My friend, Karen (I call her “Emerald”), threw her annual Christmas party last night. I just have to say: this is a woman who can *plan* a party. Warm mulled wine in a crock pot…games like “Angry Bird Bowling” (you knock down beer bottles with a waited stuffed animal) and Reindeer Hunter (you have to catch your prey by shooting them in the face as many times as possible)…arts and crafts like a creative Christmas Ornament competition…and, of course, the costume theme! I mean, the theme WAS to come as your favorite Holiday character and most people came as holiday-ified versions of themselves (I went as Cindy Lou Who—all grown up).
Oh, and a girl accidentally walked in on me while I was in the bathroom and she ended up teaching me how to knock on doors! Do you have any idea how huge that is for me?! Noone—NOONE—hears me when I knock.
No really: so this is a true story. There was a period of my life—between college and my first official job in the fashion industry—when I was homeless. I kept my clothes in the trunk of a friend’s car and stayed at $50 a night hotel when I could afford it. Otherwise, I would sleep wherever I could (which is why I can sleep ANYWHERE now).
One day, I bumped into a couple of gays I used to share an apartment with while on the train—on my way to an interview—and they offered to let me come stay at their place that night. I went to my interview (which involved an hour on the train, 30 minutes on a bus, and 45 minutes walking along a dusty highway with no sidewalk…not to mention the return trip back to Long Beach); I stopped and bought a cheap bag of chips because I didn’t want to show up empty handed; and finally find their apartment at around 8 pm? When it was dark and had already started getting cold? THEY COULDN’T FUCKING HEAR ME KNOCKING.
I was homeless. Broke. In a semi-strange neighborhood in the ghetto part of LBC….with a bag of chips that I couldn’t eat (I bought Sour Cream & Onion because I knew it was their favorite). I’m lucky that I was in CA and that their winter nights are only 40-something degrees. Can you imagine if this had happened here—in Pittsburgh? I would have died!
And all because I knock on the wrong part of the door using the wrong part of my fist.
A great party. And I was THIS CLOSE to not leaving the warmth and relative safety of my room.