my life, even my earthquake - unfair

snif !

This morning I woke up and walked through my kitchen to the bathroom.

There I contemplated my bad dreams for about five minutes.

Then I walked back through the kitchen to see the ONLY photo I know to exist of me and my dad (that conveys any real affection between us - me, a one year old sitting in her high chair, my dad in his hat, clearly just home from work - bending down to kiss me) laying on the floor, shredded, scratched, chewed, and actually in half.

The missing half is being digested by my cat, Scout, right now.

That's quite a snack.

When I saw this I shrieked.

It was unbelievable.

Thankfully, our faces (mine, my dad's - happy faces - now stupid, almost eaten faces) are still intact. If you can call it that.

I had had this and about five other photos in my date book in my hand bag.

My hand bag was on the kitchen table - where I left it when I got home from work yesterday.

Oddly, I had had a conversation at work the day before about that very photo.

I had no idea that would be the last time I would see it like that. Square. Clear. Uneaten.

I had it in my date book for a few weeks. I was showing a friend at work my niece's graduation photo.

Then she and another person saw the other photos and asked to see them. I told them how this was my favorite photo of my dad.

I have been having issues with photos lately - and they have been well documented in this blog.

This was one of the photos I used to recreate my childhood kitchen (also documented in my blog).

Meanwhile, Scout has shown no remorse.

She really did have to dig though my bag, too - to find this photo.

The neighboring photo (in my date book) with no people in it - of my dad's teen aged bedroom in the late fifties (where he had what can only be described as a wet bar)?

Uneaten.

Why not that photo instead?

Why the only photo I have of my dad kissing me?

Why?

So, I put what was left of that photo in a drawer.

Maybe I will recreate it in a drawing. That would make sense.

That almost inspires me..

Oh, and there was an earthquake yesterday.

And somehow I missed it.

Even though I was wide awake at the time.

This bothered me all day, yesterday.

Everyone at work said they felt it. Everyone had stories about it

I just couldn't understand how I could miss something like an earthquake.

Am I that wrapped up in my petty problems?

Then, last night, I remembered something.

That moment, early Friday morning, when I silently, hatefully, self righteously deemed my downstairs neighbors supreme assholes for stomping continuously (drunks!) up the back stairs at 4:45 in the morning?

That was probably the earthquake.

As well, that moment of concern (terror) when I felt certain that someone was in our kitchen - that was probably the earthquake, too.

And the way the cats were bolting around and crying and seemed like they were trying to tell me something - earthquake, all earthquake.

I feel a round of "this is my earthquake - this is your earthquake", coming on.

We don't have earthquakes in Chicago.

So when we have one (and we didn't actually have one - it was down state, way downstate) or anything related to one - we make it ours.

Because in Chicago - it's us, not you. Always.

Oh, and when I heard the dishes clinking in the sink - that was the earthquake, too.

And when my rent was late because because I forgot that the check was in my date book (the very same date book of the photos)?

That was the earthquake, too.

See how that works?

foodie, goodie - will they ever rhyme?

The food at work is out of control.

Sometimes it's leftover catering that was brought in for a client.

At some point this is lovingly placed in the lunchroom/vending machine area.

And there it is:

Spinach pasta drenched in wonderful olive oil - with capers, kalamata olives, goat cheese, garlic, herbs and just enough sun dried tomato.

(just enough)

And half a cake.

(any kind of cake)

And people keep baking cookies.

And we always have left over prop food.

Which could be anything - like pettifours, or a beautiful forty dollar wedge of cheese (don't worry, there's, at minimum, a loaf of whatever was the best looking, most relevant bread to go with the cheese).

And we have to eat these things. Right away.

Because they're just going to go bad.

Because under what other circumstances would we have access to a forty dollar wedge of cheese?

GO KRAZY!

Six months ago?

This didn't matter. Not to me. This was great.

But a combinations of things happened in the interim.

Things that began with quitting smoking.

Things that were complicated by being relaxed and happy.

(apparently it was my millions of problems that had kept me thin)

And so my body powered down.

Way down.

Then I turned forty. And my metabolism simply shut down.

metabolism: cancelled

What a cliche. But no one was geralizing.

It is at exactly forty that one's metabolisms run out.

I've gained 100000 pounds.

Even if I am tall - that's a lot of me.

I can hide - I have been hiding, but not from myself, people, not from myself (aria).

So welcome - this is the larger me.

largess

I wonder what that word means. I fear it means me.

Size, large.

large

I'm still deciding whether to take action or accept things as they are.

(and not eating is not an option)

lovin' life - right here, right now!