Posts Tagged sad
I am currently in Las Vegas, because I am an idiot, or a masochist, or both. There is just no good reason for a person with Summer SAD to “vacation” in Las Vegas in June, but that’s what I did.
My husband had to come here for business, and because he is always extremely busy with his start-up, I decided to come on out with him. He’d be too busy working to spend time with me, but the drive to Vegas and back would give me more time to hang out and talk to him than I get in the average week, so it seemed well worth it.
Until it was 106 fucking degrees in the fucking shade and the fucking hotel room won’t cool the fuck off.
I used to spend parts of my summers in Vegas. My grandparents lived here when I was a child. Mornings would start early to get some good play time in before it got too hot. My grandfather would walk me to the local playground so I could play for a little while before the metal slide got literally too hot to use safely. Then we might walk over to 7 Eleven for a Slurpee. If I didn’t get a Slurpee, there would probably be coins left on the ledge outside the house for me to get something from an ice cream truck later in the day. They sold the house when I was 8 years old and left Vegas for a cheaper town in the middle of nowhere Nevada to retire. I drove by the house yesterday. My grandmother would be horrified to see the condition that the current owners have it in. The huge sagebrush field that I explored is now completely littered with 2 story suburban cookie cutter tract homes. Overall, it felt surreal to be there. I had planned to call my father while parked out front, but decided I didn’t really like it there, so I meandered on my way.
I stopped at a store to look for a new purse (my current one is falling apart) but had no luck with that either. Upon exit of the store into the overbearing heat, I headed back to the car when I sign across the parking lot caught my eye.
Rita’s Ice Custard Happiness
Ooh, ice custard. Do I want that?
Of course you want that. It’s happiness.
Well, yeah, but should I have it?
What “should”? It’s happiness. Go get some happiness.
It probably isn’t any good. It’s probably too expensive.
It’s Happiness, it says so right in the name, plus The Beatles say Rita is lovely.
I don’t think it is the same Rita.
Whatever, come on, people are always accusing you of being too negative. Go get some happiness. Be a person that deserves happiness.
Serious, fuck you. Alright, fine, I’ll go get some fucking happiness.
So I drag my heat exhausted ass across the hot black top toward Rita’s Ice Custard Happiness. So. Hot. I have to walk around the building when I get there, the sign was on the back of this little section of strip mall that is floating out on the street side of the parking lot. I pass the Subway that is next door, and get to the front of Rita’s Ice Custard Happiness and am greeted by a “Coming Soon” sign.
One of the rescue founders took an immediate liking to Webster, so when he arrived at my house, he already had a hold placed on him, and he never went up on petfinder.
In the first couple of days I was more focused on Mindy, and then Darby when she got back from the vet. Webster was the easy one, not that anything about it was actually easy, but in comparison, the one that ate easily was definitely a bit less stressful.
A few more days in, and their personalities started to peek out, and he was the first one to wag just because he saw me. My heart melted. He got bigger and odder looking, with a head shape that spoke of a touch of something else thrown into the mix besides the screaming signs of GSD and Husky. He was adventurous like Darby, but less independent. He was very snuggly like Mindy, but more independent.
I’m kind of crazy about him.
I might have wanted to keep him. I don’t really know. I can’t really know, because I didn’t have the option. Wanting something when you can’t have it, is a different thing. I know I didn’t want him because somebody else wanted him, that just isn’t one of my triggers. I might have accidentally gotten too attached though because he was already spoken for. He was safe. Since I didn’t have to worry about accidentally keeping him, I might not have put up the proper “not my dog” barriers that I’ve always worked to maintain with the others. When they have nobody the urge to keep them all is definitely there. A dog without a family makes me feel so sad for the dog.
However it happened, it happened. I felt like, if I could keep him, maybe I would. Indy liked him. She was tolerant of all of them, but he was the only one she ever tried to engage with. I was pretty sure that he could be raised to continue being great with the cats, since he was so young (Bear and Xander had a problem with each other). Also, really, this was just unique. I had bottle fed these little guys and gotten up every 20 minutes to deal with all the poo. Somewhere in all that, apparently too much oxytocin was releasing, because I felt intensely maternal about this set of fosters.
So, Webster left on Sunday, a day later than planned because of a vaccine side effect. Several days after Darby left the orphanage, and one day before we sent Mindy off on a plane.
I cried for London
and I just cried.
I went out to breakfast by myself this morning. I normally try to avoid paying too much attention to what other people are talking about, because I prefer to pretend I am alone in the world after some sort of armageddon, but I do not always succeed in this fantasy.
A teenage boy and his father sat at the table right next to mine. The boy looked to be about 16, and something about the way he phrased things and his speech pattern reminded me a lot of the kid, so I began to half listen, because it was familiar and comforting. They were waiting for a couple of other people to join them, and making bits of smalltalk, mostly about what to order.
Then the father asked “How is [girl’s name]?” And the boy said, “Fine,” in that age old teenage way that could mean anything from she is totally amazing to she died 5 weeks ago, and I’ve already forgotten her.
Then there was a pause.
And the boy said, “I don’t know, Dad. Sometimes, it just seems like it is so hard to talk to her. It is like I have to PRY things out of her. I have to ask all these questions because the conversation just doesn’t happen easily and feel comfortable. I don’t really like it. I WANT it to be different. I can’t exactly say that to her. I can’t tell her that I wish our conversations felt more comfortable, because that will just upset her and I don’t want to do that.”
There was a longer pause and the boy was looking intently at his father.
Finally his father said, “Yeah, uh, conversations can be difficult. I’ll be right back.” He got up and went to the bathroom.
The boy sat for a few beats, and then pulled out his cell phone and started texting.
I wanted to cry into my coffee.