About two years ago, my apartment building at the corner of Irving Park and Southport caught on fire.
In retrospect, I think the now defunct JoyBlue was trying to collect insurance, which i understand because it sucked, but a heads-up would have been nice.
The building lacked smoke detectors, which is a problem in itself, but when you're passed out drunk, it's really a problem.
I awoke when I heard one of my cats choking for air. By the time, I got up, tried to dress myself, and attempted to grab some cats, I realized it was not just someone burning bacon. The lights were on, but I could not see and I could not breathe. After trying the front door, I crawled blindly towards the back door. I'm a pretty calm person, but after I saw the flames out the second door, I thought I was toast.
That's when I heard the fire department yelling. They were wonderful.
They carried us down three flights of stairs. They didn't give me shit for having kittens rolled up in a shirt. They promptly told the friend that was staying over to shut the hell up when she started whining like a baby about her purse. They didn't stare or mention the fact that I was nearly naked, just grabbed me a blanket. They were genuinely concerned about what pets were left inside and found them. They apologized for breaking my things while trying to break out the windows. And after the fire was out, without asking, they made a special trip back in to try and find some salvageable shoes for me to wear.
But after all this, I think my favorite part, was the ribbing they gave the rookie for mistakingly saving my mannequin. read more