Chalkboard Art #5

New York City streets are filled with a lot of things: people, dogs, trash, mysterious things you’re better off not knowing what they are…but my favorite things NYC sidewalks offer are Chalkboard Art.


Memoirs of a Princess #2

Addy hasn’t been feeling well lately.  Not that she’s been acting sick, but a momma always knows.  Especially when momma is cleaning up messes left around the house.  I can’t even be mad.  She never uses the bathroom in the house, unless…well, she has no other choice.

Not that I’m trying to gross you out, it just reminds me of the one and only time I got mad at her for going to the bathroom in the house:  the time she ate a jar of Vaseline.  A JAR.  A LARGE JAR.  A LARGE JAR OF VASELINE.

Needless to say (but I’m saying it anyway): it was not pretty.  In fact, it was not pretty for about 2 weeks.

Being a labrador parent, you know that they eat everything.  EVERYTHING.  And I think (especially after watching Marley & Me) that insofar as things that Addy eats, I’ve been rather lucky.  After growing out of her puppy phase she rarely eats anything non-food based.  Not that she hasn’t had her share of gastro-adventures, including the aforementioned jar of Vaseline.

I was my fault for leaving the jar on the coffee table.  In my defense, I never dreamed that she’d even be interested in the jar, let alone eat the whole damn thing.  But she did.  And apparently enjoyed every.single.lick.  The problem–in case you were unaware–with eating Vaseline is that it is greasy.  Consequently, digestion does not hinder the oiliness after it’s made its way down and out the digestive track.  The other problem is that labradors have thick coats that seem to magically attract and trap oily things.

FOR TWO LONG WEEKS, Addy would requiring bathing after every bathroom break.  You would think that not being overly fond of baths would help reinforce that eating a jar of Vaseline is not desirable.  However, the only time it would register with Addy that eating Vaseline wasn’t good is when she wasn’t allowed on the couch or bed or chair or any of her usual favorite sleeping spots.

Poor, poor Princess Pupcicle!


Chalkboard Art #4

New York City streets are filled with a lot of things: people, dogs, trash, mysterious things you’re better off not knowing what they are…but my favorite things NYC sidewalks offer are Chalkboard Art.



I’m not going to lie, when I first moved to NYC, I scoffed–scoffed!–at the idea of dropping off your laundry to be done.  Who doesn’t do their laundry?

After living here a few years, I realized who doesn’t do their laundry–people working 14 hour days, 7 days a week to make ends meet.  For around 65¢/pound, you can have your clothes washed, dried, folded, and even delivered.

I don’t do it often, but when I do it feels very luxurious having folded socks.



New Yorkers have a reputation for being cold and uncaring.  This is, of course, very far from the truth: most are just trying to get through their day.

Today as I was walking down 6th Avenue, I saw a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk with a sign that simply read:

I’m hungry and would appreciate any food you might have to spare.

As I got closer to the man, another man approached and offered him a drink and a bag.  The man offering food crouched in front of the man holding a sign, looked him in the eye and as I walked by, I heard him say: I know that you said you just wanted a burger, but you can’t enjoy a burger without fries and a coke.


I have a real love/hate relationship with New York City.

There are things that I love, love, love…and there are things that I hate, hate, hate.

NYC is a great place to visit, but it is a hard place to live.  It can beat you down, chew you up, and spit you back out–all before breakfast.  However, it seems that just as you are about to throw in the towel and throw up a one-fingered salute to her on your way to anywhere but here, NYC draws you back in again and reminds you why she is so great.

I’m not going to lie, I’ve been struggling with living in NYC for awhile now.  I don’t love it, but yet, I’m not ready to leave.  Confusing?  You should try living in my brain!  It’s a conundrum, to say the very least.

Tonight as I sat on the ferry watching a very beautiful sunset over the Hudson, I had a bit of an (as Oprah likes to call it) AHA moment: I actually miss doing 100 Happy Days because (this is the aha-moment) aside from when I get visitors and can experience NYC as a well-informed-so-I’m-not-going-to-be-suckered-in-by-your-cutrate-tour-tourist, the happiest I’ve been about living in NYC is when I was actively searching for happiness.  It reminded me with a not-so-sublte slap that when you focus on the happy things, most of the negative things in our lives melt away and become a lot more insignificant.  Sure bad things are going to happen, but when you’re focusing on the good, it makes it seem a lot more bearable.

As one of my heroes, Ann Richards, so eloquently said “[your] whole life is in your head…if something is wrong, then change your mind.”  It is in that spirit and–thanks to the 100 Happy Days project for the idea– that I have decided to start change my focus and start sharing what I love about NYC, starting today with watching the sun set while riding on the ferry.

Memoirs of a Princess

I’m sitting in bed with my laptop, silently urging writing ideas to come.

Suddenly I am aware of soft snoring from the end of the bed.  I look up and there is a cute 90lb ball of fur.  I can’t resist.  Slowly, ever…so…slowly I reach for my phone.  I quietly scroll the camera icon upward.

Don’t you dare take my picture.

Sigh.  Why not?  You’re so cute and I love you and I want a picture of you looking cute.

You already have 8390 of them and you’re supposed to be writing, not procrastinating.

I don’t have 8390 of them and I’m not procrastinating, I’m searching for inspiration.

You could write about me.  8390 articles would be far better than 8390 out-of-focus photographs.

I could write about you, however, you don’t like to have your picture taken.  In order for a post to be successful, you need at least a picture or two.  At last count, I believe you didn’t like having your picture taken.  In fact, I believe that you hate it.

I think you’re making that up about pictures and posts.  Tell you what: if you write my memoirs, I suppose I could make an exception.

Your memoirs?  Really?  That’s a big word.

Yeah, well, I’m a big dog and I’m 8 now–don’t think I don’t know that you give me senior food and senior vitamins.  If you tell my story, I’ll let you take a picture of me.

A picture?  As in just one?

We’ll see how good your stories are.


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