lovely weekend

Ok, when I blog about being sad I always feel the need to blog again and be like "I'm happy now." I'm sure this all has to do with how I'm raised and I probably should get over it and just own my emotions. But I am happy now (if not overjoyed--Avenue Q).

I had a fun weekend, even if it was work-related. It would be fun if I could do these great things on weeksdays, and not give up my weekends, even if they are fun. But it was all the good parts of work and my favorite people who I truly love like family and the reason I'm doing what I'm doing. Not the stupid crap with office politics and such. I went to Albuquerque for a summit. On the flight home I sat next to a chatty man who was really excited about "talking to a New Yorker" and hates environmentalists and moved to New Mexico to save his marriage but I'm not sure if said marriage was to the wife sitting across the aisle. And heasked me my five year plan and I'm like, ughhhh. He suggested I be a therapist, a magazine writer or a political commentator. Needless to say, he was not a plane boyfriend, for those of you who remember my obsession of 2005.

Then I came back at 9pm which was perfect because I went to this supercrowded but really fun lesbian pride party the name of name I will not type because I feel dirty saying it. But it was fun realizing I know more people then I think I know, even if I've met almost every single one through Laurel or Lucile. But I guess that's how one grows a network or becomes part of a "scene."

Then at actual Pride I was in the parade. Which was superfun too. For art of the time I drove a van. Which I did because my friend didn't want to and he acted like I was doing a big favor, but it wasn't a favor at all because it was fun. And I honked at people and they waved back.

Then I was so tired and wet from the rainstorm so I went to be at 8:00.

rip

I had this whole blog post I was actually writing in my head when I was in the ocean my last day in Puerto Rico during my work/play trip all of last week. I was finally calm after two really shitty weeks in New York and then two intense days of amazing but tiring work in Puerto Rico where I actually felt accomplished. About how I need to learn Spanish and I feel like I should remember more from high school Spanish but then again I don't remember high school math. About how the AIDS crisis in Puerto Rico isn't going to end just because I write about it. About how scared I was about traveling alone, but how it all worked out ok. About my new friends, a gay male couple moving to Paris who I totally want to visit. About how my own personal cat lady fear is being an old fag hag. About how I stopped a purse snatcher on the beach (ok, that story's awesome so I'll write about it at some point). And about how I was happy again.

But I will not blog about that, because I'll never be able to think of the Puerto Rico trip without thinking about how in the taxi ride home I talked to my dad who broke the news that my dog Nickel died while I was gone. She was 14, which is the average standard poodle age and she wasn't in much pain for long before she died and only really started getting old this year. And the truth is, I'm at the age where my childhood pet is going to die. I never knew that before, that early 20s seems to be the average age for losing your pet, but in the last two years almost all of my friends' dogs and cats from childhood have died. It's almost like a weird natural marker. Like, ok, dogs .and cats aren't meant to live past a childhood span. The kids had their fun, now it's time to die Even now, when I say "my dog died" I feel like I need to clarify that it's my childhood dog, since I'm at an appropriate age to have my "own" dog. And if that hypothetical dog died it would be a different tragedy, since that dog would have to be young. I've never thought of any of this before.

I know it's like she wasn't ever going to outlive me, and my mom's much sadder since she lived with Nickel daily and I've been out of the house for a while, but it's sad and surreal for me. I never really understood how sad it is to lose a pet until now that it happened to me. I always say a courtesy, "I'm so sorry" when someone tells me but I didn't really feel it. I wish I could have been there when was died, but maybe it's better. All I have are the happy memories. Of picking her out when I was in third grade. Of cuddling on the couch. When she used to play balloon volleyball. How all the neighbors in our old neighborhood knew her by name even if they didn't know me. When she would hump the little black stuffed animal.

Nickel was honestly a member of my family, a little weirdly so. The joke was that I was the only member of my immediate family who wanted to admit she was a dog, when everyone else acted like she was human. And that's true. I totally loved her, but I got mad when my high school yearbook ad my parents took out, they signed her name for all of OHS to see. And I still think it's weird that Nickel's in my brother's bar mitzvah pictures. But now I feel like a member of my family died, because it's true Also like the family I had growing up is officially dead. Because it is. Even though they're divorced, my parents literally "co-parented" Nickel, with my dad seeing her whenever possible, even though I just realized he didn't even live with her for half her life. I really think my parents' newfound friendship won't really exist without Nickel as the glue. And my mom might get a dog, or I will, or my dad will, or my brother will, but we'll never have a dog. The only family I ever knew officially doesn't exist anymore. And hopefully one day I will make my own family with my own dog. But that will be that because this was this. And that's sad, but I guess this is growing up.

It’s summer in the city and I’m so lonely, lonely, lonely

So So said the wise Regina Spektor who supposedly isn’t gay even though most of her songs are about women but she’s singing in “character.” Ok, Regina, whatever. I totally don't believe you. Anyway, I am lonely, lonely, lonely, but my first need in the hierarchy of needs is coolness and I'm more so sweaty, sweaty, sweaty since it's so f-ckin hot here. I am going to splurge for A/C I believe. But my apartment actually isn't so bad, as opposed the office where I wouldn't even go today and camped out at our Brooklyn headquarters because the A/C is down and we CAN'T OPEN WINDOWS AND THERE'S NO FAN. Basically, prison. Ugh, I know in some times and place they deal with this but I grew up in an upper-middle class home in a 1st world country where I feel ok to complain about this.

I just saw kids outside my apartment who took apart the fire hydrant. I really don't think I've ever seen that before outside of books where the protaganist did outside her apartment in the ghetto. Or more likely her neighbors took apart the fire hydrant but she was inside writing short stories and being a loner, since most books are just thinly veiled autobiographies and most authors become, well, authors. That's always sort of bothered me, like, really can't you think of another career for your-loosely-based-on-you-protaganist?