Brooklyn Blues

I’m back in Brooklyn, y’all. And lo and behold, winter is still clinging on by its toenails. There have been some rumors of 60 degree weather, but they have yet to materialize, so I’m holding tight the memory of warm sun and sand between my toes.

The vacation debrief. In short, it was fantastic. Perfect weather. Calm waters. Very few people. A friendly beach dog. Good times with my Pop Pop. Great food and plenty of drink. What more can you ask for?

It was also pretty productive. During the hottest part of the afternoon, when a shady porch and the fan were advisable, I managed to revise about 8 or 9 chapters of the novel, bringing me within striking distance of the finish line. I also read a metric ton of books on the beach, everything from Bujold’s Vorkosigan saga and Marko Kloos Frontlines books to Marie Brennan’s Lady Trent series and a couple murder mysteries on the side.

So, I’m settling back in to reality. Teaching. Cold weather. Work and family-related travel. Some not-very-fun medical stuff coming up. etc.

Still, the echoes of vacation linger.

A long cold winter

Will it or won’t it…thaw that is?

An apparently unanswerable question out here in the northeast. No matter what the weather forecasters predict, the mercury stubbornly refuses to rise. Maybe today, we all whisper. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe…never?

My winter coat, just months ago a prized and delightful new purchase, is now a despised rag I grudgingly strap myself into before heading into yet another icy, bitter wind. My boots, once saviors in the NYC/Hoth wasteland, are now the footwear that led me to a treacherous fall, a suspicious character to be donned with a whiff of resentment and mistrust.

And my gloves. Oh, my gloves. Discovered in a charming shop in Norway and envisioned as a snuggly winter reminder of a lovely vacation…well, after clutching many a subway pole and railing to climb from the ice-encrusted depths of the city’s wretched Ton-Ton-esque belly…no amount of washing can take those stains away. I now feel queasy each time I slide them on my pale, shriveled fingers.

Enough is enough. Maybe it will warm up today. Maybe it won’t. But I don’t care. I’m outta here.

Tomorrow it’s just me, my Pop Pop, and a suitcase full of bikinis and sunscreen. I’m southbound and may never come back.

If you need me, you can find me here:


Laters, winter!