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And Done And Done

The last few weeks have been amazing.  Amazing as in, Mike gets up every morning at six, wakes me up at six-thirty, he leaves for school and I start work by seven, we get home from work/school around five-thirty or six, fix dinner, eat dinner, wash dishes, do chores, crawl into bed, pass out.  We’re working our asses off and it feels pretty damn good.

This weekend was all about doing the little things on my to-do list, the little things that fall at the very bottom, get buried beneath piles of GET THIS DONE BY 9 A.M. and SHIT I WAS SUPPOSED TO FINISH THAT YESTERDAY.  One of those things was banishing the months-old Valentines Day banner I had up on Frosy-Licious, and writing a better ending post than the last one I wrote, which was a little whiny, let’s be perfectly honest.  The new one is great, you should check it out, it’s called “Last One. No Really” and contains a photo of dogs snuggling.

Anyway, I’ve got a couple of tricks up my sleeves, including some big news that I’m not sure how to tell you yet, but no, I’m not pregnant.

And in case you haven’t seen any flowers today…










Harlem, April 2007

How is it all ready after ten?

Now that I’ve had a couple of days to think about it, now that I’ve said it out loud to the Internet and fielded reminders about how I give snide a-holes too much power over me, (Thanks, Mama, I love you too), I’ve begun to think that maybe it’s just life.  Or at least that’s what it is now.  Weeks ago it was raisins and now it’s life.  That’s pretty awesome.

Today Mike and I drove around Long Island making sales calls in boutique pet stores.  I wish you could hear how good my Long Island accent is getting, you’d be really impressed.  Also, do you have any idea how many pet stores in my territory sell more pet clothes than pet foods?  It’s incredible.

We ate our lunches (Mike made turkey, cheese, pepper, avocado sandwiches) sitting by the ocean in Northport, Long Island.  The houses there look like doll houses, with their wrap-around-porches and attic windows.  I dream of spending long sunny spring afternoons curled with a book in one of those attic windows, and then Mike grabs the steering wheel and shouts, “PAY ATTENTION!”

He’d like to be doing all the driving, but I’m the one with the Zip Car membership, and the penalty fees are big if they find out I let a non-member drive my rental.  Why does that sound dirty?  A non-member driving my rental?

So it’s beautiful in Long Island.  And I feel like I spent some time in the sun, because I did, sitting there by the ocean, shivering in my coat because even though this weekend is MAY, Mother Nature hasn’t turned the heat up yet.

Today, sitting by the ocean, I checked my email in the palm of my hand.  I’m just barely beginning to figure the thing out, but all ready that little device is sucking out my soul, I can feel it.  My BlackBerry buzzes whenever one of my friends updates their Facebook status.  It’s insane.  Today, this girl I knew in grade school updated her Facebook status, complaining because her AC isn’t working and my phone buzzed and I was compelled to reply.  Connected all of the time, everywhere, to people I haven’t even spoken to since grade school.  And now she probably thinks I’m a weirdo, because out of nowhere, the girl who brought a dead snake to school in third grade* is publicly scolding her for complaining about her AC when other people in other cities are still wearing their winter coats.

This new mobile device is going to get me into trouble.  But look!  It can do this!


And now you see how impossibly narrow my little kitchen really is.

*The teacher was not amused, and neither was my mother.

The Season of Dirty Feet

I love spring in New York City.  As a child growing up in the San Fernando Valley I never had the opportunity to witness the absolute stunning beauty of the first yellow tulip after six months of freezing gray.  But now?  For the rest of my life, when I see yellow tulips I will remember the City in spring.  But there is something else that comes with the creep of spring, there is a darker side.  Something sticky and grisly and black as oil.  That something is Dirty Feet.

Our first spring in the City I documented the phenomenon on my Flickr site.  Over the next two-plus-years a photo of my dirty feet received 4,312 unique views.

That is ridiculous.  My dirty little feet have gotten more clicks than any post I’ve ever written ever.  Apparently there are a lot more of you interested in how dirty my feet are then how cute my dogs are.

The thing is, I do not like being dirty.  There is a funny family story that my sister likes to tell about the first time she took me to the beach when I was eight months old.  I’d been lathered in sun block and made to wear a hat and sit under an umbrella and I’d taken it all like a champ.  I giggled and cooed and waved my shiny red shovel and then the wind blew and five or six grains of sand were swept up onto the blanket six inches from my knee.  And I began to scream.  And scream.  My sister leapt up, shook the blanket, put it back down, and still I screamed.  She offered me water, a new toy, something to eat, was my hat too tight?  Was there sand in my eye?  No, no, I was fine, perfectly fine, but there was sand on the towel and I do not like to be dirty.

Perhaps you can understand how horrifying it was when I took off my shoes last night and found their outlines traced along my foot in grisly black grime.  It was so horrible, so awfully terribly horrible, I almost cried.

This is a first-world problem, I know.  I realize that if having dirty feet is the worst thing that happens to me in a day, I’ve had a pretty damn good day.  But it’s that time of the month when socks on the floor and a glass on the table make me froth at the mouth, so you can imagine my reaction when I realized that even the pumice wasn’t scraping the black grit out from underneath my skin cells.

But then, there’s this …


And these …


And can you believe how beautiful this is?


New York in spring.  Holy shit.  I will miss the City when we move.