So it went like this tonight:

I eat dinner and lay down on the couch, the remote control dangling between my fingertips. I vaguely nap through Boot Camp, waking up for the part when the overweight, middle-aged woman barely makes it through the mile (and a half?) run, and then I promptly burst into tears. Almost immediately afterwards I fall back asleep.

I awake at 9:45, and get dressed to go out. I'm wearing a white J. Crew oxford underneath a black cashmere sweater, a denim skirt I bought in a thrift store in Seattle, a pair of old, ratty grey tights, a pair of grey wool knee high socks over the tights, and blue tennis shoes I bought at Payless last summer that I think smell like sweat, but I can't be sure, because I haven't fully regained my sense of smell yet.

I am so not attractive that I might have actually come all the way around to attractive, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Basically, I am wearing what is clean, and, let's face it, even what I'm wearing isn't all that clean. And we wonder why I'm single.

I wrap myself in a faux black fur coat and walk over to CB's Gallery to hear Kath's beau Steven perform. He doesn't go on till midnight, so I've got two hours of catching up time to do with the lovely and talented Elizabeth Vasquez and the very troublesome Blair.

Tonight Blair had discovered the alcoholic beverage Malibu for the first time. Blair is in his late 30s. Blair has worked and travelled around the world. Blair is always hanging out with people who have foreign accents and look fabulous. Blair is the number one assistant to one of the top artists in the world. Blair has never had Malibu before.

I told him he was clearly becoming a homosexual.

No judgement, I said. Hey, some of my best friends are gay. But if you're finding out now that you like Malibu, you really need to reconsider your sexual preferences.

"It's a girl drink, Blair!"

I'm not sure how much he liked that line of conversation.

More conversation ensued, mostly rowdy and ribald. (Blair: You have that naughty, school girl, field hockey player that needs to be punished vibe about you. Me: I'm a Jew. Jews don't play field hockey.) Then Steven started playing, and Blair started talking about how he wanted to take pictures of me trying on bathing suits in a department store dressing room.

Blair's a shit-talker, has been for the whole two years I've known him. Everytime he introduces me to one of his new girlfriends (and there is always a new girlfriend), he always announces loudly what a fabulous, sexy woman I am. I don't believe him anymore, at this point, and it makes me hate him a little bit for his girlfriends.

Anyway, long story short (too late), I'm leaving tonight, and I go to kiss him on his cheek, and he grabs me and tries to make out with me! I start laughing. He tries to slip me the tongue. I laugh more.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I hate to ruin a beautiful moment here, but you completely caught me off guard."

"Well let's try again," he says, and moves in for another kiss. I can't do it though. After listening to Blair tell me how hot I am for two years he decides to kiss me? It must have been the Malibu. That's the only explanation.

Elizabeth, Kath, and I walk out together.

"Blair tried to slip me the tongue," I say.

"What?" they both say.

"Blair. His tongue. In my mouth."

We get into Elizabeth's car, I tell them the story, and they laugh hysterically. And now it's official. Blair really is gay.

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