Can you dig it, baby?

Over the past two days, we lived through our first, honest-to-God, New York City snowstorm. It makes me wonder why our city's founding parents did not find it down south by about 400 miles. When everything was said and done, 26.5 inches of snow landed in Central Park over the last two days. Yet another historic moment for us.

Dateline: Saturday. The snow begins. I'm out with Rockstar, my old friend from Penfield, New York. Where we grew up, we knew snow. Being a couple of hardy guys, we hit the streets to run some errands. Sure, it was snowing, but it wasn't really accumulating. After some light shopping, we walked over to the Lower East Side to hit 'inoteca, a hot new restaurant. Rockstar knows the sous-chef, who treated us like royalty as we sat at the bar. The guy sitting next to Rockstar asked if we were celebrities because we were getting unexpected plates of food as we enjoyed our wine. Not a bad way to start off the snowstorm! I had to ditch Rockstar early on. He was off to grab a three-course dessert at an Alphabet City cafe. If I joined him for something like that without Kitty, I'd be in the doghouse!

Dateline: Sunday. Church is skipped. I can't see out the window at the apartment. I know that it is only two blocks away. The accumulation overnight was spectacular. Our one, ill-fated trip out of the house was when dinner time was fast approaching. We put on our severe weather wear from REI and head out, empty-stomached, to Chipotle. Two subways later and a long walk through the heart of downtown Brooklyn, we open the doors to Chipotle. The smell hits us... disinfectant. "We ain't open... ran outta food," she yells. "We've got a coupon for a free burrito. It expires tomorrow and we'll be out of town..." I glibly lie. "I'll give you real coupons for two free... get in here," she yells back. I'm seeing black spots from hunger and I fight off my light-headedness as I stagger to the back. "What now?" I ask Kitty. "Why home, of course!" she says. We hike back through the occasionally waist-deep snow to the subway and then after about a half hour subway ride, we head home.

Dateline: Monday. Kitty has a snow day and I depart for the office as she sits on the couch, sipping coffee and reading a book. The sidewalks are remarkably clear due to the almost fascist shoveling laws in the city. Owners of buildings can be fined if the sidewalks are not clear by 11 p.m. during snowstorms and then again at 9 a.m. the day after. (I could be wrong about this, if I were a real writer, I'd research it. It is something nearly as draconian, though, and I am grateful.) Curse the MTA! They still are running. The door to my building is about twenty feet from the entrance to the G-train. So far so good. The station is a ghost town complete with gusts of wind blowing a lonely, crumpled newspaper. The train is similarly quiet as I start the commute.

By the time I reach downtown, the sun is bright and the skies are blue-steel. Now the fun begins. I am transformed into a polar bear, leaping from iceberg to iceberg (in my crummy sneakers). There are narrow paths carved through the snow, but at intersections, I must jump over rivers of slush and melted snow that back up the drain systems.

I am currently reading Winterdance: The fine madness of running the Iditerod. I imagine myself being led by a pack of dogs, roaring down 57th street screaming "Mush, Mush! I've got a 9 a.m. with millionaire clients!" I would look back and laugh at the poor wildlife trudging through the snow in their business suits, hoping to still look vaguely respectable after their commute. Alas, I am just like them. Like the Iditerod, there is a pride in just finishing your commute on days like today.

Dateline: Tuesday. There is less snow but even more water. I did not know that ponds ecosystems could form at intersections in New York, complete with plankton, waterfowl and old men with fishing poles. And there are a lot of intersections in New York. It keeps melting through the day. Incredibly, by my commute home, life is mostly back to normal and water has evaporated to the point where you can safely navigate the streets. Where did it all go?

Mailing is a sign of love.

If you have received a card, package, or anything requiring a trip to the Post Office, you have no idea how much we love you. Really, love doesn't begin to cover it. You are adored. If you doubted our affection, for shame... this entry is proof. (For those of you who have not yet received a card or package from us, you are loved as well.)

Trips to the Post Office are mine-fields of the first order. It starts with volume. There are a lot of people here and they all love people elsewhere. This leads to a lot of mailing. If the U.S. Postal Service were to have enough offices, they would have to buy out all of the Starbucks locations and start turning them into branches. Skip that... even that wouldn't matter because I waited a half hour for my last cup of coffee. The lines branch out in many directions because there are lines for every aspect of your postal needs. The one to mail packages, one to pick up packages, one to ask questions, one to buy stamps, the list goes on and on. If you happen to get into the wrong line and only find out whey you get to the front, well, too bad for you. It's a long walk to the back of the correct line.

At our post office in Brooklyn, the employees are, what I like to call, "special." By special I mean, they have zero personal and customer service skills. Every time I get to talk to one of them, I make sure I am organized and have exact change ready. I also say a little prayer that I don't get Mr. Sarcastic. Like an evil tooth-fairy, his purpose is to bring pain and tribulation to your day.

Note: In the field of acting, we frequently use subtext to say a line but have the opposite meaning. Actors can very their tone of pitch, inflection of words and pace of speech to transform lines, entertain audiences, bringing joy and illuminating the human experience.

Now imagine if you will, a man who smiles at you and will hold the following conversation with you:

Customer: Hello, I'd like to get a book of stamps.
Mr. S: Alright, just one?
Customer: Yes, just one book, thank you.
Mr. S: That would be $6.77.
Customer: Here you go. And could you mail this letter?
Mr. S: Of course. Have a nice day.

Not too bad, right? I'm going to now add commentary to the dialogue outlining the subtext in this brief motivation. Please keep in mind that Mr. Sarcastic is smiling and friendly LOOKING:

Customer: Hello, I'd like to get a book of stamps. [Hello, I'd like to get a book of stamps.]
Mr. Sarcastic: Alright [this is a huge inconvenience for me, Idiot], just one [you cheapskate]?
Customer: Yes, just one book, thank you. [What the heck? I just asked for a book of stamps?]
Mr. Sarcastic: That would be $6.77 [and I hope you die in a horrible car crash].
Customer: Here you go. [What did I do to deserve this tone of voice? I'm baffled] And could you mail this letter? [Please, don't be mean to me... I fear you so much already.]
Mr. Sarcastic: Of course [you could give me a tip or something]. Have a nice day [nice= getting cancer].

Some random thoughts and my new dog.

It was almost eleven at night and Kitty looked out the window and said, "Oh my God, the city is gone!" Sure enough, our building was surrounded by the thickest fog I've ever seen and the entire skyline of New York was gone from sight. It was so dense that you could barely see the next building over. Since I'm not sure who is responsible for this disappearing act, I'd like to salute both God and David Copperfield. This morning, the fog was gone and it is clear and bright and you can see all the way to Jersey.

While we were in Boston last weekend, Kitty and I got a dog named Rex. She's a brown boxer with a small black patch on her chest. Very cute pooch. Of course, I'm the idiot who named a girl Rex. Right now she can sit and stay, but that's about it. Obience school is a little to pricey, so it looks like it is up to me. Kitty rolls her eyes as I tell it to sit, roll over, play dead. She doesn't seem to understand that it takes time to teach a dog to do tricks. She's probably rolling her eyes because she has never seen anyone yelling into a Nintendo system. Sorry to disappoint, I have invested in a copy of Nintendogs, a charming dog simulator. (www.nintendogs.com) The extent of my dog walking is tapping on the touch-screen of the game and curbing my dog is remarkably easy.

This is a remarkbly subtle segue into another observation about New York City, not a mea culpa to my love of video games. The fact is, there are about a billion dogs in New York City. On a beautiful morning like this (aha! This all ties together-- sort of), if you take a walk to the open fields of Prospect Park in Brooklyn or Central Park in Manhattan, you will see the Puppy Coffee Klatch. People young and old get their dogs out of their cramped apartments, drink coffee and let the dogs run around and play with each other. Kitty and I have seen this first hand during our warm-weather runs. The surprising thing is that most of these dogs are big. I don't know how one could live in a City-sized apartment and enjoy oneself with an uncommunicative roommate the size of a shetland pony walking around and bumping into the coffee table. Also, where is the SPCSA during all this? They don't mind throwing paint on people wearing fur, but they'll allow a St. Bernard to live in a studio apartment with a family of four. Which is worse? Seems to me the St. Bernard has got ongoing psychological abuse. The mink only died once, right? I kid- of course.