so, some of it got paid forward today

Today…. well, a bit overwhelming in bits and pieces.

On the way to Aberdeen along with my mom she let me stop by the brand spankin’ new business of a local blogger, Etsyan, and young mother for a mystery package. After touring their office (the pride in their hard work really shone through) I accepted a gift package and well-wishes for the family. When I got in the van I found in the packet coloring books, crayons, and other little bits for my children as well as a Visa gift card with the following message:

“Sometimes things can be tight – regardless there’s always someone looking out for you! Go buy some cheese for those pizzas! [heart] & hugs – [signed] Amazing Family

I sat there a minute and swallowed hard while my mom asked me what my brief visit was all about. It’s hard for me at times because I work so hard to make sure my writing here is never a specific communication to anyone or a plea for any kind of help or consideration (as my friend Cyn says, “can I tell you how I feel without you feeling like you need to solve me”). I always want the freedom to write what I want to write even if that might make others uncomfortable (or maybe, on the other hand, colossally bored, whatever). On the other hand, all the rest of you reading this, you are nowhere near as cool as this woman for how kind she was to me today.

I kid, I kid. No really. I am totally kidding. And yes, I am going to buy us some excellent cheese.

Three minutes after this visit I set my bag of goodies on the floor of the van, get out, and hoist Nels into the parking lot for our all-too-familiar trip to my father’s biweekly poisoning session. When we arrive in the new chemo ward (fancy!) I realize I know three of the seven patients there. My own father and two fathers of friends I grew up with. You know, I never get angry at Cancer. But today I was really struck by seeing these men and I felt like there was some cruel joke being played on all of us. Why are these men being stricken, weakened, and yes, taken from us while they still have so much to offer?

The second part of my day I am on foot with my two children through the rain and wind. This is because I had no gas in the van and had piggybacked on my mom’s errands (hanging posters for our theatre’s upcoming showing of Mary Poppins among other things) so when she suddenly found herself caught short she dumped us in West-ass Hoquiam to take her meeting. Luckily my children are seasoned winter travelers.

“You really need to learn how to play that game,” I tell my son as we walk. Nels has this remedial, caveman-like concept of Paper Rock Scissors, the game I’ve adopted to help the kids choose who gets to ring the bell on the bus, or pick the ice cream flavor to split with one another. He thinks Rock should beat everything else (I swear, this makes sense to me). Depending on Sophie’s mood she will either take advantage of this to win, or deliberately Scissors so he gets the prize. When she wins, and we don’t do a rematch, he howls with anger.

Spending so much time on foot, bus, and bike (I have $134 left to pay off my new bike’s layaway… I am just so excited for it!) is a real blessing. I experience my children, my community, and my world so much more viscerally. Things slow down. I am grateful for my alpaca mittens and I think ahead about packing snacks in my pockets for the kids. I rarely see anyone out with their kids in this town. I see dads walking fast with a kid in a stroller, smoking. That’s about it. Everyone else is in cars.

turn around three times and spit on the ground

Have there ever been a more connected brother / sister duo than Sophie and Nels? First there’s the sleep thing. Wherever the kids start out at night, they end up in our bed by early morning (Nels usually joins us between 2 and 4 AM). So today as I am going about my early-morning shower and washing dishes they are in a pile deep in my bed. After our morning guest E. arrives Nels takes time off playing with her to care for his sister (who started feeling better gradually through the day) by getting her water and feeding her hot cereal. Then, at the tail end of the playdate with E. they show her how to play flashcards: my children both sitting, crossed legs and hands in laps, while Sophie goes through the dual-alphabet cards as “teacher” and Nels models “student”. Now as I type this we are at the library, my two taking turns playing on the computer while keeping their voices down. All this in response to my request they not take every board game toy out of the boxes today.

Motherhood has made me superstitious: the moment I give thanks for my children’s good health I ahve doomed one of them to fall ill; here I think aloud on their synchronicity and likely they will embark on a catty fighting phase. Maybe the trick is to make sure one avoids gloating and sticks to praise and thanks. I am really grateful for my children and the way they relate to one another. I count on it most days; today I want to take a moment to be glad for it.

In other events: one thing that’s not so fun is to be hit with cripping, painful Lady Day cramps in the middle of the day when you’re out of home without Midol nor hot water bottle or trashy TV to crash on. What makes it even less fun is for this to happen while bundled up winter-style on a walkabout in HQX, with two young children in tow, needing to do errands then eventually get home and get lunch then dinner (thank you 5 lb. bag of flour!). How I sometimes miss the days where one’s emergencies and illnesses really could be focussed on, rather than the background symphony of larger, sometimes stressful dependent-care duties that no one else can or will do for you.

Library time is about over; time to bundle two coats apiece, hats, and off to a visit to my father.

breaking my first rule about you-know-what

Now seems as good a time as any to reveal that for ten months now I have been really, really timid regarding writing about my new life here – and by my “new life” I specifically mean my friends and peers. I find that I just don’t want to write about school (which takes up a lot of my time and thought) and upset my kids’ teacher(s), or offend a schoolmate’s parents, or write about my friends and upset the three ladies who have taken me under their wing since we moved (I know they don’t think of it that way as everyone seems to think of me as an Alpha Bitch who needs no help nor coddling). Yes, surely, I am being paranoid: none of these people read my blog so let it fly, eh? But in fact I have learned over the last four years that I really don’t know who’s reading the blog, sometimes not until I get an email either offended (once) or, more likely, having followed me for a couple years and heretofore remaining silent.

Today is the day that I throw off caution and decide to just be me and quit writing about the safer subjects of my father’s illness, or cuddling the kids, or whatever, and write about who I see during the day and what I do. Yeah, HQX is a small town; but so was PT. Yeah, I don’t have enough friends to spare but I’m willing to work my ass off to keep them. Yeah, I’m not really “established” here but c’mon – when am I going to feel like I am, anyway?

Oh and in case you thought the last couple paragraphs were preludes to some great dirt: they weren’t. I’m just officially acknowledging yes, I’ve been letting you down, dear reader. And as of today I’m going to grow a pair and write on.

Last night I was joined by eight local ladyfriends for a gift exchange and holiday party. I had a great time and I was honored to host. Because it was a group of women, we had plenty of food and a comical amount of beer stacked in my kitchen (I think a few guests left with more booze than they brought). Because it was me, the food was overly coordinated and excellent (I ate one hundred thousand servings of Jasmine’s asparagus appetizer) and included an Aztec sherry cake – both delicious and hilarious. Because it was a group that doesn’t see one another all that often, we only got about twenty minutes into the 80s movie before we stopped due to a lack of interest (not me! But I’m a dork like that). With the exception of two gals, I’d known all of them for 20 or so years. Isn’t that just incredible? I felt so fortunate to have my girlhood friends, and my own mom – dressed like a rockstar BTW – all under my roof to share our lives together. And no, Ralph, we did not strip down to panties and have a pillow fight, although I hope you’re envisioning that with my mom and all.

After a night staying over at my parents’ (I joined my family there after my last guest left) my family returned home and centered our schedule around wrapping presents for our 4 PM delivery to our adopted Christmas gift family (pictures and details pending post-holiday). Dinner tonight was at Shannon’s with her lovely family of five and after a lovely homecooked meal we stayed until 10 PM. It’s like last night kicked off the final couple days until Christmas. Tomorrow morning: no school for the kids. Sleep-in for three of us as Ralph heads in to one day of work before the Big Night.

I am not as ready as Bonesaw, but I am pretty ready for Christmas. How ’bout you?

yes, i’m listening to confide in me: the irresistable kylie

When I ride or walk around my hometown a forgotten house, a sight of a neighborhood tree or the feel of the air, some small synapse gets triggered and I am suddenly reminded of someone I knew or something that happened I had completely forgot about until the moment it hits me. Today it was a surfaced memory of my brother and I. I think I was in ninth grade and going to go to a dance. I found this electric blue, fitted (but not whorish)* lace-overlayed dress. It was perfect for the semi-formal I was attending and my mom bought it for me from – what was the name of the shop? Jay Jacobs? It was just a bunch of shitily-made clothes for teens and young women but exciting to browse in the preoccupation of liberating oneself from kid-hood into female-ness.

So at home I put this dress on and was looking at myself in the mirror, my under-average-height 130-lb body and new perfect boobs and feeling very pretty and different. And my brother came into the room and I said, “What do you think?” and he said, “Oh…” and I said, “I feel kind of self-conscious because, you know,” and I gestured to what must have been the world’s least-significant slight potbelly (a “flaw” I sensed, rather than felt, would be a detriment). And my brother, Hades fuck him, said, “Well, yeah.”

I didn’t wear the dress; I returned it. Whatever burgeoning confidence I felt evaporated – maybe not because of what my brother says, who knows – and I remember what it felt like to hate my uncooperative and vaguely displeasing body. I of course excuse my brother who was as much a victim and participant in the gauntlet formed against young females as I was. What mostly I think is, I will kick my son’s ass if he ever says anything less than worshipful for his sister’s beautiful body (no worries so far; he loves her fully and completely). And of course, I remember how much I loved the blue of the frock, which I have never seen anywhere else (thank you, Taiwanese textile factory!).

Today I discovered my father is super-excited about Popular Science‘s DIY messenger-bag-cum-solar-cell-phone-charger. I don’t even know where he got the idea (it’s too bad the link doesn’t show a picture; it is kind of cute). Not only does he want to make one (with my husband’s help in choosing electronics), he thinks we should make them and sell them (WTF? I think maybe he was smoking some of his medicine). However despite the fact it is semi-strange for him to be soooo excited, Ralph and are actually so happy he has a project that involves us. I said, “You can show it to Ralph when he comes over tonight,” and he snorted, “What, time to borrow the lawnmower again?” (actually a software install for mi madre).

* Here’s another nice tidbit from dinner at my FOO’s the other night: totally unrelated to this story of the dress my mom, telling my husband how much she was glad I didn’t dress provocatively as a young woman. “I know, I know,” she crowed, “You’d think by her personality she’d be … you know … [a slut!] but she was actually very modest.” O-kay.

of bussing, rain, and pungent leavings

Today after a memorably annoying lunch date (kids were not on best behavior) Sophie and I rode the bus back from Aberdeen while Ralph and Nels took to Top Foods for groceries. Sophie and I waited a long time for our bus into Hoquiam, and it was cold even in the bus shelter. Then there was a twenty-five minute wait at the HQX station – Saturdays and Sundays the bus routes are nearly dead – and by then the cold was in our bones so we took my last $2 to the 7th Street Sweet Shoppe to split a cocoa. Here’s what’s funny: the proprietors of this little cafe ply my children with more sweets and extra helpings than a grandma on love-crack. Today I didn’t escape without double cocoa portions, extra whip cream, and a giant cake mix cookie to take home to give my kids after dinner (this last excuse was used when I claimed my children had had enough sweets for the afternoon). Jennifer, the patroness of the shop, especially wanted my son to get his part of the decadent cookie. He is her biggest fan in an almost stalky way, which by the way is kind of cute on a three year old.

The leg of bus route that gets us closest to our house runs through the more run-down or low income area of town known as North Hoquiam – my girlfriend who grew up there affectionately calls it “the hood”. This is also the most active part of the Hoquiam bus route since those that take the bus in Hoquiam and Aberdeen are usually poor, carless, or both. Today as we passed the Lincoln Commons we let out a man and he winked and smiled sexily at the driver as he crossed behind the bus. He was one of those men that retains a certain handsomeness and dangerousness – a Daniel Desario or Danny Zuko – keeping his lothario charm despite years of bars, pulltabs, smoking cheap non-brand cigarettes and living a life of, well, low-income apartments I guess. In any case I got a kick out of his optimism as the driver in question was a big-boned toothsome woman with Barbie highlights at least fifteen years his junior. She didn’t look interested in flirting in any way, her kohl-rimmed eyes weary and irritable from working on a Saturday in the rain.

We passed by the apartments again on my way back from the Perry Ave. loop and I found myself wondering about the families and citizens in my [hometown] / new burg. Who where these people and what were their lives like? How does it feel if you ride the bus because it’s your only way to get around? Why do some people live with their family, even a large family, stacked up in these tiny apartments on the edge of town? Why do those who can and do own a spacious home all to themselves pretend these others don’t exist or flat out decide they don’t exist for all practical purposes? Why am I hearing so much about “the hills” and “the flats” these days – more than I ever heard of the haves and have-nots when I was growing up? Why am I puzzling over remedial “injustice of the world” questions as if I was a thirteen year old just discovering them?

Hey, you know what’s awesome? People that let their dogs crap on our sidewalks and yards and lawns without cleaning it up. Today was really great because just a few minutes ago I was helping Sophie remove her boots when my hand, gripping the heel, came into contact with the slimy, rancid horrible backend vomit of some neighborhood pooch. Although this is the first time I have mashed my hand into dogshit, the weird thing is my body had a preternatural awareness of what this substance was, right upon contact. After my revulsion and anger I washed her boot and scrubbed scrubbed scrubbed my hands and I can still smell shit. You know, there’s almost no point to this tirade – I don’t really feel any differently on the subject than I did almost two years ago.

My brother is moving to Portland in two days. Wish him luck! We’ve been feeding him a lot. I think he is kind of lonely yet overworked and stressed lately.

yeah, I really don’t know what to make of any of it

OK.

So, today was weird.

Today was Nels’ first day at preschool. This represents the first time since becoming a parent, ever, I have had both children at school and time to myself. That alone – and saying goodbye to my littlest one with him barely acknowledging I was leaving and knowing it was the first of many goodbyes for the two of us – was disconcerting enough. It was on the drive home in my very, very quiet truck that I thought, simply, “I miss my children,” and finally a few tears materialized.

But today was so busy (making a pie, running flyers off and delivering them, fielding calls from the school Board president with school-commencement stuff, grocery-shopping, sewing something for my brother and working on my own project, making breakfast lunch and dinner and orchestrating coffee and cookies for my sewing group, collecting supplies for my sewing group, dropping school supplies for Suse, picking up both kids, biking biking biking, taking them out for ice cream then home and making food for my family while cleaning the kitchen and Nels fell asleep and I had to call my brother to do a coffee pickup and put a sleeping Boy back in the bike trailer and bike some more…), so anyway, it was busy in that I’m-going-to-forget-something-important way. As far as I know, I didn’t forget anything. But I also didn’t get any time to process any of my feelings.

At a little after 5 PM, mere moments after Ralph burst in from his bike ride home to take our children, I checked in a the library where my sewing night was scheduled. And as I expected, no one was there. After all I had put only a single, solitary flyer up. And even as I felt sadness for a low attendance, I felt distinctly stupid for not bothering to advertise (that’s just who I am). My time to myself (ironing fabric and laying out a pair of pants for Nels) was short-lived; my friend Jennifer showed right on the money. And we proceeded to talk, catch up on the day (she’s running for HQX mayor and there’s always something to hear!), have a snack, and finally start working on her machine. At about the point she and I were getting into good sewing theory, it started to go a little crazy.

First off, a young woman came downstairs to see us and started talking to me with some degree of familiarity. I didn’t know her and was confused she had nothing to sew with; but when she introduced herself as M. – a fellow Hoquiamite blogger, artisan, and zine contributor – I was immediately flung into that good 15 minute experience of disorientation common when you meet someone you’ve exchanged many emails with and have prematurely formed a mental picture of. Despite my disorientation and quick pleasure at having an IRL meeting, the three of us fell into conversation, comparing notes on Hoquiam, Hoquiamites, and homesickness for previous climes. M. handed me a present: a brilliant little tutorial book on making sock creatures. Her boyfriend joined us and we talked a bit about local sewing machine shops (not many).

Just when I’d gotten over meeting someone new (yet known) it got a bit stranger – a full hour after my sewing tutorial was to begin, some boisterous women started trickling into the room. They had sewing machines but I could sense they weren’t there for me. They were all talking at once, mostly to each other, but one of the ringleaders finally made it clear to my tiny, overworked birdbrain that they were a group of Pagans who met regularly to sew together. They had mistakenly showed up a day earlier than their scheduled library slot. It was very odd for me to have thought I would be teaching a subject only to have it first interrupted and then discussed amongst people who had no use for me. However, I was glad to meet these women, I learned their names, I told them I’d be interested in helping them sew if they needed it tonight or in any future iteration, and I gave myself up to the increasing surrealism of the evening.

Ralph and the kids showed up at 8 o’clock to pick me up and I felt my first pang of regret. I knew my husband would be pleased to see these half dozen students of mine sewing away at full swing. Indeed, he sported a satisfied little grin as he entered the room to ask if I wanted to stay longer. Since the ladies didn’t seem very interested in my help, I asked Ralph to load up my sewing materials and invited Jen over for peach pie and despite her busy schedule and state of minor sleep deprivation she agreed.

As Jen and I laughed in the car ride to my house, I felt such gladness that I’d moved back. As with a few other friends here I was finding my relationship with familiars from my childhood would not be formed solely of fond memories and anecdotal brief get-togethers but instead a full continuum of life experience as it unfolds in the present. Jen and I had just spoken on the phone days earlier and before that, only a few days before; our children were playing together these days, and our lives were starting to know of one another with the ease and fellowship of a comfortable reunion.

We got to my house and my children enfolded Jen in greetings and hugs (she is the only person besides Ralph and I who can understand every word Nels utters) and then, finally, the coup de grace – the largest spider I have ever seen in my life, clutching itself menacingly on my kitchen floor and throwing long shadows (I am not shitting you how big this thing is; my brother is currently on his way over to bear witness). My daughter made instant and expert capture, a few of us shook off our revulsion, I served the pie, and we laughed some more.

And with the evening drawing to a close and a very full day spent, I say goodnight.

our newest member and the beat goes on


Our kitty (se llama Harris).

Today my friend Jen and I carpooled our kids and went for lunch in the park. We tried to converse while being besieged by each of the four children, alternatively needing attention, lunch, water, help with clothes, advocacy with other children: the subjects Jen and I attempted ranged from marriage, her political campaign (mayor of HQX!), parenting, our own upbringing, parents’ illnesses, employment, counseling. Later in her backyard the children strip down and play together mostly nicely and Nels, with a runny nose and feeling down today, wants me to hold him. I put my arms around him and Pearl Jam’s “Yellow Ledbetter” comes on over the stereo. The song is such a nostalgic one for me. My friend I’m with today we’ve known one another since we were eight years old and now our own children approach that age. I think we have an understanding that has only strengthened now that a few years of family are behind us and our second childhood looms.

Today finds me with a sick child, a tooth-dangerously-loose child, a diarrhetic kitten, and a busted checking account. A few minutes before I take my kids home from our playdate and I’m wiping the nose of one and the blood off another (Sophie scraped her foot playing in the pool) and it feels like I’m a magnet and things just snap to me. Children and pets and husband hang off me when they can. It isn’t at all uncomfortable for the most part, it still surprises me though. Motherhood, should you choose to take it on in any involved way, is endless, relentless, it never stops. It’s beautiful, though, and my favorite thing to do so far (well, the favorite thing I can share publicly). Even our little kitty gravitates towards Mama; last night as I drowsed in the middle of the night I realized that in between in the blanket hammock formed between my legs in the figure 4 position – the little kitty slept and purred, a tiny, insignificant engine. In the morning then: homemade bread toasted, eggs, ripe pear for the children; milk for our grown Blackie kitty (pissed off about little Harris); fresh water and food for the animals. Clean up the breakfast dishes – “Kids, go wash your hands and brush your teeth!” and set clothes out and pack a lunch and then after the lunch and driving and playing and pulling off clothes and nursing sad children home to clean up kids and wash their clothes because they got muddy.

(update 3:56 PM: Sophie just lost her second tooth; she reaches symmetry again for a brief period).

having lived it, almost too tired to write it out

The tag on my mom’s bike handlebar claims, “6/30/07 – 1 week”. It had a bad tube and (possible) wheel burr. So after ample repair time two weeks ago I went into the (shall remain nameless) bike shop to check on the bike; not yet. OK. So last week I called to ask if the bike was ready; it was not – but, “I’ll have it done tomorrow. It’s probably a ten minute job.” OK.

This morning my parents, their dog, my children and I walked the family down to the shop, towing the bike trailer behind us and anticipating our first ride together in over a month, yay! (This neighborhood mongrel followed us half the way which really enraged my dad for some reason). We get to the shop and the bike is Still. Not. Done. This time the Goofy Bike Guy (I really need a good nickname for him) is very apologetic – he winces as he hears what bike I’m here for, because he knows it’s overdue twice over. Meanwhile I notice the bike shop – a truly amazing building with more clutter than you can imagine including a 15 foot tall pair of functional display Lee overalls – has filled up with lots, and I mean lots of bikes. More than half the bikes are ones waiting for repair. There are only two employees in the shop, including GBG, and they both seem (understandably) busy.

GBG asks me to come back in a couple hours (that would be 3 PM); I tell him I’ll be in at 4. I leave my trailer inside the shop and we haul our asses home. You know where this story is going, don’t you? Because at 4 PM I once again walk the kids down and we ring in and guess what? The bike isn’t done. Meanwhile, GBG is hurriedly doing a job for a customer who’d come in and said they had “immediate” needs. I have now officially noticed that to get your bike done you have to tell GBG you need it right now and literally stand in his shop while he does it – thereby arseing over the many people who were willing to wait a week or month (but in reality, will wait forever or until they themselves come inside the shop and stand there).

That’s what ends up happening. The kids and I hang out in the shop for the (as promised) 10-minute job. It’s taken up so much of my time today (not to mention the other trips), that by the time he’s done I’m just kind of sad and not even pissed. The total is just $10. Somehow I would have liked to be charged more, maybe because it would have energized me in some way.

Anecdotally: after the first trip to the shop today my mom, kids and I left the shop to immediately encounter a HQX panhandler of sorts (rare here; more common in Aberdeen) who told us the buses weren’t running and she needed gas money for a ride to Olympia to catch a train. “I don’t have any money,” I said (truthfully) and my mom demurred as well. The woman yelled abruptly, “NO! I mean I give YOU gas money and you give me a ride to Olympia!” “Oh,” I said, “No, sorry.” The woman half-stomped, half wandered into the street to flag down cars. Mom and I headed to the sandwich shop and my mom said, “She really did say it confusing,” in almost a hurt tone of voice. We go inside the Sweet Shoppe, sit down. Have to move tables because the top of the table wobbles fiercely. “What’s with this town?” I ask my mom and she laughs. I make a “root toot” farting clown sound with my mouth and jog my elbows up and down.

HQX was not in fine form today.

that’s what I hear in these sounds

Today, with two clicks on my Google Calendar, my life suddenly freed up as the three days a week of Sophie’s preschool vanished. Some people look forward to school time so their own grownup schedules may take precedence. I can understand this. I however can say I’m looking forward to the summer break just as I enjoyed it last year. With the Siamese-twin-like psychic synchronicity my two children have (desiring to spend every waking, sleeping, and bathing moment together with an astonishing low proportionality of fighting, considering) taking the two of them out – especially now, as they can dress themselves, walk long distances, take care of their bodily functions, and are joyous to take almost any outing – is actually slightly easier than having one of them along.

I haven’t set foot in a car since Friday. I continue my no-driving experiment and today my goals were modest: get to downtown Aberdeen, take the kids thrifting (I’m looking for a sheet to sew pajamas for myself; also clothes for Ralph and a pair of pants for re-vamp), hit the taqueria (sauce a la diabla!), go home. (all of this, after I’d planned out our budget and assigned various bill paying and errands for Ralph and I – also feed, clean, help dress the kids, etc, blah blah).

So at about 10:45 we walk the eight blocks to the station, first stopping at the ATM and then purchasing a monthly pass (cheap – only $18). The good news about our bus system is that people actually put it to use here. The bad news is they aren’t PT-ecocute – most of them are dirty, half-crazy, and / or poor (or any combo) and a few of them are smelly. Actually – this isn’t bad news at all since my children and I are pretty OK in new situations (and the situation won’t be ‘new’ for very much longer as we use the transit regularly). But our bus riding today underscored a truth for me: it’s hard here to ride the bus and walk. People here use their cars to insulate themselves from the harsher neighborhoods of Aberdeen and, to a lesser extent, Hoquiam; insulating themselves also from the poverty and hard-living so many do here. I get off and on the bus and don’t see anyone “like me”. Those “like me” are driving by in their cars listening to XM radio. Those I sit with on the bus go to and from sub-standard apartments and sometimes run-down hotels and their teeth are bad and faces hard-worn.

Heck, it’s kind of hard to bike around here too. There are no bike lanes in either Hoquiam or Aberdeen. None. People drive aggressively as well. Not everyone thinks biking is a good thing: Ralph was heckled as a “loser” and “faggot” the other day – merely for being on his unremarkable Schwinn. He was also wearing a dress and holding a sign that said, “I like balls in my face” but I still don’t get it.

And now: diving into the 39 cent Stretch N Sew pattern I purchased today at the Salvation Army.

Today on IM a friend writes,

“8:49 i dress like a total whore.”
“8:49 a homeless one.”

Which reminded me of today’s clip:

As I type this, a guy across the street jumps down his front steps. He’s wearing tight black jeans (w/belt), poofy white sneakers, and is shirtless with a respectable amount of back hair.

I truly love living here, and I’m not being ironic or sarcastic one bit.