In Which I Do Not Talk About My Kitchen
September 09, 2005
All week, I've been kind of waiting for someone to comment or email the inevitable how-dare-you-write-about-your-stupid- kitchen-problems-when-people-are-homeless-and-have-no- kitchens kind of thing.
I was actually surprised it took as long as it did, but yesterday somebody finally said it.
(Now, she has since apologized so I order everybody to lay off. I love the minion-like way y'all rush to my defense when needed, but this time? Not needed. Be nice.)
Of course, I'm going to harp on it just a wee bit. Then I will drop it. I swear.
There was the typical "have you not been watching the news?" aspect to her comment which always bugs the crap out of me, as if simply because I have not specifically addressed Hurricane Katrina here, therefore I must not even be aware that there is a national tragedy going on. Because I have only written about IKEA and kitchen mishaps, those must be the only things registering on my shallow plane of existence.
Which: Of course not, fools. And I'm not writing about my little problems with the expectation of empathy and head pats (which y'all have given in spades anyway), or to imply that oh my God, my life is so HARD, y'all, feel sorry for me.
I'm writing, basically, to ENTERTAIN YOU. Or at least myself, because haaaaa, I sat down on my couch last night and tried to change the TV channel with a spatula instead of the remote.
I have no words for what I've seen on the news. I have no eloquent rant or solution. Just sputtering horror and impotent rage.
I keep imagining some nine-months-pregnant girl down there who had to leave her dog, her cat and the nursery she worked so hard on behind. Who went from fretting about what to pack in the hospital bag to wondering if she'll give birth in a hospital or a squalid refugee camp. From whether Pampers or Huggies are the better brand to wondering where in hell she's going to find diapers at all.
I don't know if she exists, but goddamn, she haunts me, and I wish I could make everything all better for her.
Anyway. That's all I have to say about Katrina.
Except that we Snarkywood girls put together a little campaign to raise some money -- just a modest $500 -- and would really like to blow the roof off that amount.
Oh, and yesterday? I totally wore my ugly dog-walking flip flops to work. BY ACCIDENT.
I forgot to change them after Ceiba's morning walk and didn't notice that I still had them on until I sat down at a company-wide meeting and realized that HI! I was wearing FLIP FLOPS to an office where SUITS AND TIES ARE REQUIRED, and also, Ceiba has chewed the everloving hell out of these flip flops, there may have been dog poop caked to the bottom, and HOLY HELL, I really need a damn pedicure.
Feel free to either 1) mock me mercilessly, or 2) yell at me because AT LEAST YOU HAVE SHOES, BITCH.