It doesn’t even matter that I didn’t know Heather or Mike at all, not through blogs or Twitter or anything. All that matters is that they lost their daughter. And there are no words that can convey how sad that is.
I love this.
I especially love how everyone is so amused at the camera’s presence and the men who raise their hats and chuckle.
Something about it reminds me of this:
Posting is still slow around these parts, I know. I’ve been working my dupa off this semester, this past week in particular, and had a mini-meltdown Wednesday morning. Just one of those, “I…just…don’t want to do all of this anymore! Hwwheeee!” kind of crying episodes that I have at least once a semester. I met with one of my instructors this morning to go over some XML basics and was wildly comforted that she didn’t think that I was a total moron. She has a daughter around the same age as the baby, and works, and teaches, so I think she recognized that, “I’m falling apart,” look in my eyes. I don’t honestly think that I’m going to crash and burn, but I guess I don’t always believe it.
Anyway, when I do have a minute here and there, I don’t feel like voicing anything, preferring instead to retreat to quiet. I spent a few hours the other day looking at the pictures on Shorpy and marveling at how alive the pictures seem and how a little twitch in the universe could send me there.
I love this picture of Pittsburgh in 1941 so much.
rainy pittsburgh 1941
It’s raining, of course, just as it has been here for the past few days. But if you lean in, you can almost hear the drops slapping onto the street and bouncing off the roofs of the cars. I can almost smell the refreshment of an early summer storm and grin because it’s almost here.
Thanks to Facebook, I’m pretty close to collecting every person I’ve ever met in my entire life. The connections that I have to people that add me now are getting more and more fuzzy, like, “Oh, yes, we did have World History together in 9th grade. What have you been up to since that day that we learned about the Battle of Hastings? Harold FTW, right?”
I kind of like it, though. I mean, I imagine I should be lamenting the time just a year or so ago when, if I reflected on so-and-so, all I could do is wonder what they were up to. At best, I could Google them but those almost always led me to pointless genealogy sites. Now I can quickly find out who they married, how many kids they have and, usually, what they’re doing at any given moment.
But I think it’s kind of nice, at least for a social phobe like me, to have that bare minimum of contact at all times. I get to avoid that awkward conversation if I happen to bump into someone on the street: “Oh, hi! Great to see you. How’ve you been? Okay, I’ve got to get going/do something other than this.”
Anyway, my favorite thing to do now is if someone from high school adds me on Facebook and they’ve turned out to be hardcore Republicans, I read their wall back to November 4 to see if they got all pissy.
What? I’ve never made any claims to being sane or mature.
Also, my kid startled me by knocking over a chair in the dining room. I replied, “Yo, what the FUCK?” I’m just going to start apologizing now for how he turns out. He never stood a chance.
Both my husband and I unintentionally participated in a moronic American St. Patrick’s Day tradition: green or “Irish-themed” garments. He wore a Guinness tshirt and I wore a green sweater. I didn’t think of the significance until someone at work pointed it out, all like, “Oh, of course you’re wearing green because it’s St. Patrick’s Day and you’re Irish!” Grumble.
I did, however, do one corny Irish thing. I made Irish Car Bomb cupcakes, which admittedly have a rather offensive name but are so SO good. I brought some into work yesterday and three people bit into them around the same time and all collectively groaned in delight. I tried one last night but it had been in the fridge and I hadn’t let it warm up enough. The now solid ganache filling fell out and the icing fell off and rolled around on the floor. I had to go searching for it under the couch and that was a proud moment in my life, let me tell ya. “Honey, lift up the couch, my cleavage didn’t catch that mouthful, dammit.”
Anyway, this post is titled “irish kelly” for a reason. Years ago, I was a rather active participant in the “rave scene” (ugh that phrase makes me barf) in Pittsburgh and the surrounding areas. You may be surprised to know that back in the late 90s and early 00s, Pittsburgh had a thriving dance scene, with multiple large events every weekend and plenty of smaller things during the week. I think between 1999 and 2000, I got a total of 15 hours of sleep.
Now, I’m sure I’ve conjured up plenty of frightening images for you. And while I did partake of the “party favors” for a short period, I was not 20/20 special report fodder. I did not wear pounds of plastic kiddie jewelry, my pants did not double as parachutes, and I did not regularly collapse into a puddle with a chattering jaw and dilated pupils to work on catching mono from a guy named Smurf. I mostly just had a blast being young and taking advantage of my total lack of responsibilities and my now non-existent ability to stay up for as long as I like by going to parties and dancing my butt off.
I did, however, have a “rave name.” Rave names, of course, were the nicknames that people gave to each other to enforce this identity that we were part of “the other,” the alternative, the underground, the secretive, none of which was really true by the late 90s when raving was firmly above ground, peppered with the odd renegade party under a bridge or in a cellar somewhere.
Raving’s inextricable relationship with the nascent internet probably aided the creation of rave names. Party information was passed along via email and message boards and I was on an email list called pb-cle-raves (Pittsburgh-Cleveland Raves) for many years. As nearly everyone with an online identity goes by something other than the name that they were born with, these identities bled into raving.
Many people had nauseatingly sweet and sunny rave names like Sunshine and Bumblebee and Rainbow. Others came into raving in the age of Hackers and cyberpunk (see also: my buddy count zer0), and then there were guys like my husband’s crew of friends, who had rave names like “Hector.”
Mine was Irish Kelly. At the time that I subscribed to pb-cle, my email address was CCeallaigh at AOL (ha!). Ceallaigh is Kelly in Gaelic (so I’m told), but of course someone else on AOL already had that handle, so I added an extra C. Nobody, least of all me, could pronounce that name. To add to the confusion, there was another Kelly who was one of the biggest rave promoters in the city. To differentiate between us, she was Kelly Downlow (her promotion company’s name) and I became Irish Kelly, owing to my Irish-themed n00b email address.
Last night, we watched Time Bandits with the baby. He dug it, but we started the movie kind of late and I was debating with the husband, who was in the bathroom at the time, whether we should just let him finish watching it or stop and finish watching it the next night.
“It’s getting close to 9 p.m. What do you think?” I asked.
“*errrr…gruunnnnt…bathroom noises* Well, how much time is left in the movie?” he replied.
And here’s where the set up for the embarrassment that I would endure later happened. I looked at the DVD player and noted that it was 53 minutes into the movie. I looked at the DVD case and noted that the movie ran 118 minutes long. I tossed those figures around in my head and answered the husband:
“There’s about 25 minutes left!”
For the record, 118 minus 53 equals 65. About 45 minutes later, we’re in the midst of the showdown between Evil and the Time Bandits and I go, “Dude, what the fuck, I said that there was 25 minutes left and that was like 45 minutes ago.” The husband looked at me, confused, and asked how exactly I arrived at that conclusion about 25 minutes. So I got all snotty and said, “Well, duh, the movie was at 53 minutes and the total running time is 118.”
The husband’s eyes widened and he said, slowly, “Kelly…what comes before 100? 59 or 99?” I realized my mathematical error but luckily my 7-year-old whispered, “99,” to me. Thanks for lookin’ out, kid.
…
I have vague memories of something funny that I thought of last night and now it’s gone. But trust me, you would have laughed.
…
I got a little panicked this morning about this blog and how I haven’t been writing very regularly. I started to worry that I effectively killed it. But I remembered that I have that same worry every semester and I eventually get back into it and people eventually start being able to read what I write again.
I’m still clearing my throat, as it were, when it comes to this space. I’m amazed at how quickly I get out of shape for writing about myself. I’m of course still writing at MamaPop and We Covet, but about other people and things. So maybe I need some help. I’ll open the floor up for questions. Anything you want to ask me?
Man, I failed at this venture pretty quickly, didn’t I? Well, I’m not ashamed to own up to that fact and get back into it.
I am a little grumpy this evening because I’m out of Diet Dr. Pepper and I need to just own up to the full-blown addiction I have to that stuff. Also, the baby’s school has been seemingly relentless with needing stuff (valentines! valentines box! project for the 100th day of school! baby picture! treats!). And I just can’t deal right now. Everything is converging with work and school and it’s so frustrating to come home wanting to slow down and having to just keep going, with my schoolwork and taking care of my kid and whatnot.
By the way, I think, for the 100th day of school projects, the school had something in mind involving those classic art supplies cereal and/or pasta and Elmer’s glue and posterboard. That’s not how we roll in my house, though. When I remembered tonight that he needed his project tomorrow, I let out a hearty, “Oh fuuuuuuuuuuck,” then went rummaging in the kitchen. We’re not big cereal eaters and I didn’t think 100 stale flax flakes would really cut it. So I plopped the baby down with some sketch paper and bingo markers and he made 100 dots. It’s like the perfect illustration of the looooonnng ellipsis of my brain. Or something.
Onward.
1. The totally sweet card that my kid made for his dad at school today, because he knew his dad would like it. Sniff.
2. Making my co-worker laugh really hard.
3. The MamaPop pool of pictures from Vegas.
4. The trip that made those pictures possible.
5. For once, NOT going on and on about how great the Steelers are and just holding that to myself for now. 😉
I fear that I am perhaps the last-ish person from the MamaPop crew to post about our Vegas Vacation (a movie which the husband tells me we watched several nights ago but I have no recollection of this whatsoever which caused the husband to rest his weary head in his hands but whatever because like I was telling him last night while I was “reading” for class, I can read paragraphs of stuff and realize that I’ve absorbed none of it and it’s like my mind has two tracks: one that is sieve-like and does what it should be doing in the most begrudging manner and the other that thinks about more important things like cupcakes and bunnies…just like you’re doing right now). So you might be over the whole thing by now, but that’s too bad.
As I’ve mentioned before, this was my biggest trip ever (I don’t get out much) and the fact that I was going alone had me extra paranoid. My flight out of Pittsburgh was supposed to depart at 8:20 a.m., so I estimated that I should be at the airport at 6:20 a.m. and, using kdiddy math where 2(x+y) = casserole, I determined that I should order a cab for 5:30 a.m. “Worst-case scenario, the cab is an hour late and I’m still there in plenty of time because there won’t be traffic. Best-case scenario, the cab comes on time and I can just press my nose on the glass of the airport until they let me in,” I reasoned.
It was kind of a long day. Pittsburgh to Chicago, 2 hour layover, then Chicago to Vegas, then shuttle from the airport, surrounded by members of the Sigma Alpha Douche fraternity who had big plans to PARTY AND FUCKIN’ PARTY AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW HARD I’M GONNA PARTY, DUDE, to the hotel where I met up with Tracey and blinked and said, “I don’t understand when this is.” Because the time zones were totally fucking with me. It was like that scene in Spaceballs where they’re like, “This is now now. Everything that’s happening now, is happening now.”
When most of the rest of our crew got there, we went to the Bellagio for The Buffet where I was still too tired to eat and I nearly wept when I saw the desserts that I passed up AND sipped on quite possibly the worst wine ever.
But the weekend wasn’t about the food or the wine or the cost of everything (because, really, I’d rather not get into it), but about hanging out with the people who, up until this weekend, were all 1s and 0s. We sat at the Bellagio and gaped at the cover band’s track selection (“Ants Marching,” then “Smooth,” then “Fire and Rain?!?!?” Seriously?!?!). We trekked a billion miles to a karaoke night that was discontinued just a few weeks before we arrived. We Twittered and Twittered and Twittered.
The driver of the cab that Jason, Tracey, Sarah, and I took back from Failaoke added insult to injury by subjecting us to Nickelback. I will never forgive him.
Black Hockey Jesus and his wife welcomed us into their home for brunch on Saturday, which was quite possibly my favorite part of the trip. I mostly sat and listened to everyone and thought about how it was cool to hear them all laugh.
Sarah and I went shopping after brunch to get pretty dresses for dinner that night. I blushed a little at how much I spent on my two dresses (one for dinner and one I just couldn’t live without), but when I got dressed that night and rushed through the lobby to meet Sarah, who looked lovely in her dress, I felt a few glances in my direction and I let myself feel snazzy.
The Venetian is indeed a gorgeous place. Bouchon was impressive, though not mind-blowing. I did get to eat the best creme brulee I’ve ever had and laughed until I thought my ribs might break, mostly at the expense of our misguided waiter who I think was in Vegas trying to break out as a stand up comedian. Good luck with that, dude. My trout still had its head, which didn’t phase me, but apparently freaked everyone else out. I am a bad ass, no?
Tracey went back to the room feeling ill while the rest of us wandered around the Venetian’s casino and wondered how anyone could get addicted to gambling, since it is SO BORING. We had an impromptu karaoke session outside one club where the band was playing “You Shook Me All Night Long.”
Schmutzie and Palinode retired for the evening so we bid them farewell and lamented the fact that our time together was so short. Sarah, Amber, Danielle, and I went to the Bellagio to watch the fountain show, set to that obnoxious, “I’m Proud to Be An American/God Bless the U.S.A.” song.
Back at the Flamingo we watched the waitresses shuffle about in their blazer/dress things, their eyes heavy with Vegas life and presumably landing there after they turned 30. Finally, we bid each other goodnight and farewell.
Tracey and I got room service in the morning and lounged in bed eating eggs and drinking coffee, talking about life and shit. Vegas is a tad bleaker during the day, without the darkness and flashing lights to cover up a multitude of crap. But it is constantly appealing to your senses, with mixed results. The flap-flap of the people handing out trading cards of prostitutes all along the strip, the constant ding-ding-ding of the machines, the occasional cheer of that elusive pay-out, the can’t-put-your-finger-on-it scents pumped in to the hotels, the smoke, the booze, the snippets of conversation, the palpable sense that you’re getting away with something just by being there.
I joked later that we were all ramping up for a crazed weekend, especially in contrast to the many bloggers at the wholesome Blissdom conference. But we were all in bed by 12:30, no one got especially drunk, and I even got some homework done.
You might say that we did Vegas all wrong and you might be right. But I sat at the bar in the Flamingo on Sunday, sipping on my gin and tonic lunch and chatting with bartender Lil Joe about the Steelers, killing time, the last one to leave, and felt my chest tighten. I just had such a good time. I missed my husband and my son. I couldn’t wait to get home to them.
But I really missed my friends, too.
Hey! I have an actual post that I’m working on, but it’s the first day of classes so I’m a little frazzled. In the meantime, delurk in honor of Delurking Day, why dontcha? If you’re new here and haven’t introduced yourself or if you’ve been reading for awhile and just haven’t gotten around to it, I’d love to hear from you.
I got that fancy badge from Sarah
This is the year-end meme that I do every year.
1. Where did you begin 2008?
Like last year, in the living room of a beach house in Rehoboth, DE. We watched Radiohead and Bjork on TV, said, “Whoooaaa,” a lot and then I got all dumbfounded staring at the stars on the beach.
2. What did you do in 2008 that you’d never done before?
Sat in a hospital waiting room for over 12 hours waiting for my dad to get his malignant tumor removed.
3. Did you keep your new years’ resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don’t make resolutions but I am going to try to cut back on Diet Dr. Pepper. I’ve sort of already gotten started on this and am drinking way less of the stuff, but I’d like to no longer be the woman at Wal-Mart with the 24-packs and the crazed look in her eyes.
4. Were you in school (anytime this year)?
Yes. I have two more semesters of grad school under my belt. By this time next year, I should be done!
5. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Nope.
6. Any new additions to your family?
I think my cousin, Jeffrey, is looking to make his girlfriend a more permanent character, but nothing official yet.
7. Did anyone close to you die?
I was thankfully spared from the funeral home circuit this year.
8. Did you know anybody who got married?
I was thankfully spared from the wedding circuit this year. 😉 No, I like weddings, and I think there are at least two on the horizon for next year.
9. What countries did you visit?
The United States of What the Fuck
10. How did you earn your money?
Administrating and writing.
11. Where did most of your money go?
Bills. And those fuckers at PNC Bank.
12. Did you have any encounters with the police?
Not really, but my mom did get pulled over by Sergeant Douchebag in Mt. Lebanon. He was such a perfect example of “that dickwad in high school who was too stupid to do anything but pick on people so he became a cop,” that I had to plug my ears from hearing the crap that came out of his mouth. Otherwise, I would have launched into a rousing version of, “Fuck the Police.”
13. What would you like to have in 2009 that you lacked in 2008?
Some more money. And some home improvement action.
14. What date from 2008 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
October 31. I TURNED 30 OH MY GOD.
15. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Continuing to be a ninja, as my buddy Mary calls me, via working toward my MA, working full-time (and hopefully not screwing up people’s lives in the process), writing whatever whenever I can, wifey-ing, and parenting. I can always do better at all of these things, but I think I can safely say that I did all of them well.
Also, I can’t tell if my 30th birthday really marked a turning point or not, but I’m definitely much more comfortable with myself as a person and much more contented with my life. I think I finally started thinking a little differently and recognizing what’s important. I can honestly say I’ve never been happier.
16. What was your biggest failure?
Not going to bed at a reasonable hour. I really need to self-regulate a little better.
17. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Nope. *knocks on wood* Although the Student Health Center really wanted me to have appendicitis. The husband had all of the injuries this year.
18. Where did you go on holidays/vacation?
We went to my mother-in-law’s house on Christmas Eve, and to my grandmother’s house and the husband’s grandmother’s cousin’s house on Christmas Day. I’m hoping that by 2010, our house will be in enough shape that we can start shifting at least some of the holiday activities to our house. We’re currently in Rehoboth with the Sweetneys to ring in the new year.
19. What was the best thing you bought?
Dude: new cookie sheets, Silpats, a cookie scoop, and a cupcake carrier. I realize these are domestic nerd items but they seriously make baking (and storing/transporting your baked goods) SO MUCH EASIER. Also, I got an iPhone (well, technically, my mom bought it) and I’m happy to say that we are still totally in love.
20. Whose behavior merited celebration?
I’m generally pleased that US citizens didn’t elect McCain/Palin, but then again they only came to their senses after voting Bush/Cheney in TWICE. I still don’t understand what drugs y’all are smoking.
21. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
I’m probably not the best person to ask that question, since I’ll just say, “Everyone.” Because I’m a hater. But yesterday I was reading this book that the husband gave me for Christmas and it said that recruitment into the Air Force and Navy rose 500% after Top Gun came out, which is just…oh my god. It made me think of Dave Chappelle talking about how phone numbers in movies are always 555-something because people were calling people’s houses and saying, “Hi, is Indiana Jones there?” Just…STUPID.
22. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Getting some more school done, going to Detroit.
23. Did you move anywhere?
No.
24. Where do you live now?
In my house in Pittsburgh, PA.
25. What song will always remind you of 2008?
Hmm, I should really start keeping a music diary or some shit, since I listen to all kinds of stuff and much of it isn’t current, Billboard-material. But last night I was listening to Kid A and really feeling “How to Disappear Completely,” and remembered how beautiful it is. It’s probably a tad more melancholy than I’ve been feeling, but whatever.
