My Life, As Told Between (Baby Cakes') Naps

The electricity in my apartment has been flickering on and off all weekend, presumably due to the storm that’s wrecking havoc in LA.  The old Jewish woman who lives down the hall from me dropped by yesterday, during a period in which the electricity was working, to ask for help in resetting the clocks in her apartment.  I think she wanted the company more than the help, since the clocks were bound to flicker off again anyways.  In the fifteen minutes I was there, she managed to tell me about the family, and the baby, she had lost in the holocaust and the husband she had lost to old age.  Her entire apartment was a shrine to her former life, with faded pictures of her and her husband scattered throughout.  I tried to stay and talk to her as long as I could, but soon the walls started to feel like they were closing in on me and I just had to escape.  It was a sad and sobering reminder of what it must be like to grow old in America.  I hope I work up the nerve to visit her again.  I’d like to, but I’m not sure I’m that brave.     

Aside from no hot water and all the food in the fridge going bad, my roommate and I have been forced to entertain ourselves by telling stories and “using our imaginations” this weekend.  Apparently, neither of us have much of one, so we ended up discussing our current topic of obsession – the half ton man.  I don’t know why I find him so riveting.  I think it’s because he makes me reconsider the limits of the human body.  Or that, even tipping the scales at 1,000+ pounds, he’s been married for over nine years.  The idea of a Mrs. Half Ton Man is mystifying to me.