I am missing home. I am. I don't know... it's probably a lot to do with being a hermit in NYC and spending two major holidays alone. I'm just a little over the schlepping... the crowds... the inconvenience of this massive city. I miss my tiny town, my couch and my cat.
Today I took the dogs up to the roof (since earlier in the day it was snowing; PT's snowshoes were a mess and I rinsed them off... they were still wet at 4pm). This is fine. We go to the roof, they pee, we play a bit, we go back downstairs to the apartment. Today, however, even though I took care not to bundle PT up (less he take off), he took off. He went for the dread dead pigeon poop stairwell on the building next door.
Last week, when he went over, I got some looks from people working in the building. I'm pretty sure they're manufacturing counterfeit handbags, but that's beside the point. They don't like me chasing after the dogs -- but it's necessary as one can't get back over to our roof and the other likes to go down the stairwell of doom and needs to either be carried back up 7 flights (on a bad day) or coaxed. Regardless, it means jumping over the roof (like an action film star) and going down a very narrow, very damp, very dark, stinky, dead pigeon stairwell (seriously. This thing is full of bird crap... and the remains of birds... it's a nightmare).
Today I could smell the weed -- someone got some good skunk -- and for a minute, I thought, "Oh dear, how many pigeons have died down there this week." I wasn't thinking straight. PT went all the way to the bottom and wouldn't come back up -- not with all my whistling and firm, "COME!" commands. I had to get him. When I got back up, the other dog was now at the top of the stairwell barking in distress... and I had to chuck him back over to our side of the roof. That's when it happened: an older Chinese woman came out and scolded me. She did. She spoke to me as if I were a petulant 2 year old who consistently broke rules. She threatened to call the super for this building and you know what? I don't care. I've gotten to the point where I don't give a crap anymore. This isn't like me... but it's this place -- how it beats you down. I feel like I'm one of those people on the subway now -- someone who has lost their soul... I look beaten down just like everyone else; I MUST, I can feel it creep onto my face.
So I'm counting down the days. I'm looking forward to my big, bright skies and clean, crisp air. I'm excited to get back to my pool and swimming with my water walkers... even the one who has her hair done and wears too much perfume. I've got projects in the works for when I return home and I'm anxious to start them.
I also want to make my home more homey. I've taken the year off and had ideas for doing things -- primarily to hang things. I've got stacks of photos and posters and artwork framed and ready to be hung and it's all leaning against walls on the floor. My friend's place is full of interesting artwork -- some of it incongruent, but it feels good surrounded by the stuff. My house, in contrast, is very stark -- big empty and blank walls. I've got some work to do when I return. Is this a resolution? Eh, not so much... I gave those up years ago. Resolutions are written to not happen, so I'll say this is the beginning of my to-do list.