stop me if you think you've heard this one before

I started working at the Washington Blade in May 2007 when they snatched me up from AOL based on a recommendation from Brian Moylan (who now blogs for Gawker and used to work with me at the 9:30 Club). All I did at first was search the Internet for gay news and sometimes write a blog asserting my opinion and taking down the fundies. I had my own office and ate at Sparky’s every day. It was a pretty sweet deal. 

We never had direct deposit for our paychecks, and on payday, they waited until 3 p.m. to hand out the goods. Everyone was always hopeful, though, and we kept having Christmas parties and Best of Gay DC parties and chugging along. Eventually we moved to the National Press Building — a move which, at the time, seemed like an indicator that things were looking up. It made me feel official to be downtown in an office not plagued by roaches and their sticky traps, but I had kind of liked the dingy feeling of the U St. location. 

People began to leave — including my beloved, former arts editor Greg Marzullo and my friend Katie Volin. We never really filled their spots. We started to lay people off. My duties as “online editor” tripled — I was now building galleries and uploading the entire print edition of the paper to the site. I was reporting and writing the music column. And all without a pay increase, but at least my days were full.

When Clark became sick, the Blade, for all my gripes, was more understanding than I could have ever hoped. I was pleased because I am one of the only straight people to have been recently employed by the Blade. But they understood that Clark and I weren’t married. The lack of that piece of paper wasn’t going to get in the way of what he needed, and what I in turn had to do to take care of those needs.

I worked from home for 3 – 4 weeks, and then didn’t work at all for 2 months. And they paid me the whole time. People gave up their vacation days for me. When I came back, people left me alone when they sensed that’s what I needed, but comforted me when I held out my arms for them. There was a collage hanging above my desk to welcome me back made of photos from our parties and Pride. 

The late and bounced paychecks over the past few months stressed me out to no end. I was actively looking for other work. But I can’t believe the whole thing is gone. I can’t believe this has been my year.

much wine, much food, no cigs. thank you smittenkitchen for making this night possible. i recommend making all that was made. and i can’t wait to make french toast out of the raspberry buttermilk cake (the most simple, and obviously my dish) later this weekend.

I have relied on cigarettes to “calm” me down, or give me something to physically do, since 1 – 2 months before Clark died. After I didn’t have him to take care of anymore, the only movement I could consciously perform was to lift my hand to place the cigarette between my lips and then flick my thumb over the wheel of the lighter. Relief. Maybe because they were always there. So reliable – I could always go out for a smoke. 

So yesterday was the first day since at least May that I haven’t had a cigarette. Not one. I’m really proud of myself. 

In trying not to smoke, I’m going to put $8 (which is roughly how much a pack costs in downtown D.C.) in a jar for every day I do not smoke as an incentive. I was spending roughly $25 – $30 per week on cigarettes — that’s around $120. You know what I could buy with 120 extra dollars per month? I hope to find out.

Now it’s become that the walk to and from yoga is too dangerous. I saw what I look like when I’m about to cry because I did it in the mirrored elevator at work today. I think I must look like that for the entire trek down 16th, Columbia, and onto 18th. At 16th and Irving there’s an apartment Clark and I once looked at for maybe 20 minutes. At 16th and Columbia is the Argonne, where we lived for a year. Then the CVS where I picked up his prescriptions. Then Crumbs & Coffee, where he’d pull up and I’d run in to get sausage, egg and cheese bagels and coffee before every early morning journey we took to the oncologist in Baltimore. The Safeway, where he went after an outburst spurred by the fact that our apartment fridge contained none of his favorite condiments. He came back with kimchi, brown mustard and real mayonnaise. City Bikes, where he bought his Masi, and the crappy bodega-type store next to it where he’d mock the jewelry in the window by offering to buy it for me for my birthday or for when we got engaged. Asylum, where we had twice weekly taco nights. Even from the yoga studio, I can see Biltmore Street, which I haven’t been down since I left that day in May after Jon carried him down the stairs and into the back of the car. I went to one of my favorite places to eat, Open City, after yoga the other day, and had to walk across that bridge. One of Clark’s old doctors from NIH lives on Lanier, she once told us, and I wonder if I’ll ever run into her, and if I did, what she would say to me. Then the bridge, and the other end of Biltmore Street. I would shuffle-run across that bridge from the Metro station at Woodley every day. Sometimes I’d do it twice a day, because Clark couldn’t wake up at noon to take his pain medicine, even though I’d call his phone between 10 and 20 times. I’d have to be there, shake him, watch him down the pills and go back to work, which was always harder than leaving in the morning.

We ate there once. Grabbed coffee from that place. Peered in the window of that store together. Don’t step on the grates, he’d say, you might fall through. And I still can’t.

We went to the best gay bar I’ve ever been to this past weekend. They played: The Pixies “Here Comes Your Man,” The Spice Girls “Stop,” The Cranberries “Zombie,” Lady Gaga “Paparazzi,” and lots of Smiths. It was the greatest.

The best part is that the bar promotes its Twitter page on this TV screen that also displays the specials. This is what the Twitter page looks like, right now: