Snap Out Of It!

I've been having strange dreams lately. It's probably because my life is in flux right now and I'm uncertain about my future. After 7 years, Paul is finishing his phD in Physics this spring, so he's spent much of the year tearing his hair out, trying to decide what to do next. (HissyCat can certainly relate.)

And after serious deliberation, he has decided to leave academia. He hasn't decided what job to pursue, but for now, he's leaning toward Wall Street, so in all likelihood, we'll end up in NYC.

I have mixed feelings about all this. I've made many, many dear friends in Philadelphia, and the city has really turned around in the time I've been there. It's a really exciting place to live right now.

On the other hand, NYC is pretty damn exciting. We'll probably move to Brooklyn. Plus, it isn't far from Philadelphia, so neither my friends nor I will have good reasons not to visit at least every month or two.

But I'm still scared. I get very attached to places and homes. I really love my home. My cats really love our home. That's another thing: My poor kitties definitely won't appreciate moving from a big rowhouse to a cramped NY apartment. It really doesn't seem fair to do that to them in their old age.

All of that was preamble to the funny dream experience I had last night.

In my dream, Paul and I were sitting on the couch in our living room.

"I think someone's in the kitchen," I said, and he shot me an alarmed expression. I was very afraid.

We got up quietly and tiptoed toward the kitchen. Paul went first and I crouched behind him, using him as a shield.

We peeked into the kitchen. Inside was a couple, about our age, smiling and unpacking groceries into the cupboards.

I started screaming. I was completley consumed by fear.

Scary dream, huh? Yeah, right.

Have you ever screamed in a dream only to realize you were screaming in reality? The feeling is akin to the feeling of talking while underwater -- no matter how hard you try to formulate words, they sound distorted and nonsensical. It's very frustrating.

My screams slowly penetrated the bubble of my dream, and as they did, I realized my journey back to waking life had been provoked by Paul. Paul had been slapping my face repetitively, as one would slap a person who had passed out drunk -- not hard enough to hurt someone, but hard enough to wake her up. These pats entered my consciousness gradually, and once I realized what was happening, I jumped up, gasping for air.

"I had a bad dream," I said to Paul. He began snoring.

It took me awhile to fall asleep again. I kept thinking, "What a stupid dream. Why was I so scared?"

This morning I asked Paul if he remembered me crying out. He said no.

I said, "You don't remember slapping me?"

Then he laughed, and said, "Vaguely. How weird."

Yes, how weird. How weird, indeed.

Little Miss Meow

Don't be fooled by this precious face. Miss Kitty is PURE EVIL!

Kitty is prone to major temper tantrums.

"Grlrlrlrlunnnn!" she says every day, the minute I get home from work. Before I can even hang my coat, she's off to the kitchen, rumbling through the house like Sonic the Hedgehog.

As I follow, my two other furry meow-meows, Boycat and Girlcat, also run by and nearly cause me to trip. While I prepare their food, Boy and Girl stare expectantly, but patiently. Miss Kitty, on the other hand, makes all kinds of demanding noises.

I'm convinced she has learned to say my name.

"Kaa-rr-in!" A brief pause, then again. "Kaa-rr-in!"

Sometimes she sounds like a pinball machine, or a doorbell, or anything that dings. Or, in her case, mings.

"Ming-ming-ming. Ming-mak. Ming."

She never shuts up. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to hear, "Ming-ming-ming. Ming-ming." She doesn't want anything in particular. She just has something to say.

Usually, after feeding time, I retire to the living room. Her belly full, she relaxes for about an hour, but for no longer than that.

Then she's back in the kitchen. This time, she's hissing at the alley cats that hang out in our yard. She scratches furiously at the sliding glass door. Once she realizes she can't claw her way out, she gets REALLY MAD, and she grumbles, or depending on her mood, she belts out a screech as loud as a siren. Then she runs from the kitchen into the living room as if she's on fire. She claws the carpet or a piece of furniture, until Paul yells, "Hey!" and runs back to the kitchen, claws the window again, runs back into the living room, and zooms up the stairs two steps at a time.

Then, from the bedroom window:

"Meow! Meow! MEOW!!!"

And then she cries and cries and cries and cries...

Until she gets tired. She comes partway down the steps.

And then -- THE EVIL STARE.

And she just sits there and stares, with total resentment, as if all of her misery is ALL MY FAULT.

I plead, "Kitty, I love you. Please don't look at me that way."

I go to the steps to pet her. For a moment she forgets her anger and rubs her lips against me. But the second I rub her the wrong way, no pun intended, she cries, "Meow-meow!" and she runs down the stairs and dashes into the kitchen again.

Once she tires of the histrionics, she crawls ever-so-slowly toward Paul, who is sitting on the couch. She lifts one paw and moves it toward his belly at a snail's pace. He is usually reading or using the laptop and he'll say, "Don't even think about it Kitty," and he'll knock her away.

"I would never push you away!" I say to Kitty, but she doesn't listen. She only has eyes for Paul.

And so she tries to climb aboard again. He relents. She crawls onto his belly and does "The Paws". She kneads his belly like dough, until she begins to distend her claws. Paul can only tolerate that for so long.

But he usually tolerates it long enough to make her calm. And once she's calm, Kitty retires to the floor.

That's where she is right now. As I type this, she's licking her vagina. The sounds of lapping are very loud. She's finally calm. Let's hope she's stays that way.

The Italian Market

This series contains a mix of sepia-toned images, images of produce, images of raw meat, images of dead animals hanging in storefronts, images of workers and shoppers.

Yesterday afternoon I spent about an hour taking pictures at the Italian Market in Philadelphia. Earlier that day Paul and I met our friends Beth and Drew for breakfast (Beth is a fellow writer), and we'd had an inspiring discussion about art and creativtiy. Hence I became motivated to go forth and take fantastic pictures! What I hadn't accounted for was the freezing weather. By the end of my journey my feet and fingers felt like blocks of ice. I was chilled to the bone for the rest of the night.

I discovered how difficult it is to take pictures of people. I wish there was such thing as an invisible cloak, like in Harry Potter, so I could get right up in people's faces without them knowing. So many people have such interesting faces, and make such interesting expressions, but of course, as we all know, nobody likes to have their picture taken.

I was yelled at by a man pushing a shopping cart that advertised his business -- grocery delivery and the sale of shopping bags -- for taking his picture.

"I'm sick and tired of people taking my picture!" His face was very dirty and his eyes seemed unstable. It was then I realized he was probably homeless.

"I just took a picture of your cart," I said.

"I don't want nobody taking pictures of my cart! I'm sick of it! Go on! Get lost!"

My courage significantly diminished after that. I took some hasty shots of a wig store, a few murals, some belts on a rack, but most of them came out blurry. I was ready to call it a day.




But then, at a produce stand, the man working it motioned to me and pointed at himself, "Hey... right here. Right here!" He sang and smiled and danced a little for the camera. I took at few shots and thanked him.

Soon after I slipped unnoticed into "Irv's Plus Sizes", and stalked an old woman sifting through racks of dusty, used clothes. Eventually the owners, husband and wife, spotted me and said, "Why on earth would you want to take pictures in here?" (You can actually see the owner spotting me in the old woman photo.)

"Oh well, it's a cool place," I said. I couldn't articulate why a dingy warehouse filled with used plus sized clothes was cool. They certainly couldn't fathom it.

We chatted for awhile. They told tales of an old Italian man who, when alive, owned the market across the street. They said tourists often took his picture because of his unique face and boisterous personality. He had been in his late nineties, and had run the business up until the day he died. He wore a greased handlebar moustache, and had an extremely wrinky face. Apparently he had been a ladies man, so his wife would often beat the crap out of him, and subsequently, his face was often covered with cuts and bruises. But still, he was happy and talkative, and was rumored to be a magnificent dancer.

It's probably unoriginal to take pictures of the Italian Market. On the other hand, it is one of the more authentic and diverse regions in town. I'm glad I've documented it at least for my own purposes.

Before I headed home, I stopped to warm my hands over a burning trash can. (The name for these things escapes me.) There I spoke with a group of young boys from the neighborhood. They were also trying to keep warm. We had nice conversation. They laughed when I showed them the pictures I'd taken of them in the view finder.

Walking home, I felt good about myself, even though I was freezing my ass off, and even though I believe the cold weather compromised the quality of my photographs.

I felt good because I realized that I have a knack for talking to people and for putting them at ease, and that if I want to take really good portraits, then I should exploit this ability. That sounds awful when I put it that way, but if getting close to people is what makes exceptional pictures, then I must do it. And there's nothing wrong with making the experinece as comfortable as possible for my subjects (assuming they're willing).

I Have OSI (Ocassional Social Ineptitude)

In honor of Valentine's Day: I posted this collage to PhillyWriters and someone said it looked like 100 old man penises. Should I take that as a compliment?

Last night, for the first time in the history of our 8-year-long relationship, Paul and I went out for sushi to celebrate Valentine’s Day. This is not as monumental as it sounds because we often go out for sushi, and we go out to dinner even more often, and it’s not as if he bought me flowers or candy or jewelry, and it's not like I wanted anything like that, but nevertheless V-Day was the excuse, and so we went.

You might think this might warrant me being extra-special nice to him, right? Wrong. You see, I live in “Opposite Land”, because every time Paul does something nice for me, I tend to get real grouchy and bitchy and I yell at him about stupid things.

For example: The restaurant was near his lab, so I parked the car, called him, and told him I’d wait for him on the corner. I waited, I waited some more, I called him again, the line was busy, I waited some more.

I called again and when I finally got through, I say, “What the fuck are you doing?”***

“Calm down,” he says. “I’ll be right out.”

“I’m freezing my ass off! And I’m starving!”

He arrived 2 minutes later, smiling. He kissed my cheek and started talking about something, but I wasn’t listening because all I could think about was how he ALWAYS makes me wait, and why does he ALWAYS make me wait on days there is heavy traffic, on cold days, on days when I’M HUNGRY!?!?

As soon as I sat down I had some Miso soup and I felt much better.

I was feeling decent until a male voice caught my attention. I recognized the voice. There was something familiar about its lilting, confident, “aren’t I the wittiest cat in town?” style. I looked around and spotted a college intern I worked with 2 or more years ago – an annoying, narcissistic, intelligent (but not that intelligent) guy I often had lunch with, and often had philosophical debates with. I once told him he was a fucking asshole, and I meant it sincerely. I apologized afterwards, and we made up. I was sincere about my apology, too.

Often I don’t mind running into old chums, but it really depends on my mood. And when my mood is bad (or fragile, like it was last night) I can’t imagine anything WORSE than running into someone from my past.

I just really hate the process of channeling the friendly, surface-y part of yourself, the part you use to muster a tone that’s often too loud and too forced.

“Hey! It’s great to see you! How have you been? Are you still doing, um… what is it you do now?”

Oh shit oh shit, what should I say, what should I say? Be funny, dammit! BE FUNNY!

Fortunately, this guy had grown a beard since I’d last seen him. Plus, he was wearing a chauffeur’s hat and dark-rimmed glasses – also new additions. I figured I could just pretend I didn’t recognize him. I continued eating and complaining about my day to Paul.

Once the bill came, I decided to leave the restaurant through the side door, which was further away from my former colleague than the main door. This way, I wouldn’t have to walk past him. I bee-lined to the door, but as I tried to open it, I discovered it was locked.

Shit, now I have to walk by him.

So I did, and continued pretending I didn’t know him.

After Paul paid the bill, he met me outside and we headed down the block toward our car. We were about 100 yards away from the restaurant when I heard a whistle. I turned around to see someone waving at me. A couple was walking in between us and the person waving, so I just assumed he was waving at them. But the couple didn’t respond, and the waver kept waving.

I said to Paul, “Oh shit, it’s Aaron.”

“Better go say hi, then.”

As I approached him I pretended to be confused. I squinted, trying to craft a face of incomprehension, trying to pretend I had trouble seeing.

We grew closer, and he took off his hat and glasses. Once he did that, I said, “Ah! Hey! I didn’t recognize you! You grew a beard!”

“Yes, yes I did,” he said. “I saw you inside the restaurant but I didn’t want to disturb your dinner.”

“Oh… okay… You remember Paul, right?” I said.

“Yes, yes.” They shook hands.

“Hi, I’m Karin,” I said to his female companion. I don’t remember what she said.

“Ah yes… introductions,” Aaron said. “Are you still working at First Data?”

“No,” I said. “I’m… uh…” For some reason I didn’t know what to say next.

“How’s your creative writing career coming along?”

“Ah… well, I don’t know how the career is coming… uh… but the hobby… I still…”

“Right-o! Fantastic! Keep the fire burning!”

“Ha, ha, ha. Yes, right.”

“All right then.” He and his lady friend turned away.

“Oh, uh, where are you going?”

“Caffeine.” He points in the direction of the nearby coffee shop.

“Oh, you go to um… that place, too?” I couldn’t remember the name of the place.

He nodded and they just took off. Just like that.

As Paul and I headed back to our car he said, “Wow, that was one of the most awkward interactions I think we’ve ever had.”

“Do you think he knew I was trying to avoid him?”

“Probably,” he said. “It was pretty obvious.”

I am such a loser.

*** It turns out Paul was on the phone with Michael, a.k.a Mr. Saturday Night, having "guy talk".

A Beautiful Day

I Am A Happy Lady

"I like your duck," I said to the little girl who helped build this. "That's a penguin," she said. Oh. Right.

Upon re-reading my last post -- my Top Ten Formative Life Events -- I realized how my perception of my past is heavily skewed toward the negative. God, all those tales of doing housework makes me sound like Cinderella.

I have a lot of happy memories... I just can't remember them very easily. :-)

This has always been a problem of mine -- to microfocus on the negative and discount the positive. If I achieve something, I assume the task was easy. If someone is nice to me, I assume they're either ignorant or they want something from me.

I am trying to change, however.

Despite this, I am generally a very lighthearted person. I love people. I love life.

How could I not love life when I live with these guys?