An Ode to Fabian, My Greatest Failure

"Fuck me, I'm famous."

That's how 11 year-old Fabian usually greets me, and I usually answer, "No, thank you," because I want my students to learn polite English. His real name isn't Fabian, but he's fabulous, so that's what I call him. He also goes by Fabio, Cody Taylor (his preferred moniker) and Gravy Brown. Sometimes he calls me Lola Pink which is a nice reprieve from *Stefani Germanotta.

We've been meeting every Wednesday for a year, yet I've taught him nothing. He's really proud of this, and I don't care anymore. Therefore, we spend most of our time role playing celebrity interviews, acting as fashion police (I'm usually the offending perp) and arguing about pop stars. Before you judge me too harshly, I've got to tell you that this is the kid who made me **change all the aliens in his workbook to Adeles so that he could more accurately describe and relate to them.

One time I spelled the word limousine for him because it comes up a lot in our conversations. He spelled it limousini, and I said, "No, the English 'e'. What you wrote is Italian." For the next 40 minutes, we tried our damnedest to out-Pacino each other. To this day, if I start to get frustrated with him, he whispers, "Limousini," and we both get the giggle fits until we stop functioning.

Like all fabulous people, he isn't without his flaws. He measures people's worth by their material possessions, so my ancient phone cube is a real struggle for him. Sometimes he makes me hide it from his view, sometimes he demands to play the one game on it because if I don't who will? and sometimes he calls the man I'd just told the night before that I don't want to see him anymore. After I karate chopped the phone from his hand and explained his faux pax through my spittle, his pre-pubescent voice shrieked, "Helllloooooo!? I am the boyfriend of Emma! We are never, ever, ever getting back together!" Good save, Fabian.

We've only really had one fight. My dogs were killing me because I'd just gotten them tattooed, as you do, and had been walking all day. I'd slipped off my sandals to let them breath, and he just couldn't abide my hippie (his word) ways. He demanded that I put them back on, but I refused.

"Put your shoes or I going to tell my mother that you try poison me!"
"Are you blackmailing me!?" I retorted.
Fabian, "Yes!"
"You don't even know what that means!" I said.
"...now, I do," he responded with the international sign for bitch slap.

I guess I have taught him something.

These are the three most beautiful women in the world (in order) according to Fabian. 

I'm not as offended as I should be. P.S. I love him. 

* I once made the mistake of telling him that Lady Gaga is two days older than me.
**I actually drew bouffants and black dresses on all of them. We were both very satisfied.

Catching Fire

I can't possibly be alone when I secretly wish that something pretty cool and *definitely dangerous will happen to me just so I'll have a good story to tell. Can I get a witness?

Cha-ching. Here's what happened:

Halloween may as well be called Go Big or Go Home. I chose to go big as Joaquin Phoenix when we all thought he'd lost his damn mind, and though I'll be the first to admit that's a bit dated, I'll also be the first to admit that I just wanted to wear that rad beard I'd bought for a wig party again because it made me feel good.

Looking crazy always requires a lot of hairspray and backcombing (foreshadowing). Tease, spray, tease, spray, tease, spray...If you know exactly what I'm talking about, congratulations you're a crazy person.

I killed it, and did nothing but kill it some more at the candlelit party. In fact, all of us were killing it because my friends are awesome, but eventually, we decided to go be awesome someplace else. I was trying to help herd people out the door when I got my bright, shining moment.

I had no idea what had happened until it was done. In fact, the only thing I remember from what couldn't have taken more than 3 seconds was Poppy (aptly dressed as a super hero called Swift Cunt and now sole heir to my estate) throwing herself at me and frantically beating me about the head. Apparently, my hair had caught fire and lit up like a giant torch.

Next thing I knew I was on the street combing out pieces of ash and bits of hair with my fingers laughing (hopefully not manically) in disbelief but also with it enough to realize I'd struck blog gold. People fussed a bit and hairdressers were praised, but I was clearly okay and the party wasn't going to slay itself, so we continued on and had a **great night despite the fact that I smelled like death on a rotisserie.

Everyone has since given me their personal account of what went down. The common threads are: it happened very quickly, and it was horrifying.

I've also learned that others jumped in to help as well (thank you, thank you a million times) and that ultimately, I was the luckiest person in the room because not only do I not have to have skin grafts, I don't even have to get a haircut (we decided over pizza the next night that you can barely even tell), and I'm not among those who now have an image of their friend's head on fire burned into their brains forever.

I've never felt so close to Michael, and I hope I never will again.

This is Swift Cunt AKA Poppy and me not long before the incident. Fun fact: She's wearing my underwear. 

You know how in books or movies when one saves another's life, the saved is forever indebted until he/she can return the favor? That's a real thing because it's exactly how I feel. Poppy, I can't thank you enough for not hesitating for one second to put your bare hands into flames to save my neck. I hope something really bad happens to you soon so that I can save you, and you can see how grateful I really am. You're a damn good pal.



*But always in these scenarios I'll somehow know that I'll emerge completely unscathed. That bit's important.
**Except for the lion I met on the street who said, "Whoa, man! I can smell your beard from here."