Dumb dog

I refuse to write an obituary for my dog. Not because she can’t read (her fault) and not because she is still alive (her fault).  It’s because she doesn’t deserve it.

I’ve read (and wept over) countless of lengthy posts, emails, texts from friends and family members memorializing their pets – many of whom I personally gave belly rubs or enthusiastically followed on Instagram – and these dogs and cats were stand-up animals. They fetched items, they shat in pre-determined/pre-agreed-upon places, they followed at least two basic commands, and they were all extremely photogenic.

My dog has accomplished none of these things in 16 years of life.

Her reaction to my singing of Happy Birthday. Please note, the bruise on her neck was caused by the vet who gave her a hickey.

She has peed on my clothes and has hidden poop in my closet. She has woken me up hundreds of times in the middle of the night for no reason and rejected at least 50 dog beds just because. Her hidden talent is to step on the remote to change the channel at exactly the worst time. She is only interested in what I have to say when I have a turkey sandwich in my hand. She made me use up all of my airline miles to rush back home in the middle of Thanksgiving because she showered her sitter with explosive diarrhea. Her breath stinks. Her knees pop out of place and her heart murmurs. And she snores, loudly.

From the moment we met, I knew she was going to be trouble. “She’s not for show,” I was told. Later the vet confirmed, “She’s not good for breeding.” But I didn’t care for any of that. I just wanted to give my girlfriend a dog – the dream dog she always wanted – a hairless Chinese Crested. Only in the process of making that dream come true, I fell truly, madly deeply for this ungrateful Gremlin.

I’m reminded of just how much today, on her sweet, sixteenth birthday (which roughly translates into 106 in dog years). I don’t know if she’s made it this far because of me or in spite of me, but I do know that she has made my life richer in ways I never knew a 6-pound poop-machine could.

She fills my life with beautiful noise, from her feet’s pitter-patter to hearing her bark the entire time it takes me to eat a banana to her long, sustained howl when I walk through the door. And although I know one day we’ll have to say good-bye, I am certain that I will never forget how I could’ve bought a house with all the money I spent on her or how this dumb dog brought incredible joy and boundless love into my life.

Her reaction to this post. She sucks.




The birthday weekend has come and gone. And, I’m officially a year older. But, none the wiser. It has taken 96 hours to recover from the 72 hours that came before. A heavy price to pay to party like it was 1993.

and so it begins

As I hardly have any recollection of what really occurred, I will use the photos I found on my camera to tell the story. Oh, and the asterisks denote well-deserved shout-outs. You can read those at the bottom of each section.

Day 1*

The evening started off fine. I was composed, demure and ready for fun.


But, when you mix a mango-flavored hookah and vodka, something strange happens.

hookah and vodka

You see the world from a different perspective.


And, even when everything seemed to be moving fast, I was as still as an H&M mannequin.


* Thank you Nelson and Patty for being such good sports on the hottest night of the year. When our plans changed abruptly, you said okay to going to a place that required jumping over sewage to get to a rear entrance through a Chinese restaurant. That type of friendship is golden in my book. Oh, and thanks Andrew for not letting me go out barefooted. Your shoe delivery was of impeccable timing.

Day 2**

The sun is an asshole.


But, I had to battle through it. People were counting on me to make an ass out of myself.


Luckily, I had the assistance of a hat.




** Thank you Marisa for the kick-ass t-shirt. I’m sorry you missed out on grabbing J.T.’s kicks. I hear his feet stink anyway. Thank you Paul for showing up on the beach out of nowhere and then disappearing the next morning into thin air. I mean, are you even real? Aileen and Jason, thank you for teaching us the word “caneca,” which means a container formerly used for breast milk that is now used to store Don Q rum. Thank you Maggie, Jen and Kathy for making the trek and taking pictures. Thank you Necuze for being the last man standing. Thank you Dougs, Chrisses, Kristies, Sissi and Gabby for being witnesses to the mess that was Saturday/Sunday. Thank you Danny for bringing an entourage that diversified the group. Thank you Andrew and Jess for being sober. Thank you Janette for sexually harassing all of my friends.

Day 3***

Good morning angels.


Good morning Charlie.




Cake cake cake cake cake cake cake cake.


Can’t wait to blow my candles out.


*** Thank you Jess and Andrew for the morning snuggle, for the cake and for taking out Finn. Franky and Veronica, thank you for teaching me the many uses of Ponds. Thank you Bettina for your attempt to put order at a brunch in a gay bar. Thank you Marianne for making friends with the next table. Thank you Luis and Annette for teaching me the art of getting free shit. Thank you Susan for helping out with the mimosas. Thank you Jack for making the table even more fabulous. Thank you Terry for not judging my pouting as we walked all the way home.  And, thank you Adhir and Ashleigh for being so enthusiastic about eating cake.

Last, but not least, thank you Librarian for your saint-like patience, your willingness to go with my flow and for never once asking me to comb my hair or put on sunscreen.

Making dreams come true since 2001.


Caught without pants

“And this cream is for your dark circles and bags,” said the Lancome lady.


I remember when I was fifteen and bought my perfectly pink lipstick in the coolest silver case at Clinique. I also remember being twenty and stalking the MAC counter for a chance to chat up the really cute make-up artist. I remember being twenty-something and spending an entire paycheck on all sorts of funky colored eyeshadow and goopey eye liner.

Not anymore. No. According to the Lancome lady, the only funky colored eyeshadow I need is to smear under my eyes to distract from the luggage I carry under my eyelashes. In an effort to defend myself, I told her that it was probably remanence of that same goopey eye make up from the early 2000’s. C’mon, we were listening to Aqua’s Barbie Girl, it was a confusing time.

Continue reading “Caught without pants”