fizzy water and twizzlers

It's raining here in New York. Raining so, that suddenly--for the first time--the phrase cats and dogs seems perfectly apt, but don't ask me what it means.

Edith Piaf is playing in the background (as she must when it rains). And I'm drinking diet coke (heretofore known as fizzy water) and eating twizzlers as I recover from a beast of a chest cold (hence my unusually prolonged blog world absence). This chest cold--cough and all (and I never get a cough) is most likely punishment for weathering the entire (yes the entire) winter season in near perfect health. It is also a product of allergies, the present day Greek mythological curse. Present day Greek mythological curse, you ask? Remember the story of Tantalus (that's okay, I didn't either and it took me a good thirty minutes of searching the web to find the following)... Well he chopped up his son and attempted to serve him to the Gods,

"Tantalus's punishment, now proverbial for temptation without satisfaction (the source of the English word "tantalizing"[10]), was to stand in a pool of water beneath a fruit tree with low branches. Whenever he reached for the fruit, the branches raised his intended meal from his grasp. Whenever he bent down to get a drink, the water receded before he could get any (Wikipedia)." 

My point is, the Gods gave us Spring to behold in all it's glory and yet it's near impossible to do (to behold) through bleary eyes and a running nose--it's like reaching down to drink the water and finding it gone.

It took me so long to find the Tantalus story that I've completely forgotten the original idea for this post. 

But.

This much I'll say (in the spirit of the rain),

I have been dreaming of English countrysides as of late. I love the rain. Desperately, I love it. The sound of it, the mystery. It's always struck me as a cloak for magic in the world. But rain in New York can be trying. Travel here undoubtedly involves being outside. No car to garage to house scenarios. And showing up to auditions or the work-place waterlogged is not always ideal. But in the English countryside, in the warmth of a house, where the doors and windows would stay open all day long (no threat of burglars or mosquitos) and the cool drops would stain the edge of the stone floors...can you imagine? Giant windows, thrust open. Shutters. And big doors. Big, wooden doors. Extra wide--an invitation to precipitation. Shorts and Wellies, a uniform of choice. And thunder, the rolling music of Mother Nature (a thing so rare in New York that tonight my roommate confused a glorious few thunder rolls for the fighting of our landlords overhead, a much more commonplace occurrence). Mmmm, a girl can dream.

And in other news when I was laid up in bed (the cold) I wandered over to facebook's networked blogs and attempted to register this little blogspot lover of mine. I found it had already been done. By an anonymous facebook follower. Well, thank you anonymous facebook follower. You're description of my blog as "real-life" and "writing" seems spot-on and tickled my flattery-bone to no end. So if facebook is anyone else's thing and you wish to follow me there, I'm adding a link to the side. Plus, I need nine people to confirm that I am in fact the writer of this blog so if you could do that, many thanks would be owed. 

Photos found on {this is glamorous} (slightly altered).