rain comin' on

So here we are.

It’s that time of day where light would normally be pouring in our windows, but the apartment is eerily dark. It’s one of those days where the sky is about to rip open with water pouring down in a seemingly endless supply. 

Tangent:  I can’t believe I am living in an age where the words “tornado” and “New York City” are being used with some degree of regularity in the last two weeks. 

Back to it.

I am fascinated by weather sometimes. Not that I have any sort of scientific bent. I am plain old stupid when it comes to science. Even watching Alton Brown explain the most basic scientific principles of baking makes my head hurt a little. Just get to the good eats, Alton. 

Tangent: I like Alton Brown. I really do. I actually secretly like that he tries to make learning fun by having people dress up as proteins and acids and bases. And I’m not totally stupid, just mostly stupid. I really do want to learn what he’s talking about, but I’m not sure if that part of my brain works anymore. Maybe my brain is too distracted by the yummy pretty tasty food for absorption to occur. I’d try to prove that theory, but again... stupid.

Back to it.

historical musing

So here we are.

Back in ancient times, people used to jot down ideas not on electronic computerized tablets, but rather on pulverized and processed wood pulp, or, as it was once more commonly called, paper. These written musings were known as analog texts, or “notes,” and can still be found today through careful excavation of late 20th century filing cabinets and shoe boxes dating all the way back to 1996. 

With the aid of a writing implement such as a pen, pencil, marker, or other such stylus containing transferable inks, dyes, or clays that would cling to the paper, a person could create a portable, albeit rudimentary means of communication. These “notes” served many purposes. They could remind one of an appointment, or groceries required. They could serve as a remembering tool for profound thoughts and ideas that would otherwise be forgotten.

price of age

So here we are.

We’re sitting on the sofa watching the first episode of the 39th season of The Price is Right. It’s like New Year’s Day for my husband. He’s so happy. 

Not as happy as when I found him the skinny Sony ECM-51 microphone just like the one Bob Barker and Gene Rayburn used. But pretty darned happy.

15 years

So here we are.

Today I celebrated 15 years of marriage to my dear sweet husband.

And it occurs to me that we could be celebrating 15 years and one-half hour were it not for a Hell’s Angels road rally that blocked traffic on First Avenue that morning, with our officiant stuck in traffic as it passed. 

How do I know there was a Hell’s Angels road rally up First Avenue? Because as I anxiously waited for the call to come up from the bridal suite to the 26th floor of the Beekman Tower Hotel and walk down the aisle, I stared out the window at the gray, rainy streets below. Chopper after chopper, hog after hog they came in an endless parade past the United Nations. Not something you see every Sunday while you’re wearing a wedding dress. Of course, in New York City, all bets are off. 

september song

So here we are.

Maybe I was Jewish in another life. 

I say this because whenever Rosh Hashanah rolls around, I am reminded of how many Septembers have marked new beginnings for me. Elementary, middle, and high school always started the day after Labor Day, never in August. It was such an exciting time, getting ready to go back to school to some hotly anticipated newness; that is, until I actually did go back and realized within minutes that nothing and no one had changed. Happy New Year to me. 

Even my beloved Northwestern, on the quarter system instead of semesters, began their school year deep in September. Those particular Septembers were special, what with my years at NU being so magically liberating, but I particularly recall the one in which I was the Burger King Employee of the Month. (Fascinating and Useless Fact: I was only a sitting Employee of the Month for one day, since I had to go back to school. They awarded it early.) Even the end of that particular adventure was in and of itself an exciting new beginning: the beginning of a life where I no longer had to work at Burger King. That is saying something.

web...blah...clown

So here we are. And hey, it’s my blog’s week-iversary!

I had a little thought: blogs are kind of like clowns.

Blogs and clowns are cheap, low-rent entertainment for the masses. Oh, sure, there are serious blogs, just as there are serious clowns. The New York Times even has blogs on their website, but some of them are actually more like columns that don’t get printed in the physical paper (kind of like clown college, if you will), and some of their blogs are just little snippets that they keep churning out throughout the day... like so many clowns coming out of a car.

Blogs, like clowns, want to be seen. They’re everywhere in this circus we call the World Wide Web. They honk and juggle and fall down, all to get your attention. Clowns get hit by pies. Blogs about pies get hits. 

beautiful day

So here we are. 

Not to be so clichéd that I have to resort to quoting a legendary tourism campaign, but I love New York. I adore it. I even heart it. Especially on a beautiful day. Oh, there is nothing like a truly beautiful day in New York City. There are beautiful days in other cities, it’s true, but the ones in NYC are special, due in part to their rarity and in other part to the fact that the not-so-beautiful days are so horrendous to slog through that the beautiful days are magnificently amplified by comparison.

You know the kind of day I’m talking about. Blue sky. 68-72 degrees. Sunshine. Humidity barely registering. The barometer’s high as an elephant’s eye. Just enough breeze to caress your hair. The buildings sparkle, the trees pop. Even the pigeons smile. When the weather gods pat my dear city on the head and kiss the summer stench away, it’s a glorious place to be. 

tired

So here we are. 

I have several levels of tired. (One might say that my tired is tiered. (Sorry. That was uncalled for.)) Some of them result in utter hilarity, especially when I try to speak and the words of a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters emanate forth in no particular order. 

But then there is the level of tired where I am too spent to even attempt speech. Last night was one of those nights. 

a nice little story

So here we are. 

...or were, about a week ago.  It was a hot day, and now it was a hot night.  

I trudged to the subway, homeward bound, lugging my life in my shoulder bag. Not wanting to bob and weave through the throng of tourists on 42nd Street, I took 43rd, tumbleweeds by comparison. I was sticky and tired and just plain done.

And that’s when he stopped me.  He, him, the nondescript one, appearing seemingly out of nowhere but actually from behind a parked car. 

welcome to me

Rats. 

I want to find the perfect opener, to begin all of my postings. Like Army Archerd’s “GOOD MORNING” in his old Daily Variety column. I poached that when I did the Playbill.com guest blog - crediting the man, of course - and I enjoyed that bit of consistency and identification. Kind of like how Stan Lee must feel whenever he signs his autographs with “Excelsior!” It’s so damned perfect, and uniquely him. I’ve had that problem with autographs, too, for the few people who’ve wanted them. I never know what to sign in front of my name. Stan Lee never has to worry about whether signing it “best wishes” is too cliché or if “xoxo” is too cutesy. 

Yes. I know who Stan Lee is. And yes, I am a girl.