Spring Has . . . Sprung?

Or is it still . . . springing? It's hard to say when you're a New Yorker. When I moved back here, I was excited about having four seasons once again. After ten years in Houston/College Station, Texas, where the seasons consist of early summer, summer, late summer, and a few cold fronts, the thought of seeing flowers bloom for a couple of weeks and the leaves changing colors is just exhilarating.


Tulip season!



Jinxing spring's arrival is another thing we love to do. At the first warm front, New Yorkers are all too exited to store the sweaters and boots back in storage units under the bed, and to bring out the flowery skirts and dresses, shorts, breezy sandals, and light blouses . . . even though we know we shouldn't. The moment we do that . . . winter makes its sour return, and generally for a number of weeks. It never fails. I tend to wait until late May before I even attempt switching the wardrobe. It may be in part due to laziness, but I also just don't want to jinx it.

So you can imagine how nervous I am writing this post. But upon May's arrival, four consistent days of sun and sixty-degree weather, and my jovial mood, I really think we're heading into the better months. <Anxiously knocking on my wood desk.>

This past weekend, Mike was in the land where grown men become twenty-one-year-old boys all over again: Vegas. And in some sort of vindication, the weather in Vegas was windy and semi-cool (for Vegas, at least), while the city of New York basked in sunlight and warm weather. And I was sure to take full advantage of my alone-time-meets-springtime weekend.

On Saturday, the New York City Aggies had their spring barbecue at a beer garden. Once the morning clouds left and the sun was fully out, you could see all of our moods change. There's something to be said about sunlight deficiency disorder. It was humorous watching all of us girls (okay, just me and Andrea because we're always prepared) taking off our sweaters to expose our sundresses and bare shoulders, the men rolling up their sleeves to expose their arms, and all of us scoping out the sun's rays and rotating our chairs every now and then to make sure we were getting an even "tan." (The word tan used lightly . . . I didn't notice an ounce of color difference, which is much different than my days in Texas when I had a base tan year round, I guess that was a plus side of living down south.) 

The group eventually migrated to a frozen yogurt place (I feel guilty about cheating on TCBY, but 16 Handles was just so good). The fact that we even wanted something frozen was a sign of the changing seasons. Also, completely unrelated to my all-about-spring post, I missed Paul McCartney at 16 Handles by five minutes . . . something I will never get over. Just writing it down again makes me want to crawl into a fetal position and cry some more. Anyway . . .

The next morning, Ginna and I had brunch, and clearly we weren't the only ones who wanted to enjoy one of New York's greatest traditions in the beautiful outdoors. The wait for a table outside at Barking Dog was more than an hour, so we opted for the shorter wait and a table near the windows. While dining, we noticed tons of puppies and babies . . . whether this is a sign of spring, or just where our mind was at that day, is beyond me.

And when I got back to my apartment, all I wanted to do was clean, the kind where you put on some music and open up the windows to air everything out. I spent six hours cleaning . . . yes, six . . . yes, just our small apartment. Nobody ever said I was the queen of speed in this department (or running, as I am sure my parents and husband inserted with a laugh). I reorganized our entertainment system and mantel so the living room looked more like a habitat than a DVD store. I unpacked the rest of the frames we received from the wedding, and now I am praying that we'll have our discs soon so we can stop looking at the models. And, no surprise, the dusting took the most amount of time, for as fast as it accumulates in the normal, cleaner-air world, in NYC it seems to gather at least twice as fast.

Then it was time for the kitchen. I swear, the day I have more cabinet space and a dishwasher will be the happiest day. And finally, because I had been putting it off since the beginning . . . the bathroom. I think my back is still sore from the scrubbing I gave that tub. And as much as I love my husband, who tends to be far cleaner/neater than I ever am, he has a penchant for leaving rogue shavings from his electric razor and globs of toothpaste in random areas of the bathroom (one would think mainly the sink, but I find toothpaste on the floor more often than I should).

Once it was all said and done, I felt much better. There was a spring in my step now that spring was finally here (again, knocking on wood). I was actually ready for my Monday-night softball game, knowing I wouldn't be wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a beanie. (And that was great, though the municipal solid waste container near first base wasn't all that fresh and springlike, thank you, East Harlem.)

I only wish there had been enough time this weekend to get to the park to do some freelance. But then again, there never is enough time to get everything done on my list.

And so, during this spring day, I leave you with a little note I left Mike after my hardcore cleaning session . . .

Confucius says: Husband who leaves shavings and globs of toothpaste in clean bathroom and medicine cabinet is a dead man.

To which he later replied via Gchat once he got home: You're silly. Confucius doesn't speak English.