Hot Holiday Mess

It is only the second week of December and I have already had to file a temporary restraining order against red wine. For the next twenty-fours, no box, bottle or magnum of vino rosso is allowed within sipping distance of my mouth. Hence why I need to stop at 33 Acres to pick up beer on the way home.

This last week at the restaurant has been one never-ending Christmas party. Every night begins the exact same with champagne flutes and Christmas carols and ends with broken shot glasses and Justin Bieber. By midnight, the only glimpse of civilization that can be gleaned from the dining room floor is the sight of me at the back server station, rolling my eyes and drinking a cappuccino.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am certainly no stranger when it comes to being the drunkest girl at the party. The last holiday jam I attended, I put back two bottles of Pinot Grigio right out of the gate and woke up the next morning lying naked beside a straight man. Meryl Streep forbid, I should ever bring home a man interested in the same sex. That would be much too complicated.

For the first string of holiday parties, I was honestly maintaining a steady foothold on Santa’s “Nice” list. Like a good boy, I was coming home right after work, putting my tips in a jar, and capping myself at two glasses of wine with Lisa LaFlamme and the team at CTV National News. I was even making it to the gym first thing each morning which is pretty much unheard of in serving life. However, after service ended last Sunday night, Fox got naughty.

Breaking my lifetime ban from gin, I sat down after work for a negroni, which I then proceeded to follow-up with approximately two litres of red wine upon returning home. I would describe the first 750mls of vino as “holiday cheer,” but every ounce after that was a new chapter from Misery. I admit it was all my fault. I should have kept the channel tuned to Fallon but instead I made the gigantic mistake of watching Love Actually.

I have no idea why I insist on doing this to myself each year! Every time I begin the film I feel as confident and handsome as Hugh Grant ripping up the dining room floor at 10 Downing. However, as soon as Walking Dead guy runs away from Kiera Knightley while Dido plays in the background, I have passed the point of no return. By the time, Emma Thompson realizes she has been foiled by Professor Snape and presses play on Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now,” I am rolling around the floor in hysterics.

There is nothing like a holiday film that can truly make a single, childless gay man feel all alone in this life. Once the final credits rolled, it was quarter passed three in the morning and I was determined not to go to bed alone. Stumbling into my bedroom, I dusted off ye old iPad, and pressed open on an app I hadn’t visited in months: Grindr.    

“Don’t do it Fox!” I reasoned with myself as each face began to load and shuffle around like playing cards. “Nothing good will come from this!”

In ten seconds, I received my very first message. Could this be my husband? I teased myself with possibility. Crafting my own Christmas story I could see the illustrations and words unfolding on imaginary pages before me. “Two lonely souls joined in the middle of the night,” the words scrawl over the painted image of a gentleman caller knocking on the door of a basement apartment to find a Rugged Fox waiting inside.

Clicking open the message to see what my future had in store, I screamed when a photo of an erect penis popped up wrapped around with a mistletoe! Underneath the image, two words instructed: kiss me.

“Ugh!” I gasped, trying to regain some sense of sensibility. Dramatically, I placed the iPad gently back down on my bedroom floor and returned to the living room to reclaim my glass of wine.

Less than a minute later, I found myself down on my knees but not as you would expect.

Kneeling in front of my roommate’s Superstore Christmas tree, I watched the lights blend together and began to slur, “Dear Santa. I know it has been seventeen years since we last talked, but I have something to ask you for. This year, I would like to meet a man who leads with “hello” and “how are you?” instead of “sup?” and “dude I’m horny.” I promise that with the exception of tonight and early tomorrow morning, I will be less ‘hot holiday mess’ and more ‘put-together bachelor.’ All I want for Christmas is…”  

Six hours later I woke up on the living room floor to the slobbery tongue of my roommate’s dog making love to my dehyrdated face. Rubbing my temples, I got up to make a cup of coffee and whispered under my breath, “I can’t wait till this season is over.”

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