Carry On, Gloria. Carry on. -- Phoenix, Arizona

It's a little after six-thirty.

The apartment is still.

Peaceful.

These are the times I reset. 

I rub my eyes.

Where am I again? 

Phoenix. Still. On Philip's living room couch with a gigantic Barbara (I have named all blankets "Barbara". Not just one. The whole lot of them are Barbaras) wrapped around me. 

There's nothing other than the steady ticking of the clock and the persistent whirring of the fan.

Fans always whir in Phoenix.

I'm a Colorado girl. I'm not used to fans whirring in December. If I want someone to feel comfortable in my house in December, I say something akin to, "Let's go back to my place. I'll make some hot chocolate in a cuddle-worthy mug. We can turn on the heater and snuggle under a big, fat Barbara. How does that sound?"

But when Philip wants someone to feel comfortable in his Phoenix apartment, he says something akin to, "Let's go back to my place. We can make the house nice and cold. I can make you a margarita and we can watch a movie."

Nice and cold? Since when do those words go together? 

Life with Robert and Philip is relaxing. Hilarious. Full of animals, generous friends, excellent haircuts and boba tea.

Girl could get used to this...

Philip's and Robert's birthday parties were on Sunday. I finished lazily blogging away at around 2:30 and guests began to arrive around 3:00.

It's been quite a few months since I've experienced the "everyone knows everyone but me" sensation.

This sensation is liberating (I can be whatever I like and no one knows otherwise), exhausting (explaining your life story for the umpteenth time can get a little wearing) and clingy (ROBERT KNOWS ME. I'm just gonna sit next to Robert. FOREVER).

But lucky for me, Robert and Philip know good people.

Probably because Robert and Philip are good people.

People who laugh a lot.

Cook A LOT.

And do acro yoga with me when I get too tipsy to stand and can't resist putting people upside down.

No Arizonans were injured in the making of this picture. 

Introductions are funny things. I'm a terribly rude person and have the unfortunate habit of never introducing my friends to any of my other friends. This is either because I subconsciously assume that if people know me, they must know everyone else, or because I like to just give people the power to introduce themselves as they see fit.

But my friends are never remotely as rude as me. They make the concerted effort to introduce me to their friends. And my introduction is always a little odd.

"This is Aimee. She's a world traveler. She, like, trains racehorses and teaches yoga and does massage in different countries."

"I've really only been to Europe," I cringe. "I've got a long way to go before I'm a world traveler."

By the end of the evening and a few too many drinks, Philip's introductions felt much more appropriate.

"This is. Aimee. She goes places."

As I mentioned in a previous post (or eight), I don't like identities. I think they're limiting, have the potential to be crushing (when one gets lost) and can keep you from truly connecting with other people. If you're always trying to defend or validate an identity, you're not leaving yourself open to what the other person can draw out of you.

And some people draw out the most surprising things.

How? What? I didn't know I had that inside me. Where the hell did he find THAT? 

But there are times I have to recognize that my story can inspire people. And I have to let myself tell it.

I told my story a good many times Sunday evening. Before I passed out on the couch after putting half of my friend's guests upside-down.

Philip took us to his favorite boba tea place the next morning.

It's right across the street from his apartment.

Very dangerous. If I lived in Philip's apartment, I'd become a boba monster. 

Then Robert and Philip took me to the Phoenix Zoo.

And good times were to be had. All around.

I love animals, but my past experience with zoos has been a wee bit tedious. When there are as many small humans to keep an eye on/drag along as animals to watch, one starts counting the minutes instead of the prairie dogs.

But walking through the zoo with Robert and Philip was a whole different animal.

"They're so fat! I just... oh man. Look at em."

"They're like bean bags. Aww..."

"Super fat bean bags."

"I wanna play a game where we toss the prairie dogs into their holes. Like the bean bag toss."

I'm so immature. The image of flying prairie dogs kept me giggling for hours.

And because I like to name things (and Robert humors me), I started naming a vast majority of the zoo's inhabitants.

Winston. 

Geraldine. 

Bill and Ted

Zelda

Picasso

Matisse

Emile

Rupert

We decided that all quails are named Gloria. And that they are constantly rushing this way and that with the collective chatter of, "where am I? How did I get here? Why did I get here? Well, hello there, Gloria. Nice to see you, Gloria. Where are we, Gloria?"

We stayed at the zoo until it closed.

I giggled every time Gloria crossed my path.

"Carry on then, Gloria. Carry on. I'm sure you'll find out where you are soon enough. Best of luck. Tell all the other Glorias I said hello, won't you?"

The day ended with chicken tortilla soup, pomegranate margaritas and cuddle sessions with Barbara.

mmm.... Robert's and Philip's Phoenix is the best Phoenix.