I woke up this morning to the less-than-gentle overtures of Snowstorm Jonas, as he battered about the house.
A quick note: My little apartment is in a 100-year-old-building, and my room is up under the eaves. This means I benefit from a lovely little window nook, but also have to deal with the fact that I live in what was once the less-than-adequately-insulated attic.
When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that PATCO wasn't running, rumbling beneath 8th and Locust and shaking our entire building with the "...get-up-get-up-Get-UP-GET-UP-GET-UP-Get-up-get-up-get-up..." cadence that it usually (graciously) shares every single morning.
The second thing I noticed was a collection of sinister creaking noises. Now, Logic told me that these were just the sounds of contracting 100-year-old beams and snow drifts being bandied about on the roof. But Logic was only taking up about 7.5% of my conscious brain. The other 92.5% was occupied by (much louder and more assertive) Crazy, which insisted: THERE IS AN INTRUDER IN YOUR HOME, THEY MADE IT THROUGH TWO GIANT LOCKED DOORS WITHOUT MAKING NOISE, THEY HAVE BRUTALLY MURDERED YOUR ROOMMATE IN SILENCE, AND NOW THEY ARE LURKING AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR.
“THERE IS AN INTRUDER IN YOUR HOME.”
So I did what any woman would do. I compared the options to remedy my unhappy dilemma. I balanced a) being murdered in my bed, against b) stealthily getting out of bed, arming myself, and confronting him.
Important Note: There was also option c) call your roommate next door so that her cell phone rings and he goes after her, first. (backstory: about 9 years ago, living in Manayunk, that's what I decided to do. With never ending apologies to my former roommate, Kinah, who picked up the phone, very confused, before I explained I was actively sacrificing her life for mine. ...Sorry Kinah.) Unfortunately, Britt is in Florida this weekend, so I couldn't call her to divert any murderous intruders. Option c was off the table.
Die like a coward, or die in brave, pro-active glory.
Left with only option a) die like a coward, and option b) die in brave, pro-active glory, I chose (shockingly) option b.
Now, TO ARMS!
Unfortunately, I don't really have much in the way of weaponry lying about my bedroom. In retrospect, I should have perhaps grabbed the red keychain thing that makes a piercingly loud noise. But instead, I opted for the marble head statuette that my mother gave me for my birthday last year. (Clearly, because she wanted my room to look nice AND wanted to provide me with a Classically-inspired hefty instrument of self-defense in case of an emergency. Mom really takes care of me.)
Defense Mechanism, in repose.
What ensued was a (probably not comic, probably brilliantly ninja-like combination of quick and stealthy) surveying of the rooms on the top floor of my apartment, marble Restoration Hardware Classical Roman statuette raised over my head, ready to inflict terrifying (if lovely) bashing injuries upon any unwelcome guest.
With only the very slightest bit of disappointment, I can assure you there was no intruder. The marble head statuette looked quite dejected when I replaced her on the dresser.
(Which leaves me with only one conclusion, really: We have ghosts.)
Being up, I put on my snow boots and gathered my things to venture into the drifty, windy storm and trek to my very favorite coffeeshop in the city, Menagerie Coffee (or "Menager-RAY, according to my friend, Jane). I was determined to break out the cans my brothers gave me for Christmas and finally write a blog about my favorite songs of 2015.
But as I sat down to begin dissecting the lyrical and melodic intrigues of last year's artists, Fleetwood Mac came on in the coffee shop. (It's the Best of Fleetwood Mac album, which is my 2nd favorite Fleetwood Mac album, behind the unparalleled perfection of the Rumours track lineup.) And one simply cannot put on headphones when Stevie and Christine and Lindsey are singing. And Mick is rocking. And John is playing. And Lindsey's guitar is serenading. It's impossible.
What a happy dilemma.
Do you always trust your first initial feeling? Maybe you shouldn't, because there probably aren't intruders in your apartment...