Is This The Real Life?

On our way home

The commute kills us in fragments, in larger increments every day. Just one year ago, the 17 mile journey from Hough’s Neck to, near-ish, Brighton Center, took 40 minutes generally. That was bad enough. Now, those very same 17 miles take upwards of an hour -- often more.

Leaving home at low tide dawn

Still Life With Cookie Monste

Luckily I do the commute with Jen and we are fabulously kindred spirits. That and I now have an iPad -- when we’re at yet another standstill, I break it out, fire up the internet and read her posts by the always trenchant and bitingly funny Charles Pierce, TBogg -- the man we all wish was our bold, stiletto witted high school BFF, defending us against the bullying jocks and cheerleader wannabes,  as well as No More Mister Nice Blog, our smartest friend, and John Cole, who we just love madly, of Balloon Juice.

Political junky? What? Who me?

Given all the stress, the pressure Jen and I are under lately -- elderly parents behaving badly, jobs which aren’t always as smooth and fulfilling as we’d like, cats who seem to have all gone on hunger strike -- suddenly no longer caring for the styles and flavors of Fancy Feast they’ve previously been mad for (there are 6 cats between the two houses, which includes 2 feral beasties, yet their behavior is completely in sync. I swear they have union meetings down in the basement every night. OK, I support unions so I guess this isn’t a bad thing but, you’d think anyway, the leaders would have submitted their demands pre-strike!) and then there’s that business of it, all of a sudden, getting dark so early in the evening and light so much later in the AM.

We were not consulted and we are most certainly NOT amused.

Bohemian Rhapsody -- Queen