In the Real Room Where it Happens

Advertising and editorial images are not real life.
Fabrication sells.

No one wants to see what you really look like asleep in your brand new mattress.

No one wants to see what you really look like making a salad in your spotless kitchen, courtesy of the handy dandy superior vacuum promising to change your life.

So stock image companies: Please. Stop.

Stop making women writers look cute and cuddly and adorable and silly sitting cross-legged on the floor as they write.

It is embarrassing.

Show us how we really look.

A mess surrounded by mess!

It is not cute or pretty but …

writers get the job done.

It’s not fun.

It is work.

Work, work!

Sidebar note: The above was written in my doctor’s examination room. Waiting to be seen. As you may be able to guess, I waited a long time to be seen. I did not write on the floor in my too-cute pajamas and slouchy socks. I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille. Mask on. Examination table for a chair. Clock ticking. Flat hair. Steamy reading glasses.

In other words? Not camera ready. End scene.

What Would Henry Do?

There are many things I coulda-would-a should-a do today. I chucked it all to watch a multitude of leaves descend from rapidly undressing branches and to feel the stubborn sun kiss my cool cheeks.

I could go inside and do things. Mundane things. To Do List things.

I’d rather pretend I am Henry David Thoreau. Doing nothing but observe didn’t cramp his lifestyle or future legacy. That may be a double negative but even my anal compunction to edit is taking a backseat to the positive purity of this quintessential autumn day!

Ah! That’s not a leaf on legs. I spy a baby squirrel! The eyes still have it.

Mission accomplished.

Radio Silence

The daily crows of a nearby rooster is
the daily reminder I’m not in Brooklyn anymore.

My urban ears grew up on a special diet of ambulances, bus squeals, and the inescapable chatter of neighbors.

There’s a tiny, dark baby squirrel running in the grass near my shoeless feet.

I think it’s a squirrel. I’m afraid of the tiny, rodent alternative.

I hear a symphony of birds and squirrels and falling leaves. Noisier than any city day in my memory book.

Eeek! Nature! It’s a twister!

I Always Want to be a Part of It, New York, New York

I like to drive home following a particular route because this view, this sight, always reminds me why I love New York and why I love being a City Girl.

Closing up shop on a building in a few hours. No longer the master of that domain. One part of me will belong to another owner tomorrow. Take good care of our family’s jewel.

Brooklyn checking out Manhattan

A Room with a View

Photos: Pamela Ross

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

The last time I felt like I was hit by a truck was the time I was hit by a flying car crossing the George Washington Bridge.

The last time I felt like I was bowled over by a shot were my Covid needles in March and April. No complaints. In the name of love and life.

And now, this. I had a flu shot yesterday and I feel like the Covid vaccine afterglow was a walk in the park compared to how knocked off my feet I am as I type. No complaints. This is what we flu and do. In the name of love and life.

We forget how much something can hurt when we know it’s the right thing to do. Vaccination venting didn’t start with Covid. Amnesia is not a joke but…snap out of it, Science Conspiracy Fans.

My head hurts. Somebody pass the Motrin!

Hardy-Har-HarFace

Nothing like a mouth ache the size of Alaska to make you forget you have (other) troubles. As in… at least 49 other states of discontent.

Today was a deadline for a humor writing contest.

It’s not funny

to gnaw your jaw

and hold your chin

while sending something witty to win.

Adding a wet blanket to the day was the dumping of decades of things that made my father Master Cutting Table.

Oh yes. This was a day to be down in the dumps.

Tomorrow will be better. I hope.

Oh no. I have a physical in the afternoon. One day more of stress and I will explode like a 6th grade homemade volcano science project gone wrong. (I still carry the emotional scars of that humiliating moment.)

Say hello to my little friend, Humpty Dumpster.