 Now They Know |
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April showers are raging on the last day of the month. The dogs and I woke up at about 5 a.m. as the thunder moved in and Zuko's yelps began. The storm was so loud that the windows rattled, and he hid under the couch while Daisy ran around the house jumping about a foot in the air every time the lightning would strike. I recovered slowly but surely from my dream that Donald Rumsfeld was my dentist. I love that I just called my little brother to say, "I have a new favorite song! Guess what it is!" And he continued his ping pong game at his frat house and went through only two songs (one by Maroon 5 and one by the Darkness -- I am so one hundred percent sure) before naming the one I meant. "No," I said, "It's kind of a slow pretty piano song!" And he said, "Oh, it's got to be that Five for Fighting song!" And it totally is. I heard it for the first time on Good Morning America this morning, and the whole Times Square crowd was singing along, and as usual, I was like, "Why am I so behind these times?" And I can't help it, but I really love the song. I don't know if it's old, or if it's new, or if it sucks, but it doesn't suck to me. It's called "100 Years." And my brother knows me ridiculously well. A second serial killer has been arrested because clearly one is just not enough for this city. He's confessed to eight murders and has so far been charged with five. This has all come to light in the past day or so. We've always known there was an insane number of unsolved killings of women, but we didn't actually know another serial killer was committing them until yesterday. One of the women he's charged with killing is the one I babysat for when I was a kid. The police knocked on her husband's door at 12:30 last night after all these years to tell him that they've definitely got the right guy. I've had a sour stomach all day at the news. Learning the details of her death is surreal and sickening. This suspect lived right across the street from Maryelizabeth's little sister and right down the street from the parents of a good friend of ours. Shelley's first boyfriend grew up on that street. The proximity of such a maniac to all of us is enough to freak me out on top of the fact that he killed all of these women on top of the fact that the other serial killer's first trial starts next week. Maybe it's storming to wash us all clean, to wash away the metaphorical vomit and piss we've all spewed in fear and horror yet again. Yet again. I can't stop thinking about those kids. Her three kids. They were all brilliant, and they always had a house full of animals. Dogs, rabbits, hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, you name it. The girls' rooms were always covered in posters of horses. And their mother was elegant and dignified and lovely and would come up with all kinds of creative games for them, like backyard circuses, and she would always leave dinner for me. She always made her husband walk or drive me home if it was dark outside even though I could practically spit from their front yard to mine. She cooked me my first ever chicken pot pie. It's funny the things you remember.
About this time in ...
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