Financial District, Manhattan
My heart hurts. I’m afraid that soon I won’t be able to see you sleeping next to me. Your spirit is strong, but your little body is not. And I ache even more because it’s my job to tell your sweet spirit when it’s time to let go.
You have been so much more than a dog. Or maybe you’re exactly what a dog is supposed to be. All I know is that you are special. You have always been special.
When you first looked up at me with those beautiful eyes and that wrinkly face, I committed to taking care of you, no matter what it took. You were the calmest, most considerate, loving puppy, and you stuck to me like glue from the moment we met. Maybe you know the value of a home because your first caregiver carelessly dumped you on the street. Or maybe it’s because you’re just an old soul.
You weren’t perfect, but even your mishaps were endearing, right from the start. I’m reminded of when we first relegated you to a puppy bed instead of letting you sleep with us. On that first night sleeping alone, you communicated your displeasure with the new arrangement by sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to chew a hole in our sofa and relieve yourself on the carpet – something you had never done. That morning, as I surveyed your retribution, I knew we weren’t dealing with a normal puppy. But who would want normal when they could have you?
Your sweet and sensitive spirit is a constant, comforting force in our lives. All you ever want is to be near us - to play, to cuddle, to love and be loved. And you sense when we need you, too. You are a precious and unforgettable part of our little family.
It hasn’t been easy to keep you here for as long as we have, but every moment – every vet visit, every dollar, and now, every tear – has been worth it. I would do it all again. I only wish I could.
If this is really the end, my prayer is that your short life has been good enough – that your three years have been filled with a lifetime of love. I hope you feel even an ounce of the constant devotion and affection that you have shown me. And I hope that I have the strength of character to let you go when you’re ready.
You deserve so much more than three years. You deserve a new body – one that is as strong as your remarkable spirit. If heaven is real and all it’s cracked up to be, then I hope to run with you again someday in the sky, where we can have all the time in the world.
I love you.
All dressed up in her Christmas finest.
Best building in #nyc (at Flatiron Building)
#Truth (at Central Park West)
Our kitchen is approximately three feet wide by eight feet long.
When guests stay with us, it’s not the sights and sounds of NYC, the magnificent food or even the Broadway shows that usually stick with them. It’s our kitchen. On multiple occasions friends have shared with others the legend of how I cook in a place no wider than an airplane seat.
If you went to our wedding, it’s likely that you gave us kitchen stuff. And it’s also likely that your gift is perched in our closet, still in its original packaging.
I loved (past tense) cooking with Greg. But not anymore because being in our Polly Pocket kitchen with anyone else gives me heart palpitations.
Our kitchen is so small that the second cook must leave the kitchen for me to get out. It’s like I’m in that scene from the Shining, being chased by crazy Jack Nicholson – except there’s no escape because I’m stuck in the world’s tiniest kitchen.
So I’ve learned to deal with it, and even appreciate it. I’ve learned that efficiency is a virtue.
One day I’ll choose furniture based on more than its storage capabilities. One day I’ll be able to watch HGTV without rolling my eyes at the doe-eyed property virgins who cavalierly throw around terms like granite countertops, stainless steel and ensuite bathrooms.
But you know what? When we move somewhere else – when my kitchen no longer sends me into a panic attack, and when HGTV doesn’t make me mopey – I’ll miss where I am. My tiny home is easy to clean, and it’s in the one of the greatest cities in the world. Plus, we have no space to be consumed by stuff.
This tiny habitat also makes me even closer to my husband. Let’s face it: in this NYC apartment, he has no choice but to be close to me. If we get in a fight, there’s no place for us to sulk or hide our feelings, so we have to confront them. Like our kitchen, what you see is what you get.
It might not be the American Dream, but even reality has its perks.
Oh, winter. I am so not ready for you.
This weekend I was more interested in putting together Greg’s Halloween costume than preparing for this hurricane. But on Sunday, after an Internet search yielded terms like “storm of the century” and “Katrina-like,” I decided to join the other 1.6 million occupants of Manhattan at the grocery store.
On this island of over-priced bodegas, Greg and I are fortunate to live a few blocks away from Whole Foods. (Most days, it’s the only thing keeping us from a steady diet of take-out Chinese food and Kraft macaroni and cheese.) But yesterday, the line outside this Promised Land of organic kale stretched around the block. Our only option? Food City.
Food City is the creepiest grocery store I’ve ever encountered. If “The Walking Dead” was set in a grocery store, it would be Food City. Shoppers amble around the store mumbling incoherently – some reaching out to systematically touch the produce with their Howard Hughes fingernails. Toxic sludge – or old rain water, which in New York City, probably amounts to toxic sludge – drips from the ceiling, pelting not only customers’ heads but also the food. Oh, and anything you buy pretty much rots the second you get it home.
This place is so weird that the sign outside got the memo about the Twilight Zone inside. The “F” and the “O” lights are always out, so the sign reads “Od City.” Priceless.
Anyway, wouldn’t you know that “Od City” was the only grocery store not overrun with massive entry lines and shortages? Yay.
Just as I had remembered it, the store was filled to capacity with shoppers from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, wandering around as strange substances dripped from the ceiling.
I heard one lady shout (to herself?), “Apricots! They tell me I can’t have apricots, but I’m gonna get ‘em!” Hmmm. Fresh fruit did sound good, so I headed over to the produce, where I heard a store clerk yelling this:
“I can only handle one of these boxes, you know, because of my irritable bowel and all. Don’t want anything leaking out.”
Just had to join in on the fun…
The weather is getting crisp, and fall clothes are about the only thing getting me excited for an eventual New York City winter.
Heaven help my budget.