As of Wednesday night, I am now back in the city of New York. And it is indeed quite snowy here--lots of dirty mush piled up on the sidewalks and plenty of perfect powder in the less-traversed places. (And I do mean powder. When trekking about Central Park yesterday, it was as if I were actually walking upon confectioner's sugar. It was very nice. Made me want to eat a belgian waffle right there in the snow.) So snowy, in fact, that I do not recommend attempting to take public transportation from the airport back to one's apartment, as I so dumb-ass-edly did Wednesday night. A trip that should've taken me only an hour, at most, took a little over two. And I was so awkward at moments, tripping along with my huge-ass pink suitcase and two horribly overloaded and stupidly heavy carry-ons, that I managed to blush so furiously of crippling embarrassment that I raised my body temperature enough to sweat. In twenty-something degree weather. (A very nice young man just getting off from work at LaGuardia offered to heave my suitcase into the bus's suitcase rack. Naturally, I accepted his offer. He was unpleasantly surprised to find, however, that my suitcase weighed a perfect fifty pounds. His involuntary exclamation of effort, surprise, and distaste upon lifting the suitcase managed to balance out my extreme embarrassment.)
So, yes. I have returned. All four of us living in the apartment have been absent for quite some time now--a week, pretty much--so I was disgusted but not wholly shocked to discover a long-dead cockroach in the front half-bath yesterday morn. Kayla was the only other roommate home, so I asked her to come stand behind me for moral support while I went to great lengths involving take-out fliers to scoop the roach up into the toilet while staying as far away as possible from said insect. Now, Kayla has a great, great aversion to insects. I know this because we once spent three hours (nope, not an exaggeration) disposing of a bug inside her apartment back in high school--she wouldn't even go within ten feet of the insect, and I couldn't bear to kill it, so I wound up placing Kayla's sister's tennis shoe near the bug so that it would crawl on top and I could carry it outside. Unfortunately, I panicked once the bug was on the shoe and the shoe was in my hand, and I ended up flinging the shoe into the toilet. Sorry, Candice. But you see: the two of us don't have a great insect history.)
Kayla initially refused to offer me moral support, blockading herself in the kitchen and whimpering profusely, but I kept yelling at her until she caved. I wasn't asking for that much, really. I just wanted her to stand behind me, catch a glimpse of the roach, fully grasp the sacrifice I was about to make, and forever worship me. She slowly--ever so slowly--shuffled over, still whimpering. Let me make clear at this moment that Kay knew exactly what she was about to see; I had described the roach in full detail: large, fully dead, on its back, in the right corner. She knew what her eyes would alight upon, once she made it over to the bathroom doorway, seventeen years later. And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet. Once she had finally made it, a good THREE FEET from the doorway, FULLY COGNIZANT of what she is about to see--she screamed. Not a baby scream, either. A full-on, blood-curdling, someone-is-murdering-me scream. Sustained, too. "AAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHH!"
Ridiculous.
Also, I almost died yesterday. But I would have croaked in a completely happy state, I tell you. Totes blissed out. And this is because I was sledding at the time of my near-death.
I am the proud owner of an Uncle Bob's Yeti Wedge Snowtube, a delightful appartus that is triangular in shape and requires many, many deep breaths to be inflated. But fifteen minutes and a good dose of lightheadedness after its inflation, it does not disappoint. I somehow convinced Andrea, the roommate of my good friend, Vals, to climb aboard this inflatable sled with me and take the steep route down Cedar Hill in Central Park yesterday. Having sledded last year in the same spot, I knew that our combined adult weight would guarantee both speed and an inability to safely come to a stop, but I desired all of this. Some thoughtful Central Park groundsman or woman has placed bales of hay along the bottom of the hill, for safe crashing, as well as a two-foot wire fence behind said bales in case of misdirection or extreme speed. Andrea and I fully surpassed the hay bales--probably because we were inadvertently hurdling down the hill backwards--and slammed into the wire fence. Now, last year, I slammed into this fence several times and was none the worse for it. In fact, I was more the grateful for it, since behind the fence are many potentially painful trees and bushes. This year, however, was a bit different.
As we screamed our fool heads off on the way down, craning our necks over our shoulders to observe our impending death, we flew past the hay and headed straight for the fence. I braced myself, ready to bounce off of it and no doubt scream at some small, nearby child to get out of the way before he or she dies. We did indeed hit the fence, but our velocity and mass somehow managed to allow Andrea and myself to fly through the air and land on the other side of the fence. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. We were AIRBORNE! Though briefly so. The sled quietly remained on the other side of the fence. I heard a young kid loudly exclaim, "HOLY SHIITAKE MUSHROOMS!" (Which almost eclipsed my joy at still being alive.) Andrea and I stayed frozen in our landing positions--that is, fully on our sides, but still in a sitting position--laughing hysterically and full of I'm-still-alive endorphins. Valerie, who had watched from atop the hill, told us later that our crash-landing had captured the attention of everyone on the hill; apparently, there were audible gasps, followed by stunned silence. (Broken, of course, by shiitake mushroom child.)
Ah, but it was so worth it. My entire sternum feels as if it's been pummelled, but it was worth it. Ah, glorious snow. And sledding. Thank you, Uncle Bob.
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