How could I begin to describe my friend Jodi? “With child,” at the moment. But her current state is just one particularly beautiful movement in a long, ascending staircase of creativity, one that always veers off onto unpredictable but fascinating paths.

When I first met Jodi, it was on a polished hardwood floor on a hot August day, in a dance studio where the air felt like a wet cotton ball. We were both starting seventh grade, though we went to separate schools. In our age group, several tap and jazz classes had been merged so that the graceful wheat (Jodi types) could be separated from the uncoordinated chaff (me types).

I remember feeling very self-conscious about my hair at the time, which I’d worn down to my waist since childhood but now seemed terribly out of fashion. As I stood in the corner, shy, gangly, and generally out of place, I watched Jodi’s reflection in the mirror and thought, “That girl has long hair, but it actually looks cool. She’s cool.”

Indeed, her bleached mane was half down, half tied up with chopsticks and pens, her ears punctured by a row of safety pins. Every class she proudly wore some combination of layered leotards and tank tops, fashioned in ways I didn’t know leotards could be worn.

It wasn’t just about her look, of course– it was the attitude that both fascinated and irritated me. She had great posture and a boisterous confidence. When she spoke with the cluster of good dancers she would throw back her head in a triumphant, full-mouthed laugh and then pause to pick at her face in the mirror.

When she danced she moved effortlessly, as if regular walking was just a pause between Pas de Bourrees. She was pure elegance. Of course, there was also a rumor that she had put rat poison in someone’s tuna at school.

It wasn’t until junior year at the Academy that we actually became friends and realized we were from neighboring planets. We had both been cast as jurors in 12 Angry Women—she as the complex, short-fused dictator and I as the humble but perceptive Russian. As we highlighted our playbooks and went over lines together after school, we developed an appreciation for each other’s bizarreness. She and I read the same books and liked similar music. We both had a warped sense of humor and treasured the little things others didn’t notice. She was the type of friend who gave an artistic vision to life I didn’t even know I was lacking.

After high school we attended the same university, gifted with a newfound liberty on a big campus. I took up photography as a hobby and she became my favorite (and only) model. I often underwent a religious experience when we skipped out of World Civ early, got high in her car and then drove around the back woods of North Tonawanda, or set up a photo shoot in some rundown apartment with an old mattress and easel. I even remember one time walking into her apartment, noticing a pungent smell and finding a dead crow boiling on the stove, whose bones Jodi said she would use for an art project. It was wonderful just to be out of class, doing what we felt gave life meaning. As time continued however, our vices took over, and the free range lifestyle turned into a cage.

Really, life in the early twenties was all about experimentation, which could end beautifully or tragically. Jodi and I struggled to be decent adults but usually succumbed to our worst selves. She worked full-time as a barista and student, but when we drove around she would often be in the throes of some wild and unpredictable substance. (It took her a while to graduate.) I worked forty hours a week as managing editor on the student newspaper, but would often skip my real classes to get in a drunken fight with my then-girlfriend, who was an actual drunk (I tried being a lez for a couple years). Jodi and I always had a penchant for the offbeat and had finally been given freedom to be ourselves, and it was so scary that we didn’t know how to handle it.

Now that we are older, I would like to say we are both “normal,” or at least “adults.” I have a full-time job with benefits, bay windows and a cat, so I’m not doing too bad. Jodi’s working on a new family member and a Ph.D. in American studies, so she has streamlined her goals as well. Yet, she has never lost that je ne sais quoi. (Coincidentally, in 2009 we made a French art video about her giving birth to a cat, which can be seen here.)

When Jodi and I got together for this photo shoot after significant time apart, it was like we remembered all the good, creative things we like about each other, without all the sludge. We are both more comfortable with who we are now, and even though we don’t have everything figured out, we at least know how to use our imaginations for good. As she and I approach 30, I am glad to have that crazy ballerina as a muse and a friend. She’s the kind of person who makes a writer want to write.

This is what happens when my cat finds a patch of sunlight…

The day my family acquired the first of our two Japanese bobtails, we knew it was going to happen, even before we left for the cat show. My mom had walked out of the house fiercely stating, “We are absolutely, ABSOLUTELY NOT getting another cat,” knowing perfectly well that we were.

When a new pet is about to enter your life, the sound of destiny chimes in the air. You know a big decision is about to be made, you know the responsibility is about to change your lifestyle, you know you’re going to spend a ton of time scrubbing the floor and picking up broken household items, and yet the day glows with excitement because the best thing in the world is about to happen.

This Monday felt exactly that way: I knew I was going to get a cat. The time was right—I had been in my new apartment for a few months, it had been a healthy amount of time since I last owned a pet, and I had finally gotten over some mental ailments that a long, dark winter provokes (the unwillingness to get out from under a blanket, an unrequited longing for someone who clearly isn’t interested, a general distaste for anything that involves being awake). I was ready to start anew; screw the weather.

It was a cold but sunny morning– my day off– and although Lackawanna looked like a battered salt fortress after a long, heavy blizzard, the morning felt clean and new. The mall was dotted with senior couples and moms with strollers, the two most likable mall types.

I saw the orange letters of Tabby Town glowing down the walkway, but the gravity of the situation felt too heavy without a pretzel and a lemonade first. It is a strange but exhilarating feeling, sitting alone in a ray of sunlight on a mall bench, eating a baked good, feeling the weight of a milestone decision in a small plaza of calm shoppers. Would I meet a new family member today?

“Still Waters Run Deep”

When I did enter the store, I was hit with the familiar smell of feline. The place was a large, cement-floored commercial space (once a record store), made homey with comfy cat decor and a garden area bordered by a picket fence. Wire cages full of rescued cats in fluffy beds were stacked two by two in the middle of the room and also lined the walls. Many of the kitties were enjoying a stroll outside their houses.

I went by each cage as I’ve done on visits before, scratching heads and looking into the yellow and green and blue eyes, trying to feel out a good match. (Trying to find a cat is basically a modified form of speed dating.) I told one of the volunteers (we can call her Beth) that I was in the market for a cat, and she said I could take out any one that I wished and spend time in the “meet and greet” area, a back room with a table and chairs and a few kitty jungle gyms.

I first took out a feminine white and gray girl whom I thought was cute and took her to the back room. I told myself, “Hmm, maybe this could work.” Her jewel-like eyes and soft purrs had seemed alluring from the other side of the bars, but as soon as she was free she stood around for a quick head pat and then whisked out of the room with a flick of indifference.

Next I tried a spunky black cat named Velvet, whose incredibly soft fur fit her moniker and whom Beth described as “awesome.” Both Velvet and I felt that rush of excitement as the cage door swung open, imagining the possibilities of a life together. She had a certain moonlight power about her and a sleek perfection that one would find in cat shows, but once we got into the back room she also seemed more interested in the door.

I sat on the floor of the meet & greet area for a while, allowing other kitties (a feisty, petite calico, a grumpy tabby, a “mall walker” named Rob Zombie) to make their way in and out, but no one seemed to fit. I felt a little sad that I hadn’t met one that I really liked, so much that I started to wonder if I was just being too picky.

I was about to get up and leave when Beth came in and pointed out a black and white longhair behind me who was nestled between the wall and a cat tree. He had been so quiet I almost hadn’t noticed him, but now I could see that he had been watching everything with great interest.

“This one is Bernie Bean,” Beth said. (Bernie Bean!! How adorable!!) “He seems very shy at first, but once he comes out of his shell he’s just a little ham for attention. One of the other volunteers had him bouncing on her lap to ‘Party Rock’ on the radio this morning.”

A cat that will allow me to pick him up and dance with him? That was the first sign. It was then that I looked at his face and comprehended just how incredibly cute he was. He had large, innocent green eyes, a long black face with a white mouth and a black puzzle piece pattern on his nose. His round white paws reminded me of winter boots and were placed politely together in front of him. He seemed very interested in all the shenanigans that were going on and wanted to join in, but was just a little unsure. I knew the feeling.

I put my hand out to let him sniff it, and after a short hesitation he cradled his head in my fingers. His hair felt coarse but fluffy, and his markings formed a patchwork pattern. He reminded me of a big scarf. I moved back a little. He stood up from behind the jungle gym, stretched upward, and then came over and put his head in my lap. I pulled him to me and realized he was mostly fur. He had also carried half the contents of the floor with him. Beth came back in.

“I had a feeling you would like him,” she said. “A woman actually found him on the street after he had been abandoned. She surrendered him at a shelter somewhere in the southern tier.”

I hugged him closer and pictured the person who had dumped him out in -20° wind chills swerving off the road into a ditch, getting pinned under their car, having their face eaten by a bear and then eventually getting rescued, but having several limbs removed due to frostbite. I looked at Bean’s little jelly bean paws. They looked chapped, like he had walked on cold streets covered in road salt. His fur was slightly matted on his tummy too.

“He still has some tangles in him, but I just haven’t had the chance to work on him yet because he’s been so shy,” Beth said. She pointed out a hard, white knot on his chest. “He loves to be brushed though.”

“Aw, I loved to be brushed too!” I almost said.

I told her I was interested and she eagerly went to get the application paperwork. My history with animals and mental stability checked out, and I was soon signing the papers to make him my baby.

I asked if I could pick him up in a couple days, because I needed to prepare at home. Beth and the lady at the register said absolutely, and we chatted for a while about their animals and my family’s animals. It is such a wonderful, warm feeling to talk to people who truly love animals, because even though there are the scum-of-the-earth bags of feces who abandon their pets on a cold night, there are just as many nice souls who volunteer their time to help relocate those abandoned pets.

***

Since Monday, I have been working diligently to prepare Bean’s new home, cleaning and vacuuming and buying all the feline accouterments. It’s strange to see a Tidy Cat tub of litter sitting in the hallway, because while I’ve grown up with cats in the family, I’ve never had one that was mine alone. I spent last evening organizing my bedroom (i.e. frantically bagging all clothing and shoving it in the closet), because while the living room and dining room are neat, I know Bean will want to start in a small space (and not having a male cat spray all your sweaters is pretty good incentive).

Also, here is my bay window, decorated for St. Patty’s Day and the coming of spring. Just celebrating the last days before my furniture is blanketed in cat hair. At least now I know my hardwood floors will always be dusted.

I pick Beanie up in half an hour!

How nice to enjoy the last of the year’s verdure in my new home. This place is like a suburb, only in the city. All around are solid brick homes and wise, centenarian trees that canopy the neighborhood, keeping it safe. Whenever I take pictures of things I always stand back up and find someone staring at me quizzically.

I wonder what other people the maple tree outside my window has watched in this apartment, who it has waved its branches to in salutation as people in various waking states have talked and eaten and slept and kissed and danced and fought and entertained, and done the strangely intimate things people do at home. I know the girl before me had red hair, that purple cherry kind. I learned that from the bathtub.

For five years, I’ve been living in a box– a cutely modernized but stiflingly small studio apartment with one door, one window, one sink total, and maybe 100 square feet. The place is cheap but doesn’t allow for much creative expression, outside of using a vacuum for wall art and the microwave as a clothes dryer. The insulation between the upper and lower floor is like cotton candy; when my neighbor vacuums in the kitchen overhead, it sounds like she’s either directing a Boeing into the refrigerator or holding a million-strong “back massager” convention.

There is the couple who lives in an L around me downstairs, one person who is almost totally deaf and one who has Tourette’s, so usually the night air is peppered with slamming doors and expletives. Then there is the crazy next-door neighbor who has no job and spends hours mowing, weed-whacking, raking, and shop-vaccing our lawn three times a week. I almost miss the screaming husband and wife in the recycling box house across the street, but “since he fell off the garbage truck, he can’t work so good,” and they had to move.

The House

I actually tried to escape in April. The noise in my apartment had driven me into such madness that I somehow thought it was a good idea to skip a gradual upgrade and go right for a house. Here’s how it happened: I said, “Dad, I am thinking about maybe buying a house.” A week later, I was signing papers for a house. I guess I should have expected this–you can tell my dad that you need a small crate to store your books, and two days later he will have built you a library.

The sellers and I had weird, cosmic connections. The family was warm and Italian, with offspring my age and a quaint, lived-in house with an energy like our own, two blocks over from my studio apartment. Any appliance needed? “It’s yours.” The wife was so nice and down-to-earth and the husband Pete was so jovial and likeable (even if I smelled a faint BS).  He said my dad was exactly like his father used to be. One night we spent two hours just shooting the breeze at their dining room table. I even told them about my belief in fate and spirit guides, which I don’t discuss with everyone because people think I’m crazy. But this couple seemed tuned in. So did my realtor, whom I immediately bonded with and cared about. And–perfect timing– my neighbor who lived above me was moving to Boston and offered me all of his furniture for my new house. Things were actually so nice that I said to myself, “I hope something doesn’t happen.”

For the next two months, things shaped up so rapidly that I developed a debilitating inner-ear infection to manifest the rising anxiety I felt inside. A house. Fifteen hundred square feet.  Permanence. Responsibility. Upkeep. Mounds of paperwork. A thirty-year mortgage. Water, electricity, gas, garbage, lawn mowers, snow plows. Neighbor personalities? Bills– would probably have to ask my parents for help. Already feel bad about that. The roof may go bad. The bad dream I had about Dad falling off of it. Moving out, moving on. That huge place with just me and my furniture.

And such a hasty decision.

While I wedged myself into my futon like a rumination sandwich during the times I should have been packing up my apartment, things started to get strange on the other end as well. One day Pete called me and said, “I just have this medical bill from a while ago I didn’t take care of. I’m going to pay it off, don’t worry.” That bill turned into a home equity loan and a second mortgage that, oops, they forgot about. And oops, he owed something to this guy in Arizona. Then I found out they were six months behind in their mortgage payments. In fact, they had so many liens on their house that even as June approached the numbers were nowhere near being finalized.

As this was all going down, I spent most evenings lying in the backyard like a dead pigeon, paralyzed by vertigo and a complete loss of perspective. I don’t even know why buying a house felt SO BAD– it’s not like my parents were auctioning me off to a filthy old man in another country, or a missile had launched and desecrated the entire northeastern U.S.  That’s what it felt like though– under the surface of calm financial transactions was the turgid feeling that something had changed and it was horribly, inescapably wrong.

The day my lawyer called me up to say that I would lose the house and reiterate that Pete was a “douchebag loser,” I cried on impulse. Immediately though, my tears turned to those of joy. A massive black curtain had lifted and suddenly I felt like myself again. It’s weird to feel normal very rapidly, like being sober after months of drowsing medication. The house prescription happened to be one I didn’t need for a disease with a much easier remedy.

Moving On
Things didn’t immediately turn around after the whole incident. However, what happened made me appreciate life even more. I rented a storage space for the furniture and got to keep my studio apartment, which was nice on the landlord’s part but kind of shitty because I was still living in the exact same filing cabinet. Working at the ol’ call center was about as inspiring as it sounds, and I didn’t even pass my assessments at roller derby that would have allowed me to be drafted to a team. Oh, and my recently-exed boyfriend of three years had inseminated one of his employees and was going to be a new dad. So while nothing really bad was happening, you get the picture that life felt like purgatory.

One day while everyone was bickering at work and I was thinking about how my apartment had turned into a mini-ep of Hoarders, I prayed, PRAYED that things would turn around for the better. In slow and deliberate gel pen, I petitioned the Lord, my spirit guides, and all the positivity in the world that maybe, maybe just ONE really good thing could happen that would allow me to progress as a human being.

And you know what? Getting in touch with your Catholic roots really works. Things come together in beautifully unexpected ways when you put your faith in the universe.  At first I was sure that what I needed was a new boyfriend, maybe even, you know, “the one.” I put my profile back on Plenty of Fish, like I was actually going to find anyone there. Then I thought, maybe a new job? Looked within my healthcare system and in the papers. Same as POF– matches for bottom feeders.

Just for fun, I went back on Craigslist and started requesting to see vacant spaces, even though my lease wouldn’t be up until December. You know the part in 101 Dalmations where the dogs and owners walk by in perfectly matched pairs, the stout secretary with the snub-nosed pug, the pointy artist with the flowing greyhound, the uptight aristocrat with the high-maintenance poodle?

That’s what apartments and their landlords are like—you can picture the person based on the place. Each showing, I glimpsed a different lifestyle– the athletic, well-manicured working mom with the pricey suburban garden view, the stubbornly hippyish middle-ager with the opulent old mansion but nowhere to park, the hardened but charismatic blue collar guy fully engrossed in his smoky building’s baby mama drama.

The day I found my new home, it was like I had consumed a flask of Felix Felicis from Prisoner of Azkaban. I could see the luminescent steps laid out before me, leading me to a future I already knew I would live before I went inside. I had seen the apartment listing the night before and sent an email of inquiry, never believing that this home could exist and be waiting, unrented, for me. The place had everything in perfect proportions– a second story one-bedroom off the parkway, hardwood floors, round archways, bay windows overlooking a side street lined with maple trees, a porch off the kitchen made for two, and—though I didn’t know it at the time—an entire attic space the size of a second bedroom.

It happened on a Friday I was off from work, just when the fall leaves were starting to turn the colors of gems and precious metals. That morning I had waited in line at 5 a.m. with an adamant friend for the grand opening of Trader Joe’s in our town. It was cold before the sun came up, so we bundled in our winter coats and hats and swayed to the Caribbean band’s marimbas while the workers adorned us with leis. The day had a special, new feeling about it, like anything could happen. It was while I was waiting in line to bag some crunchy gingerbread butter and French berry lemonade that I got the email saying the apartment was available.

As I arrived in the south side of the city that afternoon, I was filled with that warm, infrared glow of destiny, like my year’s journey finally made sense. The entire property was bathed in sunlight, the trees creating a beautiful pattern on the sidewalk. Neat, modest plants rested in the shade and the wooden crisscrosses on the side of the building reminded me of Snow White’s cottage.

The first creature to greet me was a cat (whom I would later find out was named Cat). He ran eagerly out the front door, mewed in warm salutation and then flopped down in front of me on the cobbled sidewalk, waiting to be petted. Next came the friendly landlord, whom I immediately found agreeable. In my “carass,” as Kurt Vonnegut would say. Together, the three of us walked up the narrow stairs to what would become my new home.

More about the apartment will follow in subsequent posts, but what I take away from the year this: I’m glad everything happened the way it did. If I hadn’t been looking for a house when my upstairs neighbor moved out, I probably would have just moved into his place, which is smaller, less interesting, and way more noisily torturous than the apartment I found. I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to go through the mortgage process with my dad and learn so much about what goes into buying a house, the unexpected turns that go with it, and the amount of capital you actually need to invest in one.

Most importantly, this year made me believe that things happen for a reason. Sometimes when things seem at their worst, it means that something really good is about to happen, both to help relieve your suffering and help you evolve as a human being.  And really, the shitty times make the good ones that much greater. That’s why I urge people to have faith—have faith in yourself, and believe that the universe has good things in store for you. Life doesn’t just have to be a messy studio apartment.