...I am somewhat used to. Being that the wedding industry is the field in which I earn my living. (And also the reason we eloped.) But THIS, ladies and gentleman of the jury, takes (tops?) the wedding cake:
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I thought that kids only played in open fire hydrant streams on Sesame Street and in Spike Lee movies. However, I was wrong. When I went to Williamsburg this afternoon for my music lesson, there were no less than three hydrants that had been relieved of their caps and were sending raging streams of water into the street. The temperature was almost to the century mark and there were dozens of kids romping around in the splashy street. I was totally jealous. If I didn't have a cello strapped to me, I would have joined them.
In other news, while I was at my lesson I left doggy home by herself to bask in the air conditined coolness. I practiced our usual low-key departure routine so as to not get her all riled up. I made a peanut butter-filled Kong for her to lick, I left some NY Times by the door for her to toss around. I slipped out quietly and returned after my lesson, about 90 minutes later. As I came up the stairs, I heard her bark a big-dog bark. I expected to open the door, and to find her usual "I've read the paper" mess that she leaves us. Which I did:
But I found no doggy. No wiggly, crazed animal to greet me. Then I heard a bark and and a yowl and scratching from... inside the bathroom. That crazy animal had somehow gotten herself locked in there, and proceeded to freak the hell out. I opened the door. She came rushing out and scrambled around in her torn papers. And then proudly told me all about how she accomplished the following during the time she had been stuck in the bathroom:
1) tore my new bra in 2 seperate but equal parts
2) ripped exactly 4 new holes in a perfectly good towel
3) slobbered all over and chewed a new(ish) pair of underwear to an unreconizable state
4) dumped and scattered the contents of the trash bin
5) chewed corners of aforementioned trash bin
6) bled a little bit on everything.
Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I present you with photo evidence:
This morning, while doing our daily early constitutional around our leafy park, we stopped to pet/sniff/play with two dogs that sat with their owners near a bench. We were exchanging the usual friendly dog-owner banter about breeds and playfulness and these sorts of things when a black bug flew by, sort of lazily. This was the conversation that ensued:
Guy on Bench: Whoa... are you seeing that bug? That really weird-looking bug?
Chick on Bench: Yeah...
Guy on Bench: That's like a really weird kind of bug, man.
Chick on Bench: Like the kind that fly inside your head and eat your brain?
Me: (sarcastically, playing along) Yeah, I hate that kind of bug.
Guy on Bench: (blinks.)
Chick on Bench: (blinks.)
Guy on Bench: No, it's really weird cause it's one of those bugs that looks like that futuristic aircraft, you know?
Chick on Bench: (nodding.) Yeah. Yeah.
This scene has been brought to you by AM High, or Can I Get a Little of What You Took.
Greenpoint sounds as though it is under attack. It has for the past 5 hours or so. Sure, we could see and hear the massive fireworks from the river betwixt us and Manhattan, and those were some pretty big booms. We could see the finale through the trees in the park. But it also seems as though ever other household in this neighborhood has an illegal fireworks cache purchased straight outta Mexico City. And we are not talking pretty, sparkly, spinny do-it-the-middle-of-the-driveway type fireworks, we're talking shoot-them-in-the-sky-and-hope-they-don't-hit-the-house-across-the-street-holy-shit-that-was-LOUD kind of fireworks.
The terds across the street from me are, on a good day, the most annoying kids on the block. They are the tools who play football or baseball in the middle of the street with no regard for slamming into someone's parked car. (Editor's note: I am fully aware that we live in an urban environ that limits certain types of outdoor activity - but I also live across the street from one of the best parks in the neighborhood. Go play fackin' football there.) Anyway, these fools have been shooting off exploding crap towards our side of the street for about 2 hours now. What husband and I can't understand is why no one cares but us. I have watched flaming stuff smack into several houses this evening. Ugh, and the noise... it hasn't stopped for hours. Not just booms, but screaming, wailing, annoying nonsense coming at us from all angles.
Why do people like to blow things up?
Because of the evenings events, my dog has spent the past few hours curled into a shaking, panting, slobbering ball in the furthest reaches of the bathroom. We dragged her outside so she could pee, but she just curled into a ball in the grass. Once we got back inside she ran back to the bathroom and has not shown herself since. I guess the bathroom is a good place to hide.
So as not to sound like a totally whiny bitch, I will finish off this blog with two positive notes:
1. I have 2 (two!) days off in a row!!
2. We saw "Ratatouille" at the movies today and it was GOOD. Go see it.