more signs of the apocolypse

I drove south on the 101 Saturday night, en route to a party where nothing would happen, and the supermoon showed itself to me -- a TV moon. Previously hidden behind a swirling cloud cover, it was either the closest or biggest or brightest moon in 10 or 20 or 1,000 years. I forget. Actually, something happened at the party: I ate five pearl onions pickled in balsamic vinegar. They were a revelation. At 1 a.m., as I walked from the party to my car, moon no longer visible, the clouds released their first tentative sprinkles.

The L.A. marathon charged through my neighborhood Sunday morning while I was in bed with a book, listening to the rain. Twenty-five runners were hospitalized for hypothermia. On my way to yoga that afternoon, I drove past the Other Meghan (my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend), running in the downpour, a little hat perched atop her red head. At the intersection of Riverside and Laurel Canyon, I forged a small river, determined to practice my handstand.

The previous week, on St. Patrick's Day, my non-profit held a happy hour meeting at the Pink Taco in the Century City Mall. The staff, three of us plus one intern, squeezed into a booth where we discussed literacy, our shrinking budget and the Compton Unified School District over tequila. Green plastic beads hung from our intern's neck. When our tacos arrived, they were not pink, but green.

Afterward, shopping for bras in Macy's, I stupidly accepted a phone call from my younger brother. Earlier that day, he had been escorted from my mother's home by four police officers. I told him to get a job as I handed my credit card to the cashier. I spent over a hundred dollars on underwear.

At the Black Boar in Eagle Rock later that night, I dropped the sleeve of my jacket into a toilet bowl and then continued to wear it.

My favorite stretch of Highway 1 fell into the ocean. Next Friday, I am driving to San Francisco for my first-ever half-marathon. I'd planned to take this route, carb loading at the Big Sur Bakery along the way. Now I need to reevaluate my travel plans.

So many things are happening in the Middle East and I can't wrap my mind around any of it. Instead, I think about food and sex and fiction. Meanwhile, in Japan, this happened:



(via the Dog Blog)

This morning I listened to a Dorothy Parker story, "Just a Little One," on my way to work. The protagonist said, "I should stop wearing mascara. Life is too sad."

I disagree.