made and then another feature on the filming of Animal House. We made out during commercial breaks. As the credits rolled on the Animal House retrospective, the dude took back control of the situation (he assumed) and amped up the kissing and groping. He lead me to my bedroom and began disrobing. I watched him and internally debated my next move.

Clearly, sex was on the table. It was mine for the taking, exactly as it had been with Jude one week before. And in that case, I had gone for it. But Jude is a person I've known for years, and with whom I share lots of mutual friends. This guy had been a total non-person until that night, and was 110% likely to stay that was afterward. I thought about how Ava thinks my recent escapades have been in part a rebellion against HWSNBN, and I really don't want him controlling my thoughts or actions in any way if I can help it. I thought about John Patrick, how he's 100% and how everything I do that doesn't bring me closer to him is a waste of energy, in a very real sense. And finally I thought about myself, about what I'm willing to do and not do, and how all the lines I draw for myself over the course of my adulthood are continually crossed, which leaves me a little poorer in spirit every time. Did I really want to be the girl who slept with a stranger she met at a party and wasn't even all that excited about? What's next? Being the girl who doesn't even LEAVE THE PARTY, but just ducks into the bathroom for a quickie and then never sees the guy again? I mean... in theory that sounds kinda hot... but in reality I know it's a one-way ticket to Heartbreak Town, making all stops at Disappointmentville and Self-Esteem Issueston.

I was clearly mostly sober by this point in time.

So, as this total stranger's pants hit the floor, I told him that I wasn't going to do this, and that he should leave. He was actually totally cool about the whole thing, gathered his stuff, and left right away. And I got to sleep in peace and not have to worry about what to do with him the next morning. And Ava is very proud of me.

That's the limit, apparently. That's the line I'm not willing to cross.

I think I might need to give up sex for a while, anyway. It just wrecks me.

Saturday night I attended a splendid high-rise dinner party downtown with some of my most favorite people.

As I told this story over wine to the group and reached the conclusion, all of the men at the table groaned in exasperation. "You made him watch the History Channel for HOURS? And then you didn't even give it up?" they lamented. My girlfriends rushed to my defense, declaring that it had been his choice to stay that long, and also, he'd probably learned a useful thing or two about the formation of glacial lakes. In the words of the late, great Flight of the Conchords, "A kiss is not a contract."

The holiday season rocks and rolls along, and I am swept along in the tide of festive drinks and shiny gifts and taffeta skirts. But it turns out that even in the midst of the haze of heightened spirits and wild abandon, there are things about my soul that can't be dismissed. Things that guide and direct me without my even having to conjure them. And that's comforting to me. It's like remembering where home is.