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My grandparents’ house, Despite the horrors I’ve written about in the story pinned to my profile

I have a lot of terrible memories that took place there but there are also beautiful memories. they had a comfortable warm and inviting home in the country and in the moments where I wasn’t being confronted with my family dysfunction I felt so normal. They called the bedroom my sister and I would stay in the princess room; it had two twin beds and a huge collection of VHS tapes, board games, and vintage children’s books. When I grew up my boyfriend and I got to stay in the one of the grownup rooms with en suite bathroom, pictured, which was a defining moment for me. I loved waking up before everybody, making coffee in the sun room, sitting there and reading the Dallas Morning News looking out into the garden. My grandfather sold the house before we had our falling-out and they’ve since passed so I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to. — I would also say my paternal grandfather's house, which sat on a huge tract of land with pecan and pomegranate trees which we would pick up off of the ground. An irrigation dam ran behind it. In the winter, I would stomp on the cracked dry earth to break it beneath my feet, and shatter the ice that would form in the bird bath. The walls were lined with my great grandmother’s pastel art from when she went to finishing school and my grandmother’s embroidery pieces. There was a wood paneled library with smoke-stained classic books, many of which I have with me today. My dad and his brother had a play room painted in primary color blue, yellow, and red, and my sister and I could play with all of their old toys and look at their old books. My grandmothers glass shoe and bell connection as well as her vanity set had all been left exactly as they were and I would admire them every time we visited. She died before I was born but I always felt a strong connection to her and I would love to have space to display her collections someday! And I adored my grandfather who had been so prickly with my father and his brother but was so sweet to me. He would always give me porcelain dolls he bought on QVC. his house smelled like rotten bananas because he would buy them and forget to eat them. He died when I was about six years old and I said why couldn’t it have been my other grandfather that died (lol). I miss him a lot and I think he would be proud of me! 🫶 — Oh and my mom‘s dead gay best friend Jackie’s house which he shared with his partner Aaron, a sculptor who was close friends with Cormac McCarthy. I learned everything about sophistication in decor from them and their house was my favorite place on earth. He would have a huge Christmas party every year and go BALLS TO THE WALL DECORATING; other professors from the university and artists would hobnob and I would eat inappropriately too many hors d’oeuvres (he would get all of his charcuterie and shrimp cocktail from COSTCO). His kitchen had black and white checker board floors with cherry red accents and Betty Boop decor. I miss him so much too!!!

@taterhole

Jul 18, 2024

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collecting old kodak cameras

“death must be so beautiful…to forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace” (the bell jar) my grandmother recently passed away; she left behind a house full of delicate treasures i intend to treat with much care. there are a few things in life so beautiful they hurt—for me, that would be the predicament of inheritance i find myself in. how do you begin to enjoy someone else’s house full of things, if the home is empty and void of life? what is this death but a negligable accident that permits unbroken continuity? i found this Kodak 2000 disc camera, alongside a mountain of clothes, while going through my grandmother’s treasures. these seemingly miscellaneous things she eventually grew to omit the value in—seeing as they had been tucked away at the back of her closet—now hold much value for me. they serve as reminders of all her existence and livelihood. the camera in itself is pretty useless in terms of functionality considering the fact that disc film is a discontinued still-photography film format, but the sentimental value behind it renders it’s worthiness as a collectors item [unless of course, someone knows where i can find kodacolor HR disc film 15 exp.]

@madhearts

Oct 20, 2024

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ginny

A few days ago, my dad woke up with the words "Ginny's not coming back inside."  Ginny is my dog, a nearly 15 year old Yellow Lab-German Shepard mutt that I rescued in 2013 at the age of 4. She's been a patient, loving and calm companion to me throughout my 20’s, and has overtime won the hearts of my Pakistani parents, both of whom were deeply terrified of large dogs until Ginny joined our family. What do you mean Ginny's not coming back inside? I asked. "She's not coming back inside. I think she likes it out there. I have to leave for work, can you let her back inside?" I nod yes and roll over. I hear my dad descend the stairs, leave the house, start his car and back out of the driveway before I get up myself. I scroll my phone aimlessly for a couple of minutes and decide to check on Ginny. I go to the back door. Usually when she’s ready, she meets us there, ready to re-enter the indoors. When I don't see her there, I immediately get worried - maybe she escaped from the yard.  It happened once before when someone forgot to close the gate. We found her a few hours later, having a solo picnic in the next-door neighbor's garbage. All the desperate cries she must have heard and ignored in pursuit of scraps; the frantic phone call to the police and nearby animal shelters. We drove around and walked in zig-zags all through our neighborhood only to discover she didn’t stray far at all. I open the door, now more alert and panicked than seconds ago, but quickly spot her across the backyard. Laying down.  I freeze until I see her chest rise and fall. She's sleeping. This was a few days ago.  Almost every time we let Ginny out now, we have to cajole her back inside because she loves being outside, alone, with nature. I don’t indulge her too much, I know isolation is a sign of discomfort and pain in dogs, but I think of my grandmother, my dad’s mom, who spent her final days napping in our yard, back when we lived in the suburbs of Toronto. My siblings and I would watch her, baffled, as she placed a sheet on the lawn, lay down and rested there for hours. Didn’t she want to be in the cool air conditioning, maybe watch some tv? Do something a little more… interesting? Wasn’t being outside deeply underwhelming? We never asked her these questions so I’m not sure what in particular she liked about the experience. If could guess, it made her feel connected to the earth, it gave her a sense of peace and comfort, she enjoyed the silence and simplicity of it. Yesterday, it was raining. I let Ginny out, thinking to myself, surely she’ll come back inside - it’s pouring rain, for god’s sakes - only to go out searching for her 10 minutes later to find her soaked, laying on the ground. I choked up at the sight. I brought her inside and dried her up. Later in the day, Ginny had her vet appointment. They weighed her. Unsurprisingly, she was 10 pounds short of her usual weight. Unsurprisingly, she was diagnosed with arthritis and dementia. They took bloodwork and warned there could be more. We wouldn’t have the results for a few days. They gave me some medicine to help her with pain management and appetite stimulants to help her regain some weight. Today, it’s cloudy but the rain won’t start for a few more hours. My mom suggested we bring a towel out to make Ginny more comfortable. I also gave Ginny my cashmere sweater as a blanket, placing it on top of her laying body. I thought she might like it, but it's hard to tell what she likes anymore. As I write this, she’s been out there for an hour now. It's time for her to come back inside, eat her breakfast and take her medicine.

@paras

Mar 6, 2024

Top Recs from @taterhole

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Never changing

My dad teases me about how when I was a little kid, my favorite thing to do when I was on the landline phone with somebody—be it a relative or one of my best friends—was to breathlessly describe the things that were in my bedroom so that they could have a mental picture of everything I loved and chose to surround myself with, and where I sat at that moment in time. Perfectly Imperfect reminds me of that so thanks for always listening and for sharing with me too 💌

@taterhole

Feb 23, 2025

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SURFING THE TIDES OF THE EVERYONE TAB

I am a woman of the people

@taterhole

May 28, 2025

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Rejecting the Commodification of the Self

I’ve been thinking about how much of social media is centered around curating our self-image. When selfies first became popular, they were dismissed as vain and vapid—a critique often rooted in misogyny—but now, the way we craft our online selves feels more like creating monuments. We try to signal our individuality, hoping to be seen and understood, but ironically, I think this widens the gap between how others perceive us and who we really are. Instead of fostering connection, it can invite projection and misinterpretation—preconceived notions, prefab labels, and stereotypes. Worse, individuality has become branded and commodified, reducing our identities to products for others to consume. On most platforms, validation often comes from how well you can curate and present your image—selfies, aesthetic branding, and lifestyle content tend to dominate. High engagement is tied to visibility, not necessarily depth or substance. But I think spaces like PI.FYI show that there’s another way: where connection is built on shared ideas, tastes, and interests rather than surface-level content. It’s refreshing to be part of a community that values thoughts over optics. By sharing so few images of myself, I’ve found that it gives others room to focus on my ideas and voice. When I do share an image, it feels intentional—something that contributes to the story I want to tell rather than defining it. Sharing less allows me to express who I am beyond appearance. For women, especially, sharing less can be a radical act in a world where the default is to objectify ourselves. It resists the pressure to center appearance, focusing instead on what truly matters: our thoughts, voices, and authenticity. I’ve posted a handful of pictures of myself in 2,500 posts because I care more about showing who I am than how I look. In trying to be seen, are we making it harder for others to truly know us? It’s a question worth considering.

@taterhole

Dec 27, 2024