I Think We’re Done Here

View from my backyard, Friday morning.

Honestly, you guys. You'd think that by this point 2018 would have, as my mother would say, had the biscuit. Except the hits just keep on coming.

So here's what the last couple of days have looked like (and please scroll to the bottom if you want to skip hearing The Tale Of My Weekend, and just want to find out how to help those who have been seriously impacted by the events in California over the past week). I started hearing reports about the fires as I was driving home on Thursday night. By Friday morning, the view from my backyard was that picture you see up there: a huge ball of smoke that just kept growing and growing and growing, getting wider and taller and darker with each passing hour. Planes flying directly overhead carrying water and emergency rescue supplies. The whole deal.


Loud House

Me, in the bedroom that's just mine. (Image by @smiechbuziak)

When I think about the first time I lived in LA - right after college, when I moved out here to look for acting work - there's rarely anyone else there, in those memories. It wasn't like I spent all my time alone - I had friends, and I had my boyfriend - but most of the time, whether by choice or not...I was. Me, at the do-it-yourself car wash, feeding quarters into the soap machine. Me, driving north towards Santa Barbara, then turning around when I got there and driving right back. Me, wandering through the Fairfax Farmer's Market. Buying a donut, just to have a thing to do.

I was so lonely.


Like Riding A Bike

Linus Bike (you have to check out their line; so good)

A little discovery I made this weekend: Riding bikes is, shall we say, not my forte.

When Francesca asked me to come with her on a bike ride through Venice - one that would apparently include lit-up beach bikes and an actual DJ riding along with us - I informed her of this fact. Whatever the muscles are that people who ride bikes possess, I do not possess them. Also, while I am reasonably athletic, two-wheeled vehicles have always vexed me (see: my motorcycle accident).



A shot of me that Gawker ran in a (VERY understandably) snarky article back in the day.

("Meet the Harvard Grad Seduced By Microcelebrity!" The shame.)

So here's what I've been thinking. Remember how when I started Ramshackle Glam back in 2009 - when I was living in a fourth-floor walkup on the non-fancy side of the Upper East Side and technically unemployed and doing things like shucking corn on my floor (a floor that definitely had a hole in it that the landlord was definitely disinterested in fixing)? The whole concept behind the site, as I conceived of it, was "Hey, here are a bunch of things I love and want to do. I don't really know how to do them. I'm going to give them a shot anyway."


Where Is The Love

A reader made this. I feel silly about how much it means to me.

But there you go. 

I realized yesterday that I have become a parody; an actual walking, talking movie character. "The New Divorcee In The Cul-de-Sac."

I am Cher in Mermaids, dancing with my kids in the kitchen while the rice burns on the stove. I scrape off the black parts, and we sit down on the floor in the living room and eat with plastic forks. I am grateful they can't hear my heart pounding.

Last night, a new neighbor of mine came over with a basket of pumpkin muffins; I was on the phone with a client when the doorbell rang, and while I ushered her in with one hand, the other clapped over the mouthpiece - sorry, sorry, no no it's fine, come in! - I could see myself as she saw me: disheveled in my boxer shorts and t-shirt, with no bra and a messy bun, cats twining around my legs and kids wanting another Fruit Roll-Up yelling from the kitchen. She mentioned that the pumpkin muffins were made with applesauce instead of oil, in case I was a calorie-counter or healthy eater or some such. No no, I said, I'm currently on the Divorce Diet of Diet Coke and sadness. I could use some muffins.

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