Really, Really Not New York
okay. I'm starting to feel like an occupant of that house, you know the one. The one down the block. The one whose lawn is looking very much like it might suddenly start sprouting rusted, wheel-less, doorless vehicles of uncertain vintage hoisted proudly on cider blocks. The one the cops were prowling around last week and Hilda, the super nosy neighbour you secretly wish you had the courage to be, was certain she heard them (the cops) talking about firearms and knives being drawn and indeed, there had obviously been some kind of domestic dispute there 'cuz you definitely heard screaming and cursing and door slamming and ugly threats being made as you shivered in your unmentionables, crouching low, peering anxiously through the slats of your bedroom blinds, getting only the merest, most unsatisfying glimpse and dust up your nose.... and then nothing for days. Silence. No movement. No clues.
"Do you think he killed her?" Hilda asks as you are pretending to water your shrubs, but are really spying on that house. "I think he killed her. Maybe one of us should go check on her. You think?"
"Oh, Hilda," you say, certain that he has killed her and certain also that you detected the awful, unmistakable whiff of decomposing bodies** as you slunk by to check the mail (for the third time that day) "Don't be morbid. I'm sure everything is fine..."
Yes, I absolutely feel like the occupant of that house.
Not because of any murder or mayhem or anything. Oh, no. But because I've yet to come clean about the whole New York trip, the one I've been going on and on about, and I'm not going to do it today.
"What?!!" you shriek.
I know, I know. I'm sorry. I really am. But here's the thing.... that trip was really, really important to me. and I want to tell you why, I do, I really, really do... but i want to tell it right. With the proper visuals and descriptors and insights and such. And I'm just not there yet.
Because this weekend? This long and fabulous and past weekend? The Canada Day one? O... for two blessed afternoons in a row the stinking heat and humidity and smog vanished and the sky was clean and blue and dotted with big, fluffsome clouds and chirpy birds and I lay slung in a hammock next to my Handsome Guy and ate ice cream and chocolate sauce and rolled a stem of lavender between my fingertips to smell the wonderful fragrance and I was barefoot and happy and took long walks with the wolf and did a little bit of pleasure painting and drank too much wine and it was lovely, lovely, lovely and definitely not the sort of weekend to be hunkered indoors in front of a computer screen tappity tap typing out my New York stories. Nope. It was the sort of weekend I've been longing for, craving, needing... and I enjoyed every last minute of it.
'Course, now it is over. The stinking heat and humidity are back and there is work to been done and stuff to tend.... and and and.
So... let's do this. Let's pretend the NYC trip didn't happen, and when I'm ready, when I can really tell it right, i'll spring it on you and you'll be staggered and I'll be relieved and everyone will be happy, happy. But until then, let's just continue as normal, with the plodding, thoroughly pedestrian posts about stuff which is Not New York.
** Not that I am familiar with the smell of decomposing corpses, but I'm certain if I ever smell one, it will be unmistakeable. and awful.
Not that i'm counting or anything (okay, I am. I totally am) but this here post contains: eight (8) "reallys", four (4) "certains" and three (3) "lovelies." Time to consult a thesaurus? You think?!!