On this, the second day of my staycation, I had great plans. I girded my loins for a trip to the DMV to finally register my car in New York. Currently it has Jersey plates on it--and not even the most recent style, which looks like a pool of dissipating urine. It's an older style that was designed by a very morose person to be only a little less ugly than the beige-and-black atrocities I grew up with. All legalities aside, there's a very important aesthetic imperative at stake.
Also, my car looks like 1) it's not from the neighborhood and 2) is taking up space that could be for someone who is from the neighborhood, which could lead to 3) god-knows-what on my windshield. People take this crap seriously up here.
As usual, though, the best laid plans went kerflooey. So I figured I'd take this little time before I go pick up the boys from school and assure what's left of my readership that I'm not dead. I admit, though, that it's been a challenge to sit down and write about myself lately. It just hasn't seemed natural, because of all the truly juicy stuff that's going on in my life right now. Like [MATERIAL REDACTED] and [CAN'T TALK ABOUT THAT, EITHER] and [DRAMA! ALWAYS WITH THE EFFING DRAMA!]. Sometimes, when your life accelerates into a turgid spume, you get the idea that maybe it'll all go away if you refuse to write about it.
But hey, it's springtime in Manhattan. The weather is warming, and people we haven't seen for months are emerging from their little Habitrails and embracing the outdoors once again. Today I'll take the boys to our favorite cloistered playground, where we've been going for years, and take part in the annual rite of marveling at how large and obnoxious all the other kids have become. It's the simple pleasures that feed your soul.