Here Comes the Sun... Again.

So, I think I’m kind of sad that I’m going to miss Hurricane Irene’s big New York debut.

And yes, I do realize how that sounds.

One projected model via weather.com

It’s not that I have some natural disaster version of Munchausen’s, where I just want to be part of something that gets me lots of attention.

No, this is because I miss feeling a part of a common experience. And I miss rain.

Boy, do I miss rain.

The sun shines here, like, all the time, and, frankly, I’m not the sunniest of people.

I have moods, and I like my weather to have moods, too. I like my weather to give me a good reason to stay inside, curl up on my couch, and read Janet Evanovich.

I like weather that calls for a warm drink and freshly baked cookie. And, to be completely honest: I like weather that indulges my angst.

I love drama. I relish the cinematic qualities of a good storm. I long for a good old-fashioned rain-soaked walk across the moors.

Romantic, right?
Kate Winslet in Columbia Pictures' "Sense and Sensibility"

I miss fine mists that cue imaginary strolls through London.

I miss sudden downpours that prompt sprints to the subway, a Daily News over my rapidly frizzing hair.

And I absolutely ache for those gentle, steady rains that invite me to walk slowly, water coursing down my face, cleansing my soul.

Frankly, all this sunshine is making me cranky.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One...

The grass is always greener on the other side.

I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, but right now I’m looking at the literal truth of that statement.

My sad, sad patch of lawn is parched. The Georgia heat is a killer, and my lawn is desperately trying to hang on.

It sure would help if someone would remember to water it on a regular basis.

Alas, it’s too late to save the basil, and the mesclun is long gone. Flowers, planted just last weekend, have already gone gently into that good night.

R.I.P. Mesclun. You sure were yummy. 

Excitement over picking her own salad mixed with anxiety over eating something called "mesclun".
Doesn't sound very appetizing, does it?

But a mesclun by any other name would taste just as good.

This is not how it was supposed to be.

In Brooklyn, I dreamt of a lively herb garden – a place where I could snip herbs and toss together flavorful, organic meals without having the expensive cuttings rot, forgotten, into a brown, oozing mush in the back of my crisper.

But that sounds as lovely and gentle as the much-coveted “dying in my sleep” option when compared to the horror endured by my poor planted herbs.

Those plants suffered a brutal death by drought, the unrelenting sun baking every last drop of moisture right out of the leaves.

I’m a murderer.

The lavender in happier times.

These stones lived with my mom for seven years. We never had a garden to house them...
Till now.

But – and I’m not (just) making excuses here – it seems like the only things able to withstand the merciless heat and the almost total lack of moisture are the feisty weeds that spread and grow like, well, uh, hmmm. You’ve probably heard that saying, too.

Anyway, those things are a bitch to kill.

Even with chemical agents killing their root systems, those female dogs tenaciously hold on, refusing to cede their ground.

I white-knucklingly grappled with some of those weeds today, and, sad to say, it was not an easy fight. In fact, if I had to call it, I’d say I eked out a win after 15 rounds and a split decision.

Not my finest showing, but the other guy definitely looks worse.

He’s lying in huge piles in my backyard, while I look just a bit slimmer thanks to the two pounds of water weight lost during our high noon struggle.

Nature’s sauna may not be the most hospitable environment for delicate herbs, but it’s a miracle worker on the post-menstrual waistline.

I think that’s called a silver lining.

(Bet you’ve heard that one, too.)

Fear and Loathing in Las Suburbs

New York school kids scared the hell out of me.

The way they swarm and push and fight on the subway. The way they talk like the dirtiest of Fleet Week sailors. The way they walk the streets like they own them.

In fact, the walking is what scared me most – the realization that one day my children will walk away, and I’ll have to let go, my arm limp and useless, unable to pull them out of harm’s reach.

But in New York, it was always someone else’s kid.

Mine were tucked safely in the Baby Bjorn or the Bugaboo or closely watched by preschool teachers, forbidden from roaming the wild streets of Park Slope (gasp!) unattended.

Today, though, it was my turn to stand, idle, while Liv walked away, left without a goodbye and got on the bus. With strangers.

School starts early in Georgia...
In August. With a 6-something bus pickup.

And, yeah, she didn't even turn around.  No wave.
Nothing.

The first day of kindergarten is a momentous occasion, filled with “big girl” talk, new friends, and safety scissors.

And for us, the first day of kindergarten was also the last day of Livvie being four.

How did we get here so fast?

Five years sounds like a long while, but it feels like nothing. I still feel the rush from speeding north on the West Side Highway, racing rampaging contractions, risking potential road combat to cut lanes and shave drive time.

And then… 

There she was, swaddled in my arms – all lips – blinking at me from under her standard-issue hospital cap. 

Okay, those aren't my arms, but they are her lips.
I think they might've gotten a little banged up on their way to see me.

Liv seems to have grown taller in the past few weeks, her face slimming a bit, her eyes growing wider and, if possible, more inquisitive. Her lips still full but, this time, smiling.

I’m so proud of her and want her to be just as proud of herself.

I want her to stand tall, like an exclamation point.

I want her to walk like a New York kid.

I want her to leave the fear with me and walk like she owns the world. 

Peachy Keen

One of my most loved New York experiences is the Union Square Farmers Market.

I’ll be its girl for all seasons… but my favorite is autumn.

The air is just as crisp as the apples, and the smell of cider holds me close to the stalls – just beyond the tentacular clutches of DSW on East 14^th.

Michelle Pfeiffer: another girl for all seasons.
In addition to the farmers market, I'm also unabashedly in love with Grease 2.
Thanks, Paramount!

Long before locavores roamed the Western Plains, New Yorkers mingled with some of the world’s best chefs, buying fruits and veggies straight off the truck. Freshly baked bread and newly cut bouquets sweetened the allure of the market, but, for me, the Empire State’s apples were the best produce in the Big Apple.

Don't you want to stop and smell the flowers?
via Travel and Leisure

Now that I’m living in a traditionally farmer-friendly area – seriously, I pass, like, four front-yard tomato stands on the way home from work – I like to eat what the locals are growing.

And they’re growing the best peaches I’ve ever had.

I know. Try to contain your surprise. Amazing peaches in Georgia?! Not exactly unheard of.

But while I’ve loved Georgia peaches in the past, I’ve never loved them for so long. This is not a vacation’s worth of peaches – this is all summer, every day, sometimes two or more per day.

This is me sitting at work, anxious to get home and eat my peaches.

Now, you may be wondering why I don’t just travel with my peaches – why, for example, I don’t just eat one at my desk.

I’ll tell you: the chin-dribbling juice is unbecoming for a girl trying to make a good impression.

So, I wait. And the clock ticks slowly till it’s time to jump in the Jeep, speed past the tomato stands, burst through the door, and wash my peaches.

I can't believe I put it down long enough to take this picture.

I eat standing over the sink, my chin jutting as far from my neck as possible, as the juice gives my face more than a passing resemblance to my toddler’s at mealtime.

But, mess be dadgummed, that gosh-durned fruit is too damn good.

Seems the peach is my new apple… in more ways than one.