Some of you may have heard about Hurricane Sandy that is coming to blow us all off the northern seaboard in a rapidly approaching time.
I say horse pucky.
I saw some live time cyclones while I was living in Australia. For example, I was living in Brisbane when a storm ripped through a suburb totaling a block of houses with nothing but a few piles of wood in its wake.
I was living in Melbourne when the 2011 Brisbane floods devastated the nation. I realize Sandy might whip some winds through and rattle a few telephone poles… but I don’t think the entire island group that is New York City will be submerged in impossible pools of sky water.
Maybe I’m just an optimist.
The U.S. media is hilarious over the weather. If they reported on issues like world hunger and women’s rights with just as much passion, it would be a dramatically different country. The economy would crash from the drop of bottled water and flashlight sales.
From the looks of it I have a few coming days of rainy weather writing which I enjoy immensely. Tea with grey skies and petrichor letters spilling on a page.
I might even purchase a desk this weekend… that’s how unconcerned I am about Sandy smashing through and destroying life as we know it.
Yesterday Timothy, myself and two small creatures wandered across the Queensborough Bridge. That’s right blog tribe, the puppies totally did Manhattan.
As suspected, they were very pleased to wander through Turtle Bay to the delight of Henry and Lily dancing for pats all the way. Manhattan residents don’t try to look tough like Queens locals. They’re more than happy to praise adorableness.
The puppies were stopped by two new friends before we even crossed a single avenue. So we decided to take them to Central Park.
Central Park up around 110 Street on a Monday might be someplace for the babies to explore. Dead-guts-center visiting of Central Park, near the zoo, as autumn colors crawl to bloom and peepers come out for Saturday strolls… not so much.
To be honest, children and tourists were not the greatest predator of the park. Nor were horses pulling carriages or yappy yuppy dogs being carried by mumsie – oh no.
Squirrels. Squirrels, I have come to learn, are the puppies archnemesis. There are no squirrels in Australia, my friends. I have gotten many-a-hoot from observing my Aussie travel companions snap shots of bushy tailed rats. While I’ve never had any personal beef with squirrels, I don’t think I’ve ever taken a photo of one either.
I suppose it’s how some of my Aussie family feels about Kookaburras. Alas, I digress.
The puppies hate squirrels. They want to eat them. I believe it has something to do with their history of rat catching. Not with me, I mean like bloodline stuff. Although Henry did catch a rat once when I was living in Queensland. It ran out of some rubbish left over from renovations… gross.
In closing, the puppies love New York City. Check. I’m going to go back to working on a book. Hopefully I can trade it for a check to buy a farmhouse. Then the puppies can have a yard to catch all the squirrels they want.
When I first saw you, you were standing in Tullamarine airport, holding a two pound hunk of rose quartz. Prior to my focus landing on your salt water locks and rainforest stare, the stranger I flew 10,000 miles to familiarize with, to remember, a school of other thoughts raced through my mind.
Tullamarine? Really? I’m from New York… we only speak Kennedy.
My head hurts. Is it from 23 hours with flight attendants? Or 23 hours without narcotics?
No one knows where I am right now. And I’m never going back. Not ever.
Southern hemisphere atmosphere sticks to your skin differently than being up north. Hot Christmases and summer vacations in February. I felt claustrophobic, like I wanted to wipe it off. I felt lost without the perpetual prickle of skyscraper shade. I never left New York City before.
What was I doing in Australia? Continue reading
Dear Blog Family
If there’s one thing to say about our cult, we’re loyal. Most of the visitors to these parts are feed subscribers – so I can’t really bluff about when I’m here and not here. Continue reading
My husband pawned his wedding ring for $275 two months after I gave it to him. He drank the money and fell asleep on Avenue B. When he came home the next day, he lied about everything. He lied about where the ring was. He lied about the drinking.
He lied. Again.
I tenderly removed my ring and tucked it in the silk-lined box I saved after purchasing the set I couldn’t afford. The money he took from a grey-eyed woman with sweaty hands was nowhere near what I paid. What I’m still paying back.
A week after it occurs, I realize I can no longer keep a piece of jewelry that bears no meaning. My therapist says my fear of rejection is what caused it all.
“You are too forgiving,” she said brushing wispy bangs from her face. “You’re the most forgiving person I know.”
I came to New York City to fade into the streets after I lost my soul mate in Australia because of a fatal accident. People always tell you that accidents happen. They leave out the statistics of people who actual survive them.
My Soul Mate is an unfortunate statistic. I am starting to understand that I am too. That he and I always have been. It’s part of who we are. Continue reading