2001-05-21 - 4:32 p.m.

So, my boyfriends sister took the apartment, and all is well on that front. She's excited, my friend doesn't have to deal with interviewing people, he'll get his key money, and everyone is happy. I had a long conversation last night, with one of my dearest friends, who is married with two kids. I had come across a picture of her and her husband from my wedding (she was in it) and I sent it to them, since I will obviously not be showcasing those proofs. (as an aside - I never got a wedding album, although I have the proofs. Why? I was embroiled in a big argument with the photographer about the first pass at the album, and I refused to take it. And then he died. Seriously. Just dropped dead. Man, you think I'd have taken THAT as an omen)Anyway, we were talking about how young she looked in that picture, and how we're feeling older in general. So I told her about my Thursday night.

My boyfriend has an acquaintance who is a paparazzi photographer. He had a birthday party at a club near my place, and we stopped in for a drink. Well. That club was PACKED with teenagers. I swear, some of those girls couldn't have been older than 18. Half dressed, string tie halters and low slung jeans, giggling and chain smoking. I felt all old and frumpy (even in leather pants) on one hand, and on the other? I was SO GLAD that I no longer had to spend my evenings doing that stupid shit. Because, although I was horrified at how young they were - that's what I was doing at 18 and 19, too, isn't it? The highlight of the evening was that we met the guy who wrote Rock and Roll Hoochy-Koo. "lordy, mama, light my fuse." Lyrics like that.. the guy's a genius, I tell you. Anyway, he was about 5 feet tall with a big ass gold chain worn outside his black t-shirt. I can't remember his name, though. My brain was fuzzy from all the flashing sequins and the horrible 80's music.

Anyway, my poor boyfriend paid double on Friday night, when I made him go to the swanky, fashionista filled gallery opening of our friend's showroom. P did all the artwork on the walls, and though I had seen it all in progress, the overall effect once it was done and hung and accessorized was amazing. They had avante-garde mannequins in front of each installment, champagne flowing, and a crowd almost entirely made up of pretty, pretty boys and industry women air-kissing. We walked in the door and he said to me "Um, I'm pretty sure I'm the only guy here wearing cargo pants." To his credit, he is so good about stuff like that - even when the boys tease and hug him. So after an hour of champagne and fabulousness, we got in the car and went upstate, for the start of our very good, very relaxing weekend. We were sickeningly domestic - antiquing, buying shrubs for the yard, planting flowers in pots for the deck. (a first for him - after half an hour at the nursery, he was breaking out in hives from the very thought of picking out pansies. But secretly he loved it.)

And tomorrow I'll tell you how the pool-playing dykes at the bar snubbed me. sniff.

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