Twenty days: How long it’s been since my last post.
Eight quarters: How long it’s been since the Steelers scored a touchdown. It’s halftime now, and I’m crushed.
Four weeks: How long it’s been that we’ve been living only on Coleman collapsable camping chairs, and although one IS a rocker, we finally broke down and bought a couch today. That award money will have to buy me a laptop sometime in the future, cause this apartment needs to be a home.
After my father pressing me with the idea that my nine-to-five is nothing but my nine-to-five, I’ve been searching for other stimulating things to fill my life. I’ve been writing in a notebook. If I ever decide to transcribe, I’ll have a divine collection of New York City memoirs that profile the women with their shopping bags, the Hispanic men who play volleyball and handball until they can’t see each other anymore at the playground down the street, the so-called “food snobs” who can’t cook for themselves, the long jogs around my neighborhood….
I could go on, but it’s easy to understand that this place – especially this corner of Queens – is a writer’s dream. And I’m pushing at it. We’ll see where it goes.
I spent the weekend with my favorite people in the world. I can’t really top having dinner and lots of beers with my parents and Jason & Chris. I don’t think I smiled so much since I got here.
And oh! The things I can write about the cucumber sandwiches and the sunny picnic in Central Park last weekend. And the street performers, and walking out of work to stare up at the Empire State Building, and the gratifying crunch of splattering a cockroach.
Next on my list: a bookshelf, because I’m not the kind of girl to hide her books.
It can’t be twenty more days until my next post. I won’t let it happen.
