I haven’t updated with anything meaningful in forever.

So I was going through some photos and decided to post some pics from my trip to NYC with my boss last October. She won a super cool “top women in media award” and invited some of us from the office to go with her to pick it up.

We went for a walk from Grand Central to Times Square.

Later, I dragged my co-worker Tracy to the Empire State Building after dinner on the night we were there and it was pretty gorgeous!

I had the next morning to myself and wanted to go for a long walk on the Upper East Side because everything I know about the world I learned from TV, and I figured if Gossip Girl taught me anything it was how to navigate the Upper East Side. So I left my hotel, hailed a cab to the Starbucks closest to Blair Waldorf’s house (he drove me through Central Park to get there) and walked all the way back to Grand Central Station.

I got a coffee and a yogurt and went for a walk.

I’m a dork. And my trip amused me.

There’s a post on PolicyMic making the rounds among my Facebook friends called “This is America’s Most Apocalyptic, Violent City — And You’ve Probably Never Heard Of It” and it’s about my hometown, Flint, Mich.

I read it and didn’t think much of it. I take issue with the very premise. Flint is kind of famous for its endless failures and always makes one of the top spots in every variation of the “America’s Most Dangerous Cities” lists that seem to come out several times a year from various news sources. We also have a fairly famous movie enshrining Flint’s endless failures–Roger & Me, of course.

I’ve rarely encountered people in the Midwest who’ve never heard of Flint, even if everything they’ve heard is bad (and it usually is).

The article I linked above made the rounds on Facebook as anything about Flint does among the locals and those of us who grew up there. And it sparked a lot of “but what about the resurgence” talk and a few people even made lists of their own, counting down their favorite things about the city.

I was struck by the simplicity of the lists, because they were the kinds of things anyone would say about a place they lived and liked and the lists basically boiled down to: I love some of the people here and I have a favorite restaurant and also there’s a lovely cultural scene (that is really a sub-culture as I know just as many people who don’t visit any of the city’s cultural amenities as I do those who do).

However, because we’re talking about Flint, there were a few things people liked about the city that sent a shiver up my spine and reminded me that I’m glad I left. Someone posted that they liked how “tough” Flint is, how it sharpens people because it’s a hard city to thrive in.

My husband and I have long-joked about the idea that Flint is “tough”, but it’s an aspect of life there that I don’t miss at all and, in fact, am very happy to not have to deal with anymore. Tough conditions harden people, make them distrustful, fearful, and angry. And the longer I’m away from the Flint the less hard I am, and the more grateful I am for the opportunities I have to be soft and vulnerable. Vulnerability is a skill I’m still learning to enjoy.

This is a very silly example but this past month my husband built a fun piece of “yard art”–a perfect replica of Snoopy’s Dog House from A Charlie Brown Christmas–and it includes items that could easily be stolen. And I wondered what, if anything, would be snatched from the dog house from our yard in suburban Chicago. So far, nothing has been stolen. Not even the silly First Prize ribbon we pinned to the side of it.

But when we went back to Flint for Christmas the topic of the dog house being stolen was brought up repeatedly. “You think it’ll be there when you get back?” “Anything missing from it yet?” Questions like that cropped up every time we talked about it with Flint-area friends and relatives.

When we got home? Everything was still there, even the First Prize pin. And I know it’s a small, silly thing–and much worse and more dangerous things are happening everywhere, all the time–but it’s the little things that remind me it’s a relief to not have to endlessly worry about battening down the hatches and securing what’s yours before somebody else takes it. The world doesn’t need to be as tough as it is in Flint and I’m glad that I don’t have to be anymore.

This is a little bit different and totally depressing, so I’d skip it if I were you:

I don’t hate Christmas. I just understand people who do. You see, I had a tiny pity party for myself in the Christmas wrapping paper aisle at Target earlier this month.

My parents and grandparents are dead, as are a few other key people from my childhood. I live in a different state than the one I grew up in and I don’t live within 30 minutes of dear friends let alone family. I have a stepbrother I never see (though I adore him) and I don’t have any kids of my own.

Mostly I’m fine with all of that (or at least at peace with it). I am very connected via technology and have lots of great friends that live all over the place that I regularly talk to. I’m not prone to pity parties, not really.

Generally speaking, I wouldn’t mention a tiny Target pity party from early in December. But sometimes I worry that I focus too much on the unpleasant memories of the people I’ve lost–it makes the grief easier to swallow. Mostly I try not to think too much about them because I fear the space where they used to be will become a sinkhole and I’ll lose myself in it.

But I know those are melodramatic thoughts, not true to life. In real life your father can die on the prettiest spring day you’ve ever seen, and the birds will just keep on singing. Life goes on. And the people I’ve lost each left their mark on me, helped formed who I am. I carry them with me in my head even when I’m not conscious of it.

Still I lingered over the glittering Christmas ornaments and silly knick knacks at Target, not thinking of much beyond my own house until I turned down the wrapping paper aisle. I had to stop short and beat a hasty retreat as I was briefly overwhelmed by feelings of grief.

I loved to pick out presents, agonizing over just the right gift, hoping it was the right fit, the perfect color, the gift that would make the person receiving it feel like I understood their style, their sense of humor, had phoned Santa directly and picked an item off their secret wish list (yes, I am an egomaniac).

But that was just the start because there is really nothing better than a gorgeously wrapped present! My mother was an exceptional gift wrapper. Picking out our wrapping paper was an annual tradition–it all had to match or complement. She loved foil wrapping with big bows and ribbons. One year we did all red foil with gold ribbons and bows and Christmas morning felt like an episode of Dynasty it was all so glamorous! And that was before we’d even opened the presents.

So I was flooded with all of these happy Christmas memories sparked by the wrapping paper aisle. My mother’s love of decorations and wrapping paper. My maternal grandmother’s tendency to be silly and crack us up at the Christmas dinner table–she once made little edible people out of the relish tray and happily made dirty jokes about pickles to scandalize my father’s mother! My father’s unbridled enthusiasm for a good Christmas dinner–we often had Cornish game hens, which were more fun than tasty if memory serves. His mother’s amazing cookies and breads and the piles and piles of food she’d make for just our immediate family on Christmas Eve. My grandfather carefully assembling a Barbie Dream Swimming Pool like it was as important as any project in his wood shop. And those thoughts made me happy but also terribly sad.

Sometimes the hardest thing about the happy memories is that I’m the only person alive to remember them.

For years I thought 1990 was the most pivotal year of my life. I turned 18. My father died unexpectedly and my entire life (such that it was) fell apart. Losing my father set in motion a long and exhausting chain of events that, when I put them in a list, sound a lot like a ridiculous Victorian or Gothic novel updated for the grunge era that included schemers, liars, cheats, and endless betrayals (complete with a pop soundtrack by Nirvana and 10,000 Maniacs).

But now that I’m older (wiser?) I know that 1993 was the more important year, because it was the year I started to put my life together.

My initial attempts at pulling myself out of the toxic spiral of grief and betrayal were unsuccessful (I wasn’t ready? Or the crazy people I surrounded myself were of no help?) but when I moved to Mackinac Island on July 17, 1993, it gave me the time and distance from my troubles that helped me remember that my life was actually my own—and I could take charge of it.

By the end of the summer I’d discovered truly wonderful lifelong friends, had the perfect summer romance, realized that I could stand on my own (and that I liked it that way), and I started to truly grow up and move past the dark years of drama and trauma following my father’s death.

So here’s a snippet of my journal from July 19, 1993, my first entry in two weeks after declaring, “I need to get out of this town before I go insane.”

Note: I’ve kept the angsty melodramatic tones intact but removed some passages about my family drama and all the Douglas Copeland books I had read recently. 

Life flies by like some insane butterfly, constantly making unexpected dips and turns. Right now I’m sitting on the top of my bunk bed at Corby dorms, above Ryba’s Fudge Shop on Mackinac Island.

Saturday morning I took the Arnold Ferry and arrived on the island, my luggage ridiculously pulled behind me.

So far the people are nice, I guess, but I always crave the familiar, except when I’m in the familiar. Except things aren’t so familiar at home afterall…

I guess it all got to be too much at home…so I’ve resigned myself to living here for now. A long thin room with four girls in two bunk beds. Public facilities prevail.

My self-proclaimed “dorm alcoholic” roommate Paula (from Flint, no less) told me that a girl showed up to Corby a few weeks ago, took one look at the bedrooms, turned around and left. “Not even here two hours,” Paula said. It’s probably a fib but it makes for good copy.

I’ve been scooping ice cream. My wrists are sore just writing this. I reek of sugar sticky scream, especially Blue Moon – the scourge of my existence.

Yesterday, Paula and I were at the marina watching the sailboats come in. The winner, The Windquest, was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Starting to read The Color Purple today. Will switch to using a purple pen.