Queer Eye for the Sad Guy

Wow, I just re-read what I wrote yesterday and boy, was that lame. I'm sorry to lay the heavy things on you, but that's what I was feeling. Today I'm going to try and be a little funnier and more lively. I've had this idea in my head for about a week now, but I don't know how to make the words come out funny. This might be the biggest mess I've written since ... well, honestly, yesterday. Reader discretion is advised.

So "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" must be the worst TV show to watch if you've just been dumped.

I'm damned serious.

The premise of this hit new Bravo make-over series is five gay men come into a straight guy's life and pretty much rip it apart shirt-by-shirt, futon-by-futon. The underlying message is, "Wow, you straight lame-ass, how can any self-assured woman be caught dead with you / in your apartment?"

Thursday of two weeks ago, when I was still only five days single, I was doing my laundry before heading over to my cousin's for some games. We do this every Thursday, it's a little "Game Night".

So I'm running late doing my laundry - it's about time that my laundry should be done with the washer and ready for the dryer. I go downstairs to our dank laundry-room in my apartment complex, and the washer is making the most God-aweful noise you've ever heard. Part car turning over, part dying hedgehog. Gurgling and choking.

I must have put too much laundry in, it hadn't washed a thing.

So I found six more quarters, split the load in two and started over. Great, I lost a half hour. I'm going to be late to Balderdash / Trivial Pursuit / Clue: Master Detective.

Back upstairs at my apartment Bravo's rerun of "The West Wing" is done and "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" has just started. I had seen the show before, over at my now EX-girlfriend's house. Oh what a difference a week makes. Last week I was a damned bastion of heterosexuality, sitting next to a beautiful, God-damned BEAUTIFUL princess, who hugged me and kissed me and let me sleep in her bed next to her. Now I'm alone ... in my shitty apartment ... alone ... eating stale ritz crackers ... alone ... watching "The West Wing" ... alone ... screwing up the most basic of laundry ... alone.

This week they were making-over a crew member - something about getting a girl to come over to his apartment. Now, as cool as my girlfriend and I were, I knew that the other dudes she had dated and such were pretty snappy dressers, with cool hair and probably cool apartments.

See, I know that I have really lame, straight-guy hair, I dress goofily, and I have a really lame apartment. In the past my now EX-girlfriend had mentioned that I should grow my hair and make it spikey and cool. And she had taken me to the mall to Abercrombie and Fitch and told me what clothing was cool - stuff I sneakily bought later and surprised her when we went to Florida together. In retrospect it was probably really dumb - I was acting like a little kid getting his mom a birthday present that she had paid for and wrapped for him. Like, "surprise! Look how cool I am! I got you that thing that you wanted and told me that you wanted! Aren't I super?!"

Anyway, I know that I don't look at all like the kind of guy my now EX-girlfriend likes. At the time, that was a little unsettling, and now, well, I credit a little bit of that to contributing to our breakup. And then I say, "Idiot! Why didn't you get the spikey hair and the Abercrombie jeans? She'd still like you now? Asshole! You suck!"

So yeah, I'm sitting there on my bright blue futon almost crying. I'm mad an sad and watching these gay guys rip apart this poor hetero dude.

"You think a girl's going to sit on this futon? What'd it cost, a dollar?"

I look at my futon. You know, my now EX-girlfriend only came to my apartment twice in ten months. That's weird. She must have hated my apartment. "Idiot! Why didn't you get the Pottery Barn sofa? She'd still like you now? Asshole! You suck!"

When they started insulting the guy's hair, I had to switch the channel. Seriously. True, he was wearing a bright red headband, but still, too close to home.

I called my cousin, and, between sniffles, asked if I could use their dryer. I had to get out of my shitty apartment with the bright blue futon, pronto.

But first I grabbed a baseball hat. You know, to cover my not-spikey, not-cool hair.

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Last Updated on: August 24, 2003

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