My mom and I spent the weekend in New York City together for Mother’s Day. Rain spewed down from the sky the entire car ride, aside from when we were in the Lincoln Tunnel. By the time we checked into our hotel it was pouring. That evening, clad with our umbrellas, we ventured out for dinner and a show. After the show we wandered through Times Square. Every time I go to New York City there is something different in the air. A different feel. A different time of year. A different purpose. A different objective. A different person(s). A different weather forecast, as was such with the rain.
I tried to go to the library to write this morning, but dammit it doesn’t open until noon on Thursday’s. I should know this because, in the past, I’ve tried to go twice on Thursday mornings with my kids and ran into the same dumb luck.
So instead of getting free library parking downtown I parked in a public lot, which is probably more honest anyway. I was going to sneak out of the library, against policy, to get a bite to eat, move my body, and pick up a new game for my kids at the local toy story. I have a 20% off coupon. The item I want to buy costs $14.99. Saving $3 makes me happy. Plus it’ll pay for the $3 I had to pay to park downtown this morning. Ahhh life, it always seems to have a way of working itself out if you give it enough time.
This is a little hard to admit, but I think I might be a hoarder.
But not the heaps and piles of unorganized clothes, broken electronics, dusty furniture, dirty dishes, and garbage that is so out of control that I wouldn’t know if a dead cat was somewhere underneath kind.
No, not that kind.
I’d like to classify myself as a hoarder of paper.