Earlier tonight The Holbs rifled through our under used bedside tables and threw away a box of expired condoms (trying for a baby for two years will have that effect on things, you know). Later, we found a cacophony of latex and cardboard and wrappers strewn about everywhere, and Barney curled up on his dog bed with his "WUH-OH" face on and his tail twisting in excited corkscrews. I was ready to let him have it, but The Holbslover looked at Barney understandingly and said, "Dude, if you needed one, all you had to do was ask."
On that note, here is the first oldie but goodie for you to enjoy, for those of you who missed my blog when I was living in New York. (The time I call My Skinny Years.) (Though these days any year was a skinny year, by comparison, but don't let that bum you out or anything, it's all good.)
The very most wondrous and fascinating and thrilling thing about living in New York City is the storm season. In some parts of the country it is called Hurricane Season, but up in New York City if ever we get a hurricane it has usually by the time it reaches us been demoted to a Tropical Storm, not to be confused with a Desert Storm, and that means I get to enjoy a bombastic storm every now and then without fear of floodings or things of that nature (nature!) and for that I am grateful because Oh how I love me a good, angry storm.
There are many things I love in this world (such as bagels, or mini-marshmallows, or my birthday, or the dude I married), but last night I decided that thunder storms are definitely the most marvelous and wondrous and fantastical thing about New York City. Watch, I'm going to prove it!
We live on the 17th floor and have a crazy insane view of Brooklyn and the New York harbor. We can see every blast of lightning as it hits tall buildings in the Financial District. Last night we completely lost power and watched the greenish purple sky erupt into flashes of pink light, listening to the thunder boom and rumble all night. It was like God’s light show, just for us. Peter Pan was appropriately concerned, but didn't show any sign of being a neurotic mess, and that was also nice.
Then I tried to sing that "Rain Rain Go Away" song for him, you know, because I love him. That is when I realized that there are two renditions of this song and I have no idea which goes how, and that really bummed me out for a minute, until I forgot and became confused by the smell of my dog’s feet (corn chips). (Can anybody explain that?)
Anyway my point here is there is nothing I love more than a good thunder storm. We had great storms where I grew up in Mesa (monsoon season!), where you could smell the rain in the desert before it started to fall, and we have great storms here. Not like the rain in Portland, which just sort of falls about without any direction or aim and never seems to go away. This rain has purpose! Meaning! And that meaning today was to flood the Number 4 train so that The Holbs couldn't get home.
He called from City Hall where he was transferring to the R after already having tried the 2/3 but which was so crammed that he decided he'd get home sooner if he walked across the Brooklyn Bridge in the rain, which he didn’t end up doing after all, but that would have been very dramatic, wouldn't it have been? Sort of a “take that!” to the MTA, who I’m sure would have cared very deeply. So.
But what I have really been wanting to tell you is about the Umbrellas and the Umbrella Men who sell them and how they delight me more than cream cheese. So here is the Umbrella part of this completely stupid post:
The Umbrellas are black and cost $5 and are sold by black men who seem to appear magically on the streets about five minutes before a storm begins. How they know a storm is about to start or where they go once it is over is a complete mystery unto me. Oh, but they show up! Even if you do not believe a storm is coming, if you see these men then you’d best buy an umbrella, that's just logic. They call them UM-brellas.
“UMbrellaUMbrellaUmbrella,” they call.
Once you have purchased an UM-brella the rain will surely fall. And then you and your UM-brella will brave it together! Inevitably, your UM-brella will not live to see the end of the storm. Inevitably, the winds will blow through the city streets so hard that your UM-brella will turn itself inside-out, and you will just stand there in the street as rain pummels your face and streaks your mascara, just like in the movies, and then you will wail “UM-BRELLAAAAAA!” as you hold its broken frame to your body. You will mourn, and you will be all soaking wet.
After a really good storm it is fun to go out and survey the damage. After one such storm The Holbs and I ventured out to see the carnage and visit the neighborhood Barnes and Noble. Dead UM-brellas were littered like fallen soldiers in the streets, twisted and broken and discarded in the gutters. You step over them with as much reverence as you can muster. They died fighting the good fight. They died too young. You are out $5 and you still got wet. But you lived to see another day.
Like I said, the most marvelous and wondrous and fantastical thing about New York City.
(Except for bagels.)
~originally posted june 02, 2006
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