I can complain. And then I can't.

It’s official – our social life has died. Pat and I said goodbye to Alisha last night. I don’t really feel like writing about it other than to say that if she were here at work today we’d probably talk about how the 8th floor smells like spicy potatoes, how cold it is in NYC, how crazy it is that our boss is dating that guy again and what we should do this weekend besides laying out by the pool.
Other than how quiet it’s going to be around here, pat and I did have a wonderful weekend. His parents were still here, as they have been all week, and left Sunday morning. We had family brunch with his cousin. Pat brewed a Moose Drool clone he’s naming “Calm Down Brown” – and the smell of grain, hops and malt boiling – which I hated so much as a little girl – filled our small apartment like a huge family meal was being prepared in our kitchen. And then dinner at this beautiful restaurant with outdoor seating and waiters with hipster handlebar mustaches. The nights lately have been warm and blanketed. Heavy sunsets and moons. I can complain about losing a friend, but I can’t complain about being here. Not one bit.
Sunday afternoon we drove to Pat’s cousin’s inlaws house for Easter lunch. They live on a golf course touching the Tonto National Forest. The directions: drive through the desert for an hour until you dead end. Then turn right. In my mind, on the way out there, I thought “we are never coming out here again. Do they have to kill their own food?” (Look at what a city-snobe I’ve become.) But my god, they can invite me out there any time they want. The smells, the sun, the beer, the water, the bed-sized lounge chairs: I’ve decided I can live in a cardboard box, but if I have a pool and a backyard I’ll be the happiest lizard on the warmest rock. Here are the boys. And my boy.

Pat and Yo

Pool time

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