To everything, turnt, turnt, turnt

Disneyworld was a blast and a half, as was flying for the first time in first class. Although on the flight there, the dude next to me straight up took out his laptop and had gay porn on there. Why one wouldn't think to minimize that shit before going into public, I don't know.

We did all of the worlds except the water world ('cause daddy ain't goin' shirtless in public anytime soon). I muchly enjoyed Expedition Everest, which was like the Matterhorn on crack; and the Rock 'n' Roller coaster, which was like California Screamin' in the dark. The weather even behaved itself. It didn't get muggy, I wasn't swallowed up by the swampland, nor attacked by crocodiles nor subject to any electoral shenanigans. Hurrah, says I.

My sister's wedding was on Saturday in Hawaii, and I was not there for varying reasons. One of them was that the event would be attended by our abusive ex-stepfather. My sister and he are apparently still close, my other sister is his biological daughter, and my mom thinks I should get over it in so many words. It was the cause of so much stress and strife that when it came down to my not being able to go because of work, it ended up working out in my favor.

On Friday, I was enjoying a Cosmo and some YouTube when I got one of those long texts from someone that you have to actually open your phone for to read. It was from Hanna, and it was letting me know she would be moving out. She'd found a place on our block and spontaneously signed a new lease. My blood ran cold for a moment as I'd been Mr. Moneybags this past year spending money like I had it. But I've known that she could move out anytime, and of course support her and am happy for her. I'll need to shift some things around financially and proceed a bit more prudently instead of like Paris Hilton on a shopping spree, but it's all manageable.

It also means the larger room will be open and accessible again, which is going to thrill Shazam the Magical Acrobat cat. When he's not ripping through books and papers in my closet, he is literally trying to drill through the bedroom floor. I caught him in the bathroom sink pawing at it as if it would give way to some new, exciting passageway to Wonderland. It will be the next step in my evolution as a crazy cat person to buy one of those cat mazes and install it in the room.

To all acquaintance be as fraught...

Twenty thirteen came in and slid out like the nice, clean surface of a bar of soap with one painful dart jabbed in for good measure.

After Hanna moved out in late 2012, I, for the first time in my life, lived on my own. I was initially frightened at the prospect because having a roommate means having someone who is there to help in case you have one of those "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" moments. But it was... kinda nice. Sure, it was odd having the larger room empty and actually accessible for the first time since I've moved into my apartment. I can remember the times when my old amiga J-Co lived with me, and we'd have sleepovers and long weekends with friends aplenty. But with Hanna's departure, it became "the larger room" instead of "my roommate's room", and the potential for a future opium den-esque meets zen sanctuary began to germinate.

Then about March of 2013, I got a panicked text from Hanna stating that her roommate was moving in the boyfriend, and had asked Hanna to move out, and would it be okay if she moved back in with me. I chewed the idea around for a moment--Hanna was a dream to live with, barely around and nice as all get out. And her portion of he rent meant more moolah for me. So the deed was done, and she moved back in, and it's been just lovely.

In matters of the wallet, I had promised myself that I wouldn't make any other major purchases or take any big vacations until my credit cards were all paid off. After spilling a cocktail on my laptop and having to buy another in February, I was briefly set back, but rallied forth, and eventually succeeded. I then immediately went about a month later and applied for a few new cards.

Not always the best choice when it comes to your credit report, but hear me out.

With a higher income and good credit history, I got on board with credit cards that had higher credit limits, points and 0% introductory offers. Plans are already in place to pay them off before said 0% introductory offers expire, so go me with my bad financially sound self.

One night in July, I woke up from a nap, went to the kitchen to get myself a drink, came back into my room, and saw my beloved cat Sugar lying still on the floor, eyes glazed and tongue out. I had always known the day would come, but not so soon. She was about 8 1/2, and was a loving constant in my life. I had never felt grief like that before. A month or two later, I found a video I'd taken on my camera of her eating cat nip that I'd totally forgotten about. I still watch it from time to time.

About a week after Sugar died, I took a long, quiet walk to the SPCA to adopt another cat. Much as I loved my little Sugar Bunny, I wanted a different temperament, so I adopted one of the few male cats they had--the wily snowcat Shazaam. And it's official: we're in love.

To close out the year, I flew my mom and myself to Vegas to visit Petula, Jo and family. We haven't all been together in ages. I won big on the Willy Wonka machine the very first night, and verily lost it all on the second. Although my family is talkative as hell and I got a little stir-crazy on day two, it was nice to see them and nicer still to hit the reset button on my psyche. When I got back home, I appreciated the fuck out of my beautiful Frisco Disco.

New Year's resolutions are painfully trite--I'm adding an additional day at the gym each week and removing Thursday as a cocktail-eligible day in the hopes of curtailing the vodka gut. The flights are scheduled and the hotel is booked for a trip to Disneyworld in March with Lavern and Ashley. And last night's trip to the End Up broke my mysterious and misplaced year-plus long streak of having not gone out clubbing.

Good times... good times...

Blather

Vine vids are the ADD-diagnoseds' delight. But for me, they're like having someone shine a strobe light directly in your eyes.

I'm always amazed by people who are completely comfortable resting their food and drinks on top of public trash cans like they're public tables. Do they not realize it's a receptacle for trash and all that that entails? Not just any trash, but public trash, which is a smorgasbord of variety the likes of which is best left unknown.

Why is it that so many cops are permanently stuck in 1986 with those Tom Selleck mustaches?

Summery Shazaam magic

Through the plight of last week with Sugar's death, the one thing that helped me pierce through the grief was the idea of adopting another cat. There was the expected feeling that I was somehow being disloyal to Sugar. But I pushed on through it. The silence of her absence had been deafening, and I knew I would never find a cat to replace her, just another furry critter to love. I'd already had the day off on Friday, so I took a long walk to the SPCA. The volunteer at the front greeted me, and showed me to the halls that housed all the kitties. Being that it was a Friday during the day, there were few to no visitors, which boded well. I was surprised at the number of kittens they had; the last time I'd been there only six years prior, there were only a few. I went from each hall to the next taking notes in my phone of the cats I wanted to check out. I knew I wanted an adult cat, preferably male, since the legends say they are more docile. Surprisingly, there were only two or three adult male cats. In the last hall, I found a cream white tabby with an orange stripe down his back named Shazaam. When the volunteer guided me into his room, he did all the adorable things cats do that are cute...gently pawing, rubbing up against you, laying on his back like he wanted to play. It was a done deal. I breezed through the adoption process and out we went. The volunteer told me that when she got the carrier out to put him in, he went straight in. We got home, and he explored every nook, cranny, corner, and surface of the pad, all the while weaving in and out of between my legs. It's been a week now, and I'm happy, though there are still occasional pangs of sadness. It may still take awhile before I feel like he's truly mine, but we'll get there. I got Sugar's ashes back on Friday, and the grief sprung anew. The gray and white tabby with the Elizabeth Taylor eyes I'd once held in my hands now reduced to a small wooden box. That same Friday, I headed out with Roze to Kokkari for Greek eats and such. One of the other things that had kept my spirits from sinking like being in the Swamps of Sadness last week was the news that she'd gotten a new job. I'd texted her the other day how amazing it was that things had changed for both of us quite significantly in just the matter of a few years. She, who'd been an intern at one job, then a staffing assistant at my job, now going on to be a central exec at her new job; and myself, who'd promoted up and seen an increase in salary I never thought I would. Last Saturday, Mr. Alterhausen and Maybelline came into town. We did Puccini and Pinetti, which was nothing to write home about, but which I'd always wanted to got to strictly because it looked cute. The second trimester-y silhouette of my figure remains a reminder of the trans fat-inspired grub I downed there. Then it was off to Martuni's for drag queen-esque drinks, piano tunes of all sorts (heard Cher's "Believe"--true story) and the bartenders with bad attitudes. Plans are in motion to do Vegas for Christmas to see Petula, Jo, and family. I'm having Lavern flown up for good measure as I think it's not been since the '90s that we've all been together for the holidays. I'll have to leave Shazaam with the cat boarder, which makes me a little heart palpatation-y. But even my ice cold heart and solitary-minded self needs to be around loved ones from time to time before I start feeling like the pathetic protagonist of some Christ-awful Hallmark channel made-for-TV holiday movie. Sheeeut...

Sugar the Kitty Cat

A little over six years ago--which feels like a lifetime ago, though it clearly isn't--I adopted my cat, Sugar. J Co was living with me at the time, and one of the provisions of her moving in was that I wanted to get a cat. My roommate prior to J Co had one--in fact, that was the primary reason I'd chosen her as a roommate. And I had not had a cat since childhood, when my mom and stepdad divorced and we moved and had to give away our two cats and dog. So after having been pet-less for over ten years, I went with J Co to the SPCA one Saturday morning, and took a gander at the kitties they had available. The place itself is like the Hilton for pets. We went into one cat's suite, and it immediately hid away from us. Then we looked at a feral one, and although it was sweet, Mr. Alterhausen had sufficiently instilled in me the danger of owning a feral cat, so I shied away from the idea. When we got to the door of Sugar's room, the little bio on the front started off saying, "Sugar wants you to know she has a little spice." What we would later come to find is that this was code for the fact that she was a mildly sheisty animal (though a shiesty animal who would own my heart in due time). There was also a rope tied around the door knob of her room and linked to one of the floor fixtures. The volunteer assisting us with the other pets had to ask a staff member to join us in our meeting with Sugar because she was a "level four". (I would later go on to create a MySpace page for Sugar, and this was the password.) At level five, they euthanize. You get the picture. But in any event, we walked in and were met with an adorable little tabby with bright green eyes, one of which was a bit wonky. She was immediately sociable. The SPCA staff member revealed that the reason for the cord on the door was that she'd gotten out a few times. Clever kitty. At one point, she latched her teeth to my finger, and I just left it there before she released. The staff member said I had responded favorably. She went on to say, "This isn't the kind of cat you can hold on your bed and pet..." but J Co and I were already sold. We wrapped her up, and took her home. That night, on my bed, we watched the Emmy's together. I was gently petting her when she suddenly whipped around, bear-clawed my hand, and drew blood. For awhile, J Co and I were kind of afraid to pet her before eventually realizing that she could and would be sweet, but only on her own terms. It wouldn't be long before I realized that instead of being our cat, Sugar slowly transitioned into being my cat in that I was the only one taking care of her, emptying her litter box, and buying her food. I eventually moved her food- and water bowls into my room, and J Co eventually moved out. That was just one of a handful of changes that transpired for the next six and a half years. But Sugar was the sole constant. I would get home, and she would be there meowing at me, demanding attention, and then just gazing at me from atop her cat tower. When I would lay in bed, she would join me, often licking me like a dog. I considered her my familiar, and believed she would live a long, long time. After all, I had been feeding her the damn expensive Science Diet food. But Sunday night, I awoke from a nap, got a drink from the kitchen, came back into my room, and saw her laying there motionless. I flew into a panic, checked her eyes and heartbeat. I called the emergency vet line, and was told they were way out on Irving Street. I rushed to get ready, and tried to find something to put her in, but I realized after my initial panic abated just a little that she was already gone. She was only eight years old. I put her little body in a box, texted my boss that I would be working from home the next day, and started to look for burial/cremation places online through tears. When I tried to sleep that night, I kept waking up, and a new wave of grief would wash over me as I would realize she was gone. I kept thinking I was hearing her meowing and thought she may have just been in some sort of coma. I dreamt that she popped out of the box, but that her throat area was missing, but that she was otherwise fine. Maybe that was what was wrong with her. I'm still trying to figure out what it was. I'm still pissed at myself that I didn't take her in for a check up just because I was trying to save up to pay off a credit card. When I called the cremation place the next morning, I couldn't even get out my name without getting all chocked up. I got a fresh towel and wrapped her in it. Her bright green eyes were beginning to fade and roll back into her head. In one of the saddest moments of my life, I taped up the little box she was in in preparation to give her over to the place. I resisted the urge about twenty times to open up the box again just to see her one more time. I knew I would just see a decaying shell of my once fluffy little angel. The man came, and I handed her over. The house has been agonizingly empty ever since. Her cat tower sits near my window. Her food bowl still has a few bits of food, and her water bowl is half full. I put the hair rollers out of place since I won't need to wipe off cat hair from my bed anymore. I was in a daze yesterday, and just took a long walk around the city, and had a few crying fits at home. I got into work this morning, and dared to listen to music on the way there, even though I knew that just one sad song would set me off. It was the very first one that came on: "Remember" by Groove Armada. I just wanted to concentrate on work when I got there, which helped distract me. But when people would come up and console me, a fresh set of tears sprung up. My room, my beloved sanctuary, now houses her memory, and it hurts to be here. Everytime I instinctively move to do something that I would have normally done for her--like refill her water bowl when I get home, leave the closet door ajar so she can get to her litter box, or turn the radio on before I leave so she doesn't feel alone--it all comes slamming back at me. Death sucks. I just want the sadness to go away without having to wait for it to naturally abate. I had just been thinking over the weekend how everything in my life has been going so swimmingly for the past few years (fuck, I just got a nice increase a work), and that something crappy has to hit at some point or another. Humans resisted the first version of the Matrix because it was idyllic, and our instinct informs us that life is not ideal. So although some people wait awhile for the grief to settle, I have Friday off, and am taking the opportunity to adopt a new cat. In my mind, there is a big welcome sign for the new kitty who I will take into my life, as I did Sugar, and whom I will give all my love in the same way he or she will. No one can ever replace my precious angel, true, but the love goes on, and so does life. I hope I see her again on the other side.

New Year's cleave

Gosh, this blog has gone to the birds. Instead of having to actually write something, I enjoy the immediate satisfaction of a quick, random thought on Facebook met with many "likes" and multiple cheering posts in response, all that give you a warm, buttery feeling. But I initially started this blog off as an online diary for amusing record-keeping purposes, and it's fit the bill, I tell ya.

So let's review 2011:Many things remained quaintly pleasant, which is a good way to describe my life even now...even though it sounds somehow stale. When you get called "faggot" and "homo" through your formative adolescent years, struggle through your 20-something years to find yourself, and then finally come to a place in your 30s that's a good place, that's a good thing.

Two people in my life, who were really quite unbelievably sweet, died rather unexpectedly. My Uncle Jake, one of the few decent, good people on my biological father's side of the family; and a treasured acquaintance, Denelle. Not to give another plug to FB here, but their profiles both remain--Uncle Jake's by his wife, and Denelle's by her partner, and parent of their son. It's nice to go back and visit their pages when the mood strikes me.

I went back to NYC and took my mom with me, her first trip there. It was an awesome feeling being in a place where I can treat her to that kind of trip, in the same way that New York is an awesome place. "Empire State of Mind" has become our song. Both the rap version with Jay-Z and the solo piano piece with just Alicia Keys, which you should check out if you've not.

Mr. Altherhausen and Maybelline came in to town and stayed at the Mark Hopkins, and we did the Osha and the Top of the Mark with great abandon the last week of December. New Year's eve was not spent at any club or party nor at the Pier's, but with L-Ha dog-sitting at her boss's posh pad in Pacific Heights--and I wouldn't have had it any other way. We had a grand time chatting it up, bashing Whole Foods, and toasting to Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper.

I've made a fortified effort this past year to pay off my credit cards before I make any other major purchases or take any other vacations, and I'm practically there. That mild conservative Republican instinct in me that I'm trying to keep at bay has me watching where my money goes, ya know?

This year will see me half way to forty...but so help me God, I will have found a way to not look it.

Cheers to 2012, Hillers!

Divis

I left work early yesterday for a doctor's appointment, followed by a haircut appointment. The salon I go to, and have gone to for well on 7 years now, is in the Castro, and I take the 24 Divisadero bus from the location where our old office used to be to get there.

The route goes through a fairly typical SF street, full of shops, restaurants, and apartments. Tascha once said, "Divisadero is a pretty happenin' street", which I openly laughed at, since it had always reminded me of the baleful task of going to and coming from work.

My first trip through Divis on the 24 when I was a faun-ish 22-year-old, I wasn't prepared for the ups and downs of the small hills, the cricks and cracks of the ancient-ass street. I had to stand pretty much the whole way, and being the high-strung young 'un that I was at the time, I strove to stay stick-still and not bump into a soul all the rollercoaster way to work my first day.

In the four years I lived in Ingleside, and then the Castro, and took the 24, I couldn't have given a rat's behind about the colorful stretch of winding SF street. It was just transitional background that couldn't have mattered less.

Yesterday, with time on my side and an actually seat on the bus, I enjoyed the chance to take it in without feeling rushed: Thai restaurant, comic book shop, gas station, health food store, butcher, used CD store, bar, Popeye's, school for the hearing impaired.

None of that sounds exactly galactic, but it's the revelation of actually paying attention to something that's always been there.