Overwhelmed with gratitude and thankfulness (and a little glee)

for having been born and brought up in New York City and having the father that I had.  New York City is the entire universe in 300.46 square miles. Thanks to my father I got to experience just about every square foot of it.

How do I keep this short and sweet? It all started this morning, with me being grumpy about some inconsequential shit on the internet that pissed me off and that I couldn’t let go of – ignorant yahoos.

But then I received a New York Times ‘newsletter’ in my email that featured a story about Marvin Gaye singing the national anthem. When I shared it with my husband his reaction was “meh” whereas I was blown away. This led to a discussion about music and the realization that because of where I grew up and with whom I grew up my views and tastes were more far ranging than my husband’s.

And that is due to my father.

I know of people who have lived for several generations in New York City and know jack-all about what’s there. So sad.

As soon as we were toilet trained and had acquired manners my father took us to every single museum in NYC.  Not just the art museums but the numismatic museum down on Wall Street, all sorts of museums covering every topic imaginable.  He took us to white-tablecloth restaurants; to the theater.

And yes to the zoo, the botanical gardens, the planetarium, the circus,the rodeo, the horse races, Yankee Stadium, Madison Square Garden – no type of sport was left out – we were introduced to it, if only as spectators.

At home we were surrounded by music of every form and format. And books – my father came from a family of readers – anything with print on it was perused.

Music? Oh my word – there was ALWAYS music. And NYC, being NYC, you could twirl your way around the radio dial and there was no music unrepresented. There was no culture unrepresented. There were radio stations that broadcast in languages other than English.

So much popular music originated in NYC – doo-wop, rap, beatbox, hip-hop – we heard it all first. Nothing was banned, nothing was off-limits. You only had to be curious enough to stop and listen.

Food? Oh hell do not tell me anything about food, just don’t. From the mundanity of mashed potatoes to haute cuisine – I ate it. And not the Americanized versions. The real deal.

It wasn’t just that you lived in a city with people of other cultures, you experienced their culture, and they yours because you were in and out of their homes. They were your friends and when we were young we took our differences for granted.

My parent’s friends – all my “Aunts” and “Uncles” – a veritable United Nations.

That’s how I grew up. As an adult my native curiosity took me farther and wider. I’m thinking I got my curiosity from my father –  it’s something people have commented on my whole life – my shrink said “You are the most curious person I have ever met”

How do you not wonder about the world that surrounds you especially when the world you live in is so diverse and strange and magical.

So, yes, right now feeling happy and bouncy and lucky and grateful that I had the father I had, growing up in the city I did and being blessed with a sense of curiosity that leads me down rabbit holes even Alice never dreamed of.

It’s a stunningly beautiful day

and I shan’t whine about not being able to be out and about.  It’s 85º with 46% humidity, not a cloud in blue skies. Yet my feet are like ice cubes. I actually put socks on when I got dressed this morning and y’all know how much I hate socks!

I have an interesting dilemma. There is an artist I follow on social media. She describes herself as an illustrator; I describe her as a fabulous artist. She happens to be Norwegian and she has just recently had two of her books translated into English and published in the United States. One of the books is a children’s book which I have sent to my granddaughters and one is a picture book for adults which I bought for myself.

I can’t afford her original artwork but I can afford her books.

It’s sitting next to me and that wonderful new book smell is wafting my way. I don’t know what I expected but the book is large (think coffee table book large) and weighs 3.5 pounds! But to appreciate her art indeed it must be this big. There is text – one sentence for each picture – telling the story of life. The art, the story – just overwhelms me. (Ok, maybe I’m easily overwhelmed by beauty.)

I love this book – it is so beautiful. I immediately wanted to send copies to several of my dearest friends. Then I thought “What if they don’t like her art? What if this book is just a another ‘thing’ to clutter up their homes? What if they don’t love this book with it’s simple story as much as I do?”

So that’s my dilemma – send the book because I love it, not taking into consideration what their taste might be, or throw caution to the wind, send the book and they can either curse me or thank me.

I’m pretty sure y’all know what I’m going to do, don’tcha?

And the rains came…

or perhaps never left. Today and for the rest of the week –

But there is always fun to be had –

This mornings comics – 

Let’s face it – we’ve all stood in front of a bit of ‘art’ and thought to ourselves – “This is a joke, right? Guy is putting us on.” 

More than once I’ve meandered through an art museum and heard some pretentious twat prattle on about the meaning of some meaningless piece of ‘art’ work. 
On several occasions, I’ve done this – mockingly – usually as entertainment for the person I was with. On one occasion it was a guy and he was all “Shush, people will hear you, we’ll get thrown out. You’re insulting the artist and the museum..” Seriously? 
Needless to say that was the first and last date with that guy. 
Also – while I was scrolling through instagram this morning I came across this – 

I exchanged comments with the poster and thought to myself “Damn Skippy”.

And then I laughed because the term “Damn Skippy” always makes me laugh. Then of course I had to research it – Interesting reading.
The Urban Dictionary says its possible origin is from South Australia’s ‘damn straight”. But further down the rabbit hole I came across this wonderful blog post about Emphatic Affirmatives (you really want to go read this!) that attributes its origins to Black American English and  also a derivative of “Damn straight”.
What I like most about that particular blog post is that it covers ALL my favorite emphatic affirmatives! Absolutely all of them! 
Reading that just made my day!