The Gay Republican - Grass-Chopping And Textual Slurs

I’m going to lead off this week’s article with an update on my lawn situation: I’ve now mowed it myself three times. In return, I’ve received one “thank you”, but no hint that Alex actually intends to buy a new mower and resume his landlordly groundskeeping duties. I’m not really complaining though. The initial fight with the pull-starter of my neighbor’s rickety old pushmower, the act of pushing it back and forth across the lawn, detaching the bag to empty the clippings, the smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with exhaust; they’re all whimsical reminders of childhood chores.

The only problem with this lawn care arrangement, as I touched on before, is that I think I’ve more or less assumed responsibility for it….

Oops.

That’s the problem with low expectations: if you set them, people will probably meet them. And that’s a lesson whose application is far broader than my small lawn.

I think I’ve begun to apply this lesson to dating. And judging by this past weekend, it’s working out far better than even I expected.

Peter (remember him, from the Abbey on the night I re-acquainted myself with liquor?) called last week and asked if I wanted to go to a birthday party with him. Friend of a friend, Fiesta Cantina, Friday night. Around 11:00 PM, so show up at his place around 10 PM. “And you can stay over if you like.”

I’m not sure whether he was keeping track, but this was to be our third date, which is better than I’ve fared with most boys who live in WeHo. I supposed that that was a vaguely positive sign, so I got dressed and hopped in the car a little after 9 PM to make the trek from Pasadena down to the 90069.

My feelings for him were sort of lukewarm at that point; I’d come to the somewhat disappointing conclusion that while he was a pretty good dude, he was just a little bit crazy. Crazy in a fun way – I’d perversely enjoyed the big gay scene we’d made the prior weekend at Neomeze, in a sausage-fest sea of Drakkar-soaked Persians – but crazy all the same.

He seemed characteristically scatterbrained when I arrived at his place on Friday night. Over a couple glasses of wine, we spent about an hour listening to American Idol’s David Archuleta performing a candy-coated rendition of Phil Collins’ “Another Day in Paradise” and searching for his misplaced crystal champagne bucket that matched the stemware out of which we were drinking.

A little crazy, but about par for the course... Right?

We walked up Robertson to Fiesta Cantina around 11:30. Weaving through the front patio, we bumped into an acquaintance of his who, after exchanging embraces, remarked to Peter, “You look trashed.”

As we continued through the crowd, Peter asked me, “I don’t look trashed, do I?”

“Not that I noticed.”

Oh, but I should have.

One hour and three additional drinks later, he was bordering on passed-out standing.

So THAT’S what it is. You’re not crazy. I’ve just never once seen you sober!

As conversation splintered and kisses got sloppy, I could feel my inner bitch spark to life. At one point he slurred an admission that he’d consumed an entire bottle of wine before I even arrived.

"Uh-HUH. Did you, then?"

So rather than make a scene, attempting to articulate my repulse to a slobbering drunk, I pulled my signature “Worst-Case Scenario Dating Survival Guide” move: I waited until he was distracted and then I walked out.

This is not the first time I’ve employed this tactic. (One more time, and I think it’s considered a hobby). I’ve honed it to a point where I involuntarily plan a clean-break exit strategy for any date that has a remote chance of going disastrously downhill:

*Always keep your phone, wallet, and keys in your pocket.
*Always have cash for a cab.
*Be aware of where you are, where you go, and remember where your car is
parked.

On one previous occasion, I’d even stashed my sunglasses (which didn’t match my evening outfit) in a potted plant on the unsatisfactory suitor’s open-air front porch. It worked out peachy, because my car was parked across the street from his house.

My car was parked in the parking structure for Peter’s building, but only because I’d observed on my arrival there that one garage door was stuck open. As I approached my car, the text messages started.

“Where are you?”

“I left.”

“What?”
…

“Please come back.”
…

“Please come back; where are you??”

…

And then, the phone call.

“What happened? Why’d you leave?”

“Because you’re too drunk to see and it’s 1:15 AM, and I’m tired, and I don’t feel like hanging out anymore. And I definitely don’t feel like spending the night at your house.”

“Wha?? Buh… Um... Why???”

“Listen, Peter; neither of us are in good shape to have this conversation right now. So go back to your party and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Then more text messages.

Then the voicemails.

It was beginning to bear an alarming resemblance to the night of March 1st. Only this time, I just wasn’t drunk enough to be amused.

Saturday morning I did my usual morning-after-West-Hollywood routine: I went to the gym to sweat out any residual alcohol; I did laundry, I tidied up the house, and I ran some errands.

But... when I came home that afternoon, I found a surprise: A big, deliciously fragrant bouquet of flowers on my front porch. And a very sweet note.

As I write this article, I’m digesting a pleasant lunch that we shared this afternoon.

This brings me full-circle to where I started. You have to be true to yourself when you set expectations. It’s not worth it to live down to somebody else’s low standards for the sake of companionship (or anything else, for that matter). If they’re sufficiently interested in you, and they have enough respect for you, they’ll live up to yours.

Maybe if I bleach the lawn and cut down the tree in the front yard, Alex will start handling the gardening again…

I don’t think I’ll try it though.