Ixnay the Equilatay, Eh? Second thought, pass the mickey.

Oh, god. I was so wrong about how my night would unfold. I think I’m still drunk.

It was 4:20 pm when I decided to just randomly text GayBoy. Our exchange went like this:

We should get drunk this weekend.“
“Should we? What do you suggest?“
“I hear alcohol works.“
“People do say that. What type?“
“I’m cooking fish later, you want some? So, big btl wine?“
“I got cider and tequila at home?
“That sounds like trouble. So, you want fish then? If so, bring a baguette.”

So, he brought the baguette, a bocce ball set, a mickey of good tequila, and a six-pack of cider.

I can’t drink tequila straight!” I argued. “We need to mix it with something.” He dismissed this as the whining of an ignorant child, but provided orange juice in case I really “want(ed) to be a sissy”.

Unbeknownst to me, it turns out that not only can I do the salt-lick/shot/suck-on-lime tequila drinking straight, but I can do it very… very… very well. Like, none of his hissing and teeth-grinding after sucking back a shot. More like, “Oh, that hit the spot. Another?”

So, so much for getting up at 4am to cycle and watch the sunrise.

Then there’s the drama of my cooking up a fish-fry with some garlic bread, using all of two appliances, which then blew the fucking circuit breakers for the kitchen. I tried to reset it, to no avail. I did all the things I know how to do with circuit breakers (in a 57-year-old building? fucking right I know how) and fuse boxes, but the thing wouldn’t set.

So I call the building management’s 24-hour response centre, and within 30 minutes I’m talking to the drawling electrician named Bob who’s condescendingly walking me through the whole breaker thing yet again. I’m explaining to him the lack of resistance on the breaker, there’s no catching, no clicking, it’s yielding far too easily.

Then GayBoy speaks and the guy hears a male voice. Asks to talk to “my friend” since he might know a little about electricity.

I scowl, “This is SO sexist, but hang on.”

No, I don’t mean to–”

Here’s my MALE FRIEND, Bob. It’s been a slice.”

A few minutes later GayBoy’s getting off the phone, talking about how there might be a service charge.

The guy calls back. None of this talk-to-the-man of the house bullshit. I flipped into my take-no-prisoners cool-as-a-cucumber “bitch” mode.

SERVICE CHARGE? My ass! In 10 years of living here, I’ve never called for help once. I’ve reset the breakers dozens of times in my ten years– The building’s 57 years old and this shit happens. You want to charge me for a 57 year old building blowing a breaker? You can’t even tell me how MUCH the charge will be? I can handle waiting till Monday, but I ain’t paying a damn cent for this, so you’re going to call whoever signs the workorders, and you’re gonna get this resolved, because this ain’t some dumb-ass tenant who doesn’t know any better, this is a 57 year old building–” and continued for another moment or so, touching on all the smart reasons this guy who’d been treating me like a sexist dick might want to make an argument in my favour with his boss.

Um, I’ll have to call my boss,” Bob meekly replies. Five minutes later, I’m listening as Bob is explaining that we’ll need to wait till Monday, but there will be no service charge, and he’s “profoundly sorry” to have “implied anything sexist” and that he’s spoken to “many women over the years” who clearly know “far more than men” and I must be another example of this Elevated Femme-type woman.

Naturally, the tell-tale “this call is being recorded” end-of-conversation “Are you now happy with the circumstances as they stand, that we won’t charge a service call, nor will your tenancy be impugned in any manner–”

Fuckin’ thrilled, Bob. Seeya Monday, sweetcakes.

I’ll have a new circuit breaker Monday. My fridge is plugged into my oven, yielding the black-pit of hell that has been left to fester under the fridge that hasn’t been moved in nine years…

So my Sunday involves me on my hands and knees scrubbing through the grime of hell as my stomach churns and chastises me for not being wise enough to puke my guts out before I passed out at two in the morning.

This is so not the weekend I expected to have, and while I feel so hungover, I’m in a pretty amused state.

Word of advice? Avoid the tequila.

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