Monday, March 29, 2010
The Sensitive Artist and Starlet have moved out. And so ends an era.
The separation was, in no doubt, the best thing that could happen. It meant that the Starlet and her flame could move in together in the crystal ball version of marriage. It also meant that Missensitive could start the next chapter in her life a little earlier than anticipated.
I looked around at several apartments, entertained the idea of abandoning Calgary all together and considered six more months of purgatory. I went with the later.
I spent the better part of today sweeping, scrubbing, mopping, vacuuming, dusting, polishing and downsizing. I organized all of the mail addressed to former occupants, finished the invitations for the Club's private Vegas theme party, and took Mother's puppy for a stroll. I was meant to be locked up in boyfriend's apartment, but he was hit with the flu.
Between ignoring the sounds of the birds all day, and following around little puppy-pee-alot and responding to work emails, I decided to ventured into the room that used to house the Starlet; empty. I refocused, rounded the corner, down the stairs, 14 to the bottom, sharp left, through the laundry room, click the light on, adjusted the knot in my throat, held the railing and entered the basement.
There was absolutely no sign of the artist... the empty wine bottles, shelves and shelves of fabric, art books and stationary and the long black cable running across the shag carpet to the bedroom were gone. As if she had suddenly disappeared as well.
It's true that I haven't been left alone in this house that was once the "home" of two of my best friends, the blonde has decided to stay. Something that both terrifies me and makes me feel like the party isn't over. I don't have the same desire to be out every night until the sun comes up. I can't be bothered rushing from one lame night club to the next, flirting with strangers and jagermiester, slamming a red bull, inhaling thrills through twenties and dancing with every possible suitor in the room.
That die hard partier within me is on hiatus, and may be permanently.... I wonder when her number will be up?
Posted by HRH at 10:42 PM
Monday, March 15, 2010
It was last call, and then it was all of sudden after three o'clock. Jesus Christ, did I black out? "No sweetie, it's the start of daylight savings time," says the redheaded coworker, dressed as cowgirl, with a splash of vodka.
Being several margaritas, three beers and an inhale of two of the mysterious joint that appeared I was at the comfortable state of buzzed, but teetering. The work weekend was much more profitable than had been anticipated, and I was looking for a good time.
I barely recall the cab ride home, but stumbling into the kitchen I soon realized that the party was far from over.
Enter two drunk roommates and a very loud accomplice. Polish off a bottle of wine, and soon we were all doing shooters of Baileys; an entire 40 ouncer. I remember all of a sudden hearing the front door open and close. I started to shush the girls; my boyfriend had arrived.
He usually enters to find me asleep, the the rare occasion waiting up; but never in the midst of a kitchen dance party at five in the morning. To make matters even more interesting, he was sober; stone sober.
I had just wondered where this party monster in me went... and all of a sudden... out from hibernation he came. See you later sanity. Hello Vodka.
Posted by HRH at 2:19 AM