Easter Weekend

Just when things were starting to calm down.
I had just finished giving Signore Composto the letter, outlining my true feelings and outing my hidden agenda. I felt victorious, aside from the shame of subscribing to fantasy.

Dear Thursday,
I woke up and thought you were going to provide me with a fresh start, the sun was out, the sky was blue, somewhere on Hollywood Boulevard John Lennon's walk-of-fame star was heating up with a "Dear Prudence" energy. I walked down to steak palace, dressed in shorts, a t-shirt and my best defenses.
I was not going to let it be known that the night before had led to one of the most awkward early morning escapes of my life.
Luckily it was slow, and I got to go home early. My french-Canadian friend joined me for a bottle of wine and a joint, before I even had a chance to process the idea I was escorted down to a busy watering-hole uptown. One thing led to another and I was at an after party, drinking a frozen Vodka cocktail and hitting the bong.
Thursday, you lousy bitch, you were supposed to save me from this.

Dear Mistress Good Friday,
I woke up confused, tired and to be honest, still a little drunk. After taking several minutes scrubbing evidence of the red wine off of my mouth I made the treacherous descent down the 13 stairs to the living room. One by one the room mates came together, and it was decided: We were hitting the 300 jello-shooter party.
Steak palace was a bit more interesting on Good Friday, perhaps because it had all the God fearing Calgarians extra suspicious of the stoned waiter making the usual wise cracks. I had a feeling that something was a little different about today, and the fact that Easter weekend was kicked off by a full moon should have been enough to have me barricaded in my bedroom with a bag of weed and my spaceheater for the weekend. Instead, I stared the obvious warning in the face and marched on. Sadly, my march had me heading to the lounge with a plate burning my hand, and then, out of the corner of my eye I saw him.
5 years, 9 months, and 18 days later, and seeing him had me paralyzed still. It was Lawyer.
I had nearly forgotten all about him, and there he was drinking expensive whiskey... our eyes locked, my knees buckled and I nearly dropped the plate that was now burning through my skin to the bone.
I went into the back, regained my composure, swallowed my pride and decided to face it.
After scooping up his credit card receipt, and confirming what I already knew, I followed him into the hotel lobby, called his name and in one second, owned the situation.
He was the first boy I had ever fallen for. All of the guilt, shame and anxiety returned with fistfuls of spineless memories.
Turns out, he is in town for work, and will be for several months this summer for another case, I wonder if I will be able avoid him then?

I made my way home with CB and started the pre-drinking with Lisa. Hot mess to follow.
We arrived at the house party, and everyone was already far-gone, the usual apprehension of attending such a party was lost, we had only one plan--out drink the rest of 'em.
Mission accomplished, and after enraging a past co-worker, questioning an ex-boss, and realizing the cocaine was the pink elephant in the room, the cops came around 2. Normally I would have avoided them all together, this wasn't my house, or my problem. I filled the baby bag with beer, downed several more vodka jello shooters, and kicked open the front door. Catastrophe was patiently waiting for me on the front lawn, in the form of eight police officers that resembled riot police in my drunken haze.
"Isn't there gangs you should be focusing on? Really, eight of you required to investigte a bunch of kids drinking beer and smoking pot?" There I was, begging to be arrested, just when one of the boys in blue was about to apprehend me, I was whisked away by the thought of none of my friends being able to afford to spring me from the clink, and I needed to maintain this buzz.
Cut to me and Lisa being pushed up 37th st in a shopping cart, by our long lost native friend... the same friend we had tricked into making out with me on my birthday, after all, Lisa and I can only mean one thing: TROUBLE.

After knocking over signs, and stopping at 7/11 for cigarettes and candy we were making our way home, to start a fire, drink red wine and crush the remains of the case of beer that come to think of, was totally not ours in the first place.
I started to develop a headache, and after reviewing the nights events, I retired to my quarters for a mid April night's coma-nap. I didn't pray before closing my eyes, but if I had, I am sure I would have asked God how his Good Friday was going. Mine had been quite troublesome, but in the long run, it went better for me than it did for Jesus.

Dear Saturday morning headache,
Ok! I get it, I need to slow down, this tippy train-wreck is en route to a complete devastation.
Luckily, Chief Hard-body was wide awake and making the residents here at 2217 a smorgasbord of eggs, bacon, pancakes and hashbrowns, apparently this trap and release was also capable of turning this mad-house into a variant bed and breakfast. He even stayed around to help us clean up the disaster known as red wine, loud music and ash from the fireplace in the living room.

After looking in the mirror for several minutes, imagining my face without the blemishes and black bags under my eyes, I hopped in the shower, determined to scrub the sin right out of my skin. I managed to make it to the bus stop in time, and was swiftly carried off downtown to work, everyone was hurting today. The reservation book was a mess of large parties, and later arrivals, and I could feel something was a little 'off' about it.
At around 8:30 it became clear, the restaurant was bursting at the seams with homosexuals, of all types. The Western Cup dance was being held in the ballroom of the Hotel,
so I had two options: 1) Finish work, eat some food and head home to relax or 2) Call my best hag, best friend, smoke a joint and down eight beer before crashing the party. I flipped the coin from the Golden Nugget Casino, noticed the pattern all saying yes, and called up Lisa.

Somewhere between the beer, whisky, and marijuana I managed to offend five twinks. (Twink or twinkie is a gay slang term describing a young or young-looking gay man (usually in his late teens or early twenties) with a slender build, little or no body hair, and no facial hair.)
Perhaps I shouldn't have overheard their ridiculous conversation in the bathroom, perhaps I should not have decided to offer my offensive two cents, perhaps I should have not told them one by one that they need to stop tanning, eat a sandwich and ditch the pixie haircuts. They could have gone without hearing me tell them that they are the reason everyone, even homos hate gay people.

Well, long story short, cut to five squawking queens surrounding me on the dance-floor demanding apologies, but with five head-voices screeching at me, it was hard to focus. It was as CB put it, a really trashy gay remix of "what? what? what? shut up! shut up! shut up! I work for an oil and gas company! this is real channel, it's dior bitch!" It had seemed that I finally found the group of songwriters that Britney Spears needed for her "Blackout" album... and clearly they had exhausted their talents by the end of the writing process.

On our way out Lisa decided to steal a centre piece, because this night really required a momento larger than the upcoming death threat.
We hailed a cab, got in, and just as the driver starts the meter, one of the squawking royals comes running at the cab, thankfully it wasn't too windy, this eighty pound, tan-in-a-can hot mess could have blown across the street to the sushi place, where I am sure he would have been mistaken for a spring roll.
Instead, he gained momentum, and yelled at me "Next time we see you, you're dead!" Followed by him spitting at the cab window, which shocked me. 1) Isn't that a little bit rude to the cabbie? I mean this wasn't his battle, he was merely driving the yellow chariot we had commandeered. 2) I thought for sure this hairless, orange skinned, woman's jean-wearing hot mess swallowed.
The silver-headed cabbie, throws the car into park, and proceeds to chase the queen into the hotel lobby, normally I would have gotten out to go stir up the shit some more, but that would have involved abandoning Lisa and the teletubbie in a taxi, illegally parked on 3rd st, keys in ignition, and I did not really feel like that high-speed chase drama.

Alas, Sunday Morning,
We made it!!! Today was Sunday Funday, the sun was shining bright, the red-head and I went to the grocery store, there were no lines, Lisa stayed in stoned and putting the finishing touches on our religious confection. There was something special about baking and decorating a crucifix-shaped devil's food cake, with Jesus Christ made for frosting, spikes and crown of thrones included.
We headed to Grandma's for Easter dinner, along with flowers, a print and several bottles of wine, what ensued was nothing less than what I would expect from my family getting together. My yoga-enthusiast grandmother, flaky aunt, cop uncle, stoner brothers, and three best friends seemed to spark just the right amount of alcohol consumption. Luckily for us, Lisa broke the coffee machine mid-brew, so there was no added energy.

We made it home, the war was over, Jesus had risen in theory and in our oven... and when I finally hit my pillow, I was happy that we had survived the weekend.