And we're back to this bullshit again. So much for me being optimistic about all parties involved behaving in a civil manner.
And while I'm up and all private-like: Fuck off, lady. Let me remind you that you left him. Stop being all pissy when he continues his life without you, because, if you recall, YOU DIDN'T WANT HIM ANYMORE. Get over it, woman.
Another thing adding to my mid-January depression is the horrific earthquake in Haiti. I could not even begin to comprehend the loss and destruction, the fear and devastation those people are facing right now. And to happen to such a poor unstable nation such as Haiti...
It's maddening, because you're looking at the footage on CNN and you see these people in such pain (oh my god, did you see the footage of that 11-year old girl trapped in the building? My heart was breaking the entire time) and you feel so helpless and frustrated and you want to grab a couple gallons of water and hop on a plane and go there and DO SOMETHING besides just lolling about the house bemoaning how down you feel because you're an ungrateful wench who has a roof over her head, a steady job, food in her fridge, to say nothing of her wonderful friends and boyfriend and oh yeah, her health and able body, so she should shut the hell up already and stop looking at what she doesn't have and instead be thankful for what she's got because meanwhile, while you're being all selfish and self-centered, people are dying in agony in Haiti.
At least, that's the way I feel.
I had similar feelings after Hurricane Katrina and ended up having a full blown melt down about the entire thing, because while FEMA was doing fuck all and dead bodies were lying in the streets, I was living the cushy life. And my guilt and inability to directly help literally caused me to lose my shit for about two days.
So you donate to the Red Cross, you pray, you give blood, etc. You do what you can. Because not all of us can work for Doctors without Borders and as much as I would like to help, I don't have a medical degree or know how to operate a backhoe. And I would probably be more of a hindrance than a help, I would be in the way, I need training, etc. And money is just as valuable as my time. And I have a full-time job that I need to stay at so I can pay my bills and whatnot.
But you know what I do have? A camera. And some basic photography talents. And two hands.
Here's the deal: A bunch of professional photographers in Philadelphia are gathering for a benefit on January 31. If you need your headshots done or want a family portrait taken or if you have promotional photos you need for your business: This is the day to get them done. Because on January 31, the photographers participating in Shoot for Haiti will be charging just $50 for their services. And that $50 goes right to the American Red Cross Haiti disaster relief.
Now I've signed on to help out this day, but I will probably not be working as a photographer at the event. Because I'm not technically a professional. I will be doing administration work, set up, tear down, and generally assisting wherever they want me.
BUT, in the spirit of giving and volunteerism, all my services for the month of January (..and probably February too) cost just $50 and will go to Shoot for Haiti/American Red Cross. This includes the work I did this past weekend, although my subjects don't know it yet. So if you want photos done by me, sign up now. ALSO, if you want to buy prints from me, the cost will be $25 and all proceeds will also benefit Shoot for Haiti/American Red Cross. So if in the past I've taken an awesome photo of you, sign up to buy it now!
I should note that the benefit on January 31 is just the first benefit to be organized by Shoot for Haiti and more will probably follow. I will keep you posted.
Facts on Facts: I have never, in my life, felt pretty.
Ever.
Tonight, Krista and I played true confessions. I admitted:
1) I would change everything about me if I could.
2) Anytime a guy has liked me, anytime, ever, I have always considered it a momentary lapse; a temporary insanity.
3) I hate how seemingly easy it is for other people. I admitted to a lot of envy and jealousy for girls in our group. Girls that I love. Girls that I would trade places with in a heartbeat. Girls who I have analyzed, studied, and copied in an effort to be that careless and light when it comes to attention from members of the opposite sex. Girls who don't realize how lucky and easy they have it. How fucking nice it must be to be thin, and pretty.
4) How fucking douchey men can be.
5) How despite all my accomplishments and talents, I will always be less. Second best because I don't fit into a nice package.
6) How all it takes – after fooling myself and building myself up for months – is one asshole comment from a guy to tear it all down again.
I hate being this way.
Edit: Realize now that I was being a self-loathing wanker and need to MOVE ON ALREADY, because this kind of thinking, behavior, and attitude is frankly getting old and boring. See two entries above for why it's not deleted completely.
I was going to give you a quick write-up about my time in Chicago, but something happened last night that took precedent over the entire weekend.
Arriving home from Chicago, I had just enough time to shove some food in my mouth and run a brush through my hair before heading out to rehearsal. After rehearsal, I came home, exchanged some pleasantries with Gary (who retired to his bedroom), and flopped down on the couch. All I wanted to do was unwind a bit and watch the series finale of Battlestar Galactica. (which, WOW, btw). The kitties were all over me, curled up for some quality time after my weekend away. Things were good, Starbuck was tapping out the secrets of the universe, and I was chilling out.
Suddenly, Galahad perked up and dashed into the hall, to be quickly followed by Dill and Kayla. I didn’t think too much of it – I assumed there was a bug of some sort. We get a lot of moths this time of year and the cats enjoy chasing them around. I was also, frankly, pretty focused on the show. And then something dark in the hall flitted into my peripheral vision and disappeared again. Wow, I thought. That must be a pretty big moth. It happened a couple more times and just when I was starting to get suspicious of it, this flew into the room:
As I was lying on the couch, it flew directly over my head. It was a terrifying moment wherein I envisioned the bat swooping down and eating my face. So I did the only thing I could do: I bolted upstairs, screaming for Gary the entire way and praying the bat wouldn’t follow me.
Here’s the thing: I am a brave, liberated chic. I will kill my own bugs – spiders, beetles, those creepy-ass centipedes we get, even roaches (which I despise) – I can do it. I’m not particularly fond of wild mice or rats, but once faced with them, I can steal myself and take care of business.
But bats? No. Just…no. For one thing, they carry a lot of disease. Like, a LOT. Rabies, first of all. But also SARS and the ebola virus. Second, they fly. Adding wings to a rat changes the entire equation. Since it can fly by it’s own volition, has sharp teeth and claws, and can give me deadly viruses? It has an advantage over me.
And you know what else? I don’t need that bullshit in my life. I’ve got enough problems as it is without disease-carrying winged creatures in my house.
Frankly, when faced with a bat in my living room, I turn into Martha Plimpton in The Goonies:
Rabies! Rabies!
So I have never been so glad that I live with a man than I was last night. I hurled myself into Gary’s room without even bothering to knock, and demanded he put his XY chromosome to good use.
Gary: [getting up, looking panicked] What’s wrong, what’s wrong?! Me: There is [pant] A BAT IN THE LIVING ROOM. You need to take care of this. Gary: That’s all? A bat? Me: Whatta you mean, “That’s all?” What else do you want? Gary: [chuckling] It’s just a bat. Me: EXACTLY. GO GET RID OF IT. I can’t handle this. Gary: What would you have done if I wasn’t home? Me: I would have left. Abandoned the house and the cats and just left. Once a safe distance from the house I would then call the landlord and have him take care of it. Gary: You know that bats are all around here, right? Like, they live in that tree right next door. Me: I know, I’ve seen them, and that’s fine. They can live out there. They belong out there. But they do not belong in my living room, so get it out right now I'mnotkiddingsohelpmegodthisismyseriousface.
Gary chuckled his way downstairs and went searching for the bat. But he was unable to find it. “Come down and show me where it is,” he called up to me. By the mirth in his voice, I could tell he thought I had made the incident up. I creeped downstairs to help.
As we were driving to the fair a few weeks ago, Mike recounted how he recently was sent on an EMS call to our old apartment in Ardmore. Which, if you remember, we sort of loved, but was a dump. The reason for the call: The girl now living in Kelly’s old room had a cockroach crawl into her ear while she was sleeping. We did not have roaches while we lived there but if we had I would have picked up and moved, let me just tell you. At the time, I told Mike that I couldn’t imagine anything worse happening to you while you sleep. But I was wrong. Because as I was creeping down the stairs I remembered hearing on NPR that bats can bite you while you sleep and you will never know. You wake up with rabies, surprise!
I was also remembering a story QK told me about her mom – that a bat got in the house, and they thought they had got it out, but instead it hid, of all places, in their bed, burrowed under the covers. QK’s mom didn’t realize until she crawled into bed and was – I swear to god – lying on top of it.
There was no way in hell I was having either of those things happen to me. So I went downstairs to help Gary locate it.
“Where is it, where is it?” he kept asking me. “I don’t know where it is now,” I told him. “It was flying around the living room the last time I saw it.” And a few seconds later, it flew back in, causing me to haul ass back upstairs to the sounds of Gary’s laughter.
Gary managed to apprehend the bat within a few minutes, and release it safely into the wild. I am now freaked about how the bat got into our apartment in the first place. Best as I can figure, it squeezed in through one of the small openings between the panes of our old windows. Considering I’ve lived for 4 years in this apartment and never had a bat enter before, I’m going to consider this a freak occurrence. Either that, or the vibe of QK moving in is drawing the bats near. Not only does her mom have that bat story, but QK has a few of her own, as well.
Gary had made so much fun of me for this whole incident, but I don’t care. I feel very rational in my dislike of bats in my personal living space. And considering he did the dirty work and captured the bat, he has free reign to do so.
Having just got back from seeing Julie & Julia, I am now in the proper mind frame to talk about this. Never mind that were Julia Child alive she would be horrified at what we ate last weekend. The point is that the movie made me hungry. Just like the fair makes me hungry.
This year the fellow fair attendants were: Kelly (of course), Mike (YAY! I missed him so much!), Krista and Christopher. Driving up to Jersey it was just Kelly, Mike and I in one car, and when Kelly turned the car on, I channeled my mother for a minute and gleefully yelled out "Roomie Car!" It had been ages since I'd seen Mike, and I don't care. It was nice having just the three of us, together again.
Once we had all reached Kelly's parent's house, it was time to head to the Fair. Per tradition, we take the Falcon to the Fair. However, this year we originally thought we would have too many people to take just one car. So Kelly's dad, being awesome, got her sister Danielle's Falcon ready too. Only issue? It's stick. Specifically, a "Three on the Tree." Out of all of us, Krista was the only one who knows how to drive stick, and being a car lover, was stoked to drive it – even though we technically didn't need to take two cars anymore.
Krista is brave of heart. I rode with her to the fair, and let me just tell you: That car is not messing around. It is a tricky beast. As it's from the 60s, it's a bit...old. And not particularly fond of idling. And for a while there, the drive to the fair was all bumper to bumper at lights. And so, it would stall. And then when she had to put it into first gear (I assume it was first gear. My car shifts automatically, so what do I know?) the car would make this awesome clunking farty noise. We were so so cool driving in that thing. And then once we reached the fair grounds, they made us park on a hill. I swear, never in all the time we've been going to the fair have we ever had to park on a hill. Of course it would be this year. But like I said, Krista is incredible and rocked it.
And then...oh the fair. Oh, the food. The week before we went to the fair, Kelly's mom called her and told her that they had extended the main food aisle. We sort of thought she meant that they had just moved food from other locations. But no. There was somehow more food at the fair this year. And so the theme this year was about branching out and trying new things.
Full list:
Corn! (Krista went back for seconds, later in the day!)
Red velvet cupcakes
Rice Krispie Treats
Baked Potatoes of the Lord
Nachos (A new fair food this year! I tweeted a photo to show how amazing they were)
Mini Donuts (Another new fair food. They literally melted in our mouths. Awesome.)
Watermelon
Beef jerky
Corn Dog
Fudge
Gyro
London Broil Sandwich
Ice cream
Frozen chocolate covered banana
Pretzel
Pickle
Ice cream waffle sandwich
Bratwurst
Kettle Corn
Deep fried pickles (another new food item, also awesome)
And then we were sufficiently stuffed. For all of 2 hours. Because when we got back to Kelly's parent's house? We ate some cake. And uh, then Kelly made onion dip and we ate that with some chips. And then, since it was Danielle's belated birthday, had some ice cream cake with her to celebrate. And then we were finally full. For a little while.
Driving back from the fair was also an adventure. Namely that Danielle's Falcon stalled on the hill and had to be pushed by Kelly, Mike, and Christopher. While I was particularly useless and stood with the other, idling Falcon.
And speaking of being useless and motor vehicles...I should just not drive things other than my own car. Because that evening after we got back, we went tooling around the property on the golf cart and I took a turn driving it. And I may have nearly flipped the golf cart whilst trying to take a turn too fast and barreling downhill. Whatever. The point is that I didn't actually flip the golf cart, I merely flung Kelly and Christopher violently out of it while taking that turn. Later, because apparently they hadn't learned from the golf cart incident, they offered me a turn driving one of the mini motorcycles Kelly's dad just purchased. Yeah, I drove that thing for about three seconds and realized that motorcycles? Not for me. I'm not exactly sure what I looked like driving that thing, but it was enough to nearly make Christopher wet his pants laughing at me. Never forget how awesome I am.
Now that Fat Kid Weekend is over, I came to the harsh realization that I need to fit into a dress for Murder! and...yeah. Kind of fat rolly over here. Time for crash dieting, friends.
Well, really, I don't know what to say. I'm not sad, exactly, but I do find the entire thing completely unbelievable in an I-can't-wrap-my-head-around-this way. Michael Jackson is one of those iconic celebrities you expect to always be there.
Just like everyone else today, I'm contemplating the influence MJ had on my youth and musical tastes. I'm not going to lie to you: Growing up I was a pretty big fan. I remember having both this poster and his Bad/Pepsi poster hanging up in my room. I own Thriller on both vinyl and cassette. (And, Lord help me, remember thinking he looked quite foxy on the album cover in that white suit and with that tiger.) I remember clearly the first time I saw the video for Thriller; watching with my brother, terrified and mesmerized at the same time. Perhaps my love of zombies comes from that moment.
And let's take a second to talk about the dancing. Linda over at NPR has a really good write up about Michael Jackson's performance on Motown 25, which I am really too young to remember properly, although I feel confident that I "watched" it with the rest of my family. Think, for a second, what an impact the Moonwalk made on dancing. For that matter, think about the impact of all Michael's moves have made on dancing. I'm pretty sure modern day popping and locking is heavily influenced by him. I mean, look at this video for "Smooth Criminal" (which I can remember boggling my mind the first time I saw it -- was it a movie? TV special? What was that lean thing?) and marvel:
All of this is not to forget all of his later sideshow behaviors, plastic surgeries and misdemeanors. I'm not excusing or forgetting any of that. Sars sort of says it very well, as she always does. Thing is, despite all of that, I like his music very much, and growing up (prior to his forays into facial reconstruction and alleged child molestation) I enjoyed being entertained by him.
I've been reading and rereading many zines of late (THESIS OMG), and last night I came across a quote that took my breath away:
For years I loved with heartbreaking intensity. Desperation. I opened up fast as possible. Quick, quick, see me before it is too late. — Doris 23
Well, yeah. I can relate to that, just a bit.
Things with Brisket, as you may have gathered, are weird. A few weeks ago we had The Talk. I hadn't intended on having The Talk, but a conversation about respecting me and my time morphed into that and let me just tell you, if I owned a TARDIS I would go back in time and prevent it from ever happening, just so I could continue being blissfully ignorant. We're on different pages. Possibly in different books altogether.
And yet...I can't bring myself to completely let go. I don't think he can either. There's too much I like about him. I can list his faults over and over and over: his immaturity, his selfish behavior, his unwillingness to grow up. But all I can remember is how well we connected, how attractive and special I feel with him, our stimulating conversations, our passion, how for months we couldn't get enough of each other.
I would give anything to get back there. Even if it was false.
We took a break for about two weeks, and I get the impression that since The Talk he's been purposefully holding back so as to avoid and prevent me from getting hurt. I also have a (completely unfounded and irrational) suspicion that he might have someone else he's messing around with — which is 100% allowed per our agreement from back in the day to "keep things casual."
Since The Talk, the ball has been in my court. He left it to me to decide if I wanted to Just Be Friends or continue Doing Whatever It Is We're Doing. I am in control. I've opted to try to continue Doing Whatever It Is We're Doing, because I am deranged. I know I shouldn't settle or compromise.
But I know other things.
I know that I am too emotional, and a serial monogamist. I've never casually dated anyone. I've only been in serious relationships. I know I take things too seriously, too deeply. I feel it all. I know that I need to learn to relax and not hold so tight. I think, on some level, all this bullshit is supposed to help me, to teach me how to be casual and simple when it comes to men. Get back to basics.
I also know I am unwilling to go back to where I was before Brisket: Lonely, alienated, the odd girl out. Celibate. Pathetic. I know how hard it is for me to find someone I like. I know my past follies and crushes and how disastrous they all turned out to be. I am unwilling to give up on someone I find to be intellectually stimulating, attractive, funny, and who (miracles of fucking miracles) actually finds me attractive as well. I haven't had that for FIVE FUCKING YEARS. Why should I give up on that so easily? I refuse to be that girl again, standing alone while everyone else is paired up around me, all happy in their love. Fuck that noise.
I'll take what I can get. I should be damned GRATEFUL.
I can hear you. I hear you ALL, shouting at me through cyberspace. Telling me that I'm a beautiful flower, that I'm awesome, that he sucks. Telling me that you love me, telling me that I'm wonderful. Telling me he doesn't deserve me.
You're right. He doesn't deserve me.
But I want him.
I should have him. If I'm so much better than him, I should be able to have him, right? He was supposed to be my reward. My reward for Prince Fucking Charming and for having to deal with lecherous men, for having to listen to men make careless and hurtful remarks, for all the nights spent alone, for all my doubts. I want him to want me. Why can't I have this thing, this one thing?
I know he's ultimately wrong for me. I know I don't want him to be my boyfriend.
I want it to be the way it used to be. Intense, giddy, saucy. Fun. I'm trying to let go, relax, to retrace my steps.
Whatever.
Here I am. Things are fine. I fall too hard, I'm setting myself up for disaster, I give too much, and I'm being stupid.
Winter is still here. It's still goddamned February, shortest month of the year that somehow manages to feel the longest.
Everything is cold. Nothing is growing or changing. The ground is hard and unyielding.
I hate being cold. I'm sick of being stuck in frumpy sweaters and bulky coats. I'm tired of static electricity zapping me every time I try to pet the cats or touch a light switch. I'm irritated at my dry itchy skin and my sore chapped lips.
I am sick of my own damn self. I am crawling out of my skin.
Everything seems so monotonous and unsatisfying.
The past couple years I've had school to distract me from this feeling. Classes and busy work that I need to plunge into, push through and force myself to move and act. This year? I'm independently working on my thesis. And given my mood, I am lacking in motivation right now to do anything. I am lethargic.
I want to hibernate. I want to hide under my covers and not come out until it's warm and the sun lures me out.
I've been sleeping more lately, going to bed earlier and waking later. My sleep is restless and I wake anxiously in the middle of the night, my pajamas and covers twisted and binding me.
I had a dream last night. I was in England. Kelly was with me. We were sharing a flat. When we opened our windows, the salty smell of the ocean blew in and we were invigorated by it. We sat on our balcony, eating bread and cheese, watching boats pass by on the water. Tree branches hung over us, green leaves gently waving in the breeze. We were talking about boys, Christopher and Brisket, laughing.
I woke up completely disappointed that dream was not my reality.
Brisket: Come on. How am I supposed to secure you if you won't tell me?
Me: [pause] Because it's not your job to secure me. These are my insecurities and my hang ups and therefore its my job to get over them.
Brisket: I could help. I could, you know, reassure you, or whatever.
Me: You could. And I would believe you for about 2 hours and then go back to my hang ups.
==
Brisket and I had this conversation the other night whilst cuddling. I forget how we got to this particular point in the discussion, but the main point is this: I confessed to having a great number of insecurities about myself and concerning him.
I know that these insecurities, for the most part, are ridiculous and nonsensical. Like, how I think he must be imagining he's with someone else when he's with me. Someone prettier and thiner.
And before you all start yelling at me in comments, I KNOW. I AM FULLY AWARE THAT THIS IS ABSURD AND MISGUIDED AND I AM A BEAUTIFUL FLOWER, OR WHATEVER. I know it's stupid and so wrong you could sing about it. This is why I refused to tell Brisket about this particular doubt. It's wrong. I know it's wrong. And yet, I slip into this insecurity like a comfortable sweatshirt. I'm so used to feeling that way, that when confronted with someone who obviously thinks I am pretty, sexy, and rad that I must question it instead of taking it at face value.
I've talked about this before. And I promise you all I am really trying to work on this about myself. To develop more confidence in my abilities, in my looks, in who I am.
I'm writing about this now, because I feel like I've reached a pivotal point in my life, where many aspects are finally coming together. I feel like I am on the brink of some major awesome. But I also feel like this major awesome is dependent on me and the ability to assert and believe in myself.
It began at Imbolc. At one point in the ritual we were invited to go to Brigit's well, dip our hands in and purify ourselves. Then, if we felt the need, we could go to Brigit herself and seek guidance. There were two Brigits present at this point - one for healing and one for inspiration. I sought inspiration first and then sought healing. When it was my turn, the healing Brigit held out her arms to me and drew me close.
"And YOU," she said, pulling me closer, "You are so strong and don't even realize it. You have to remember that you are perfect, in and of yourself. The Gods and Goddesses created you and made you perfect. To deny this is not only to deny yourself, but also them. Relax in your own being. Trust in your perfect self. Do what you need to do to be healthy and happy, but remember that you are perfect. Trust in this."
Well, I don't know what Brigit said to other people that night, but what she said to me was right fuckin on with what I needed to hear.
CUT TO yesterday Mikey Likes It and I getting into a conversation about, of all things, cosplay. He kept on insisting I could pull off a Silk Spectre. He was being so adorable in that guy-friend way by trying to tell me that I had a nice bust line for the costume without sounding like he had been checking out my boobs. At which point I noted that while I may have a good-sized chest, what is below the chest prevents me from wearing the costume, namely, my fat roll. He sighed at me heavily, "Katie," he told me, "you need to take a hatchet to that insecurity tree of yours."
CUT TO today on the phone with QK having a reading. We were on the topic of Brisket and she was encouraging me to keep it light and fun, just like we have been. "What is important for you to get out of this, is the confidence and the boost to self-esteem he is giving you. Which you needed." She paused for a minute as if listening to someone else whispering. "And for god's sake, use it. Drink it in and believe in it. Like, he's not lying to you. Stop being so...negative about yourself." She spat the last three words out as if they tasted bad. It was as if she had been there for our conversation and knew exactly what had passed between us.
I think the universe is trying to tell me something. And I'll be damned if I don't listen.
Comments disabled because yes, I KNOW. I am working on it. This post is part of me trying to work on it.
Recently, I noticed that I'm sort of...squishier than I used to be. Like, I've never been a bean pole or cut or anything (I've always been a bit plump), but I had skimmed down last spring (It all went to hell in late summer), and then re-adjusted slightly while I was in the UK because I was walking everywhere. But as the cold months blew in (along with the holidays), I have found myself where I am every winter: Curled up with something starchy and/or cheesy to help pack on blubber for these cold, cold winter months.
Not helping is the fact that it's also hibernation time — I get so lazy and blue this time of year. It's dark, it's cold, all I want to do is hunker down under blankets with books and kitties.
Normally I would let this phase pass and come spring jump into action eating better with more fresh produce and going out and doing shit. However...Brisket.
I find myself getting quite self-conscious. Like, using candles not because they're romantic, but because provide softer light and my cellulite isn't as easily visible. Doing that ridiculous stomach-suck thing to make him think that I do not, in fact, have a squashy fat roll of sadness around my middle.
Brisket, of course, hasn't said anything nor behaved in any manner that would make me think he's noticed nor cared if he did. Someone once told me that sexiness is about confidence, which I believe is true. If I work what I got, he won't notice what I don't have (namely, a tiny waist). However, it's hard to be confident when we're snuggling and all of the sudden his hand finds his way to my stomach and ohmygod he's TOUCHING the ROLL and the CREASE and Christ, I'm all lardy and oh god oh god. And then I have a mental freak out followed by a mini come-to-Jesus with myself, all silent and secret-like in the space of 25 seconds so he won't think I'm a neurotic freak show. Which of course, I am.
All of this by way of saying that I've signed up for this* in May and starting TONIGHT, DAMNIT, I am beginning training. Jiggly bits shall be no more.
Any help and motivation you can give me — aside from 80s telling me I'm a fatty because I know I'm a fatty, I mean something constructive — would be appreciated.
*The 5K. Not the Half-marathon. I'm not completely insane.
Last night — because I am the best sister on the PLANET, let me just tell you — I drove home to Lebanon so I could pick up a prop for my brother's play. Since I was in town, I had to stop by and see my parents. They would have had a conniption fit had they learned I was in town and didn't pop in. So I drove down Canal Street, parked in my usual spot, and had a quick visit.
I grew up on Canal Street. I ran up and down the little alleyways connecting the row homes, jumped rope and scrawled hopscotch boards in chalk on its sidewalks. The street has remained relatively unchanged since I was 4: A lick of paint here or a new porch railing there, sure. But mostly, everything is exactly how it was when I was growing up.
It's funny how comfortable and reassuring something like that can be. By the same hand, it's something that quickly becomes taken for granted and forgotten about. When I parked last night, I didn't even register or think about the neighborhood. I was so preoccupied with saying my hellos and getting back on the road, that I didn't take notice to what's been there all along.
In the middle of the night, my parents were woken up by the smell of smoke and then sirens. The three houses directly across the street from my house were on fire. One of those houses belonged to Mrs. W, who has been there since I was 8. She and her husband just remodeled their downstairs this past summer. A week and half ago, Mrs. W caught my dad getting out of his car after work and said to him, "Good neighbors are hard to find. Merry Christmas!" and pressed a box of opera fudge into his hands.
It breaks my heart to think of Mr. and Mrs. W and those 8 other people now being homeless, having lost everything so quickly. It terrifies me to think what could have happened if an ember had blown across the way to my parents' roof. Canal Street is not particularly wide; had fireman not arrived when they did, much more of the neighborhood could have been damaged. Just looking at this photo boggles my mind. I can't believe these houses that have been there my entire life, have been gutted beyond repair in a few short hours. These people lost so much last night: Their photographs. Their clothes. Their memories. Please think of them tonight — they need all the good, positive, healing energy the new year can bring.
ETA: I am trying to find out if there's a clothing/support drive for these neighbors. I'll keep you posted if I find anything.
You guys. Have you seen what the market is doing today?
I mean, for fuck's sake. Maybe I shouldn't have discounted my grandmother so much 7 years ago when she was hording hundreds of dollars in coffee cans. Granted, I blamed that on her increasing dementia (she often thought it was 1937 and I was her sister) and paranoia (she kept telling me robbers were coming to take her money and tried to get me involved in elaborate schemes to hide the money from the thieves), but she may have instead been incredibly prophetic.
There's also this, which gives some black humor to the situation. And REALLY?!?!
For real, I think there's like $29 in my 401(k) right now.
