Butter Chicken Woes
Spring has arrived! Ugh! The birds are chirping, the flowers are blooming, and I am blowing my nose at the Fox Den. My eyes are bloodshot and there is a mountain of Kleenex at my feet. Gosh darn, it seems each year I become more allergic to the beauty that surrounds me. The other day, I had to stop myself from picking a fight with an Alder Tree before cursing out a Cherry Blossom. Furiously scratching my eyes at the time, I pleaded temporary insanity.
Now goodness me, where shall we begin? If this tragically un-updated website serves as any reminder, the last time we left off was Valentine’s Day. Well, in the time that cinnamon hearts were replaced by Cadbury’s Mini Eggs, much has happened in the world. Like a Fox to its den, I have been cautiously streaming the news as it unfolds. At the end of each night, I pray for everyone suffering in Ukraine, and across the globe.
In other much less important news, as far as gentlemen callers are concerned, I am relieved to admit I have nothing to report. The truth is, in the fallout from Theodore J. Nelson, I just got a little too messy. I wasn’t planning on sharing this story; but I think it is time to let you see the less attractive parts of me. I know what you are thinking, “that is not possible Fox;” but just you wait, just you wait.
Last November, the second it became clear my love life had disappeared into thin air, I swore off men for eternity.
“BUT WHYYYY?” I wailed outside a delicious Indian restaurant on West 6th Avenue. It was the night of our staff party, and afraid I was going to make a scene inside the dining room, I ran away from the table screaming.
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE MEN IN THIS CITY?” I turned to see my gorgeous friend Chloe, who had run out behind me. Chloe is one of my most trusted confidantes. You might remember her from my most-liked photo on Instagram of all time, or from our work together at The Pizza Palace.
“Rugged,” Chloe took me by the arm. “Let’s get you back inside. It’s freezing out here and we need to wipe that butter chicken off your face.”
“IT’S ALL OVER MY MASK!” I cried. “GET IT OFF ME!”
Returning to my seat, as soon as I managed to calm down, I apologized to my colleagues on behalf of gay men everywhere. Then, raising a glass of bubbles, I reassured everyone that my same sex troubles were no reason to stop celebrating this wonderful occasion.
“Last November, the second it became clear my love life had disappeared into thin air, I swore off men for eternity.”
When the conversation at the table resumed to full chatter, I leaned into Chloe, and quietly admitted what was really weighing on my mind. While yes, I was disappointed that I fell for Houdini; I was also concerned about the close connection we made in our short time together.
“You see Chloe,” I cut into a samosa, “I opened myself up to Theodore in more ways than one.”
(WARNING: Uncle Curt, please proceed to the end of this post with caution and/or take this bracketed sentence to return to your shows.)
“My counselor Dahn advised me that is was okay to be vulnerable,” I continued, discreetly. “You know, like let my guard down and truly invite someone in.”
“Okay…” Chloe took a sip of wine. “I am listening.”
“Well, I may have not only forgot to lock the back door but I also forgot to set the alarm.”
“Wait, what?” she asked, putting down her glass.
I was trying to be as clear as possible; but the look of confusion on her face indicated she was not picking up what I was so gracefully putting down.
“I’m saying that I handed over the keys, you know, gave away the code to the safe, left open the gate to the hen house.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Chloe said, stopping me before I could come up with another metaphor.
Checking first to see if anyone was listening, I leaned over and whispered into her ear the unredacted version of the story.
“Oh!” she said, reaching for her water glass this time. “Well, you should get tested then.”
“I know,” I took a bite from my dish. “I just didn’t think it was going be over this soon.”
Slumping back in my chair, I looked like the very definition of a hot mess. Dressed in a sharp navy-blue suit with a teak bow tie and sticky toffee pudding loafers, I was racked with anxiety and guilt.
And then, just when I thought it could not get any worse, Chloe reached over and took me by the hand.
“Rugged,” she said, looking me in the eyes. “Now, I have a serious question to ask you.”
“If you must,” I sat upright. “Just go easy on me.”
“Are your pockets stuffed with garlic naan?”
Screaming again, I ran for the hills. It was all just too much.
