Skip to main content

Dead Rats and Other Signs of New York's Summer

Summer in New York is a complicated beast. Part welcome of course because we shed the winter blues, the outdoors bars open up and we get to spend more time with our kids. (I know this is not a sentiment shared by all. Spare me) But for most of us it's also the time of The Rat.

Having lived here for nearly half my life now (stop adding) I sync summer to rats. Legions appear in the warmer months often just at that golden hour when the sun begins to set and bath the city in a magical light. And rats. You can be walking home after a few glasses of prosecco (stop adding) when they dart across your path -- New York reminding you that beneath that $14 glass of joy lies a repugnant fat piece of vermin. And there's never just one. They come in packs. And yes, I am here to report, they squeal.

The city of course tries to poison them. Which is worse because they just don't like to die alone. In the dark. They stagger down streets. Show up paws up on subway stairs. Kick off death rattles by the bus stops. It's beyond.

Not everyone hates the summer rat ritual. The Prince even has an activity he calls Hackey Rat where he'll gallantly pick up an offending creature with the front top of his shoe and kick it it away soccer-style. Most of us scream.

Luckily The Rabbit still associates anything with fur as akin to a stuffed animal. But I suppose as a true native New Yorker she'll probably eventually adopt the uniform reaction all locals develop to anything repugnant, offensive and horrible. She'll blink, bored, and look away. I, however, am not giving up my scream.


Kate S. said…
I'm with the scream, Mama. Euwww.

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …