from the front lines
My radio alarm went off at 7:15: “… first transit strike in 25 years and it is 22 degrees outside! Plus wind chill! Ester, it sure is a good thing you have that amazing, cold-defeating Russian Shearling coat and those fleece-lined Canadian boots for your trek across the bridge!”
I made it to work almost an hour early, still riding the adrenaline. The thing is, this shit is kinda fun for the first day, but if it continues, I’m going to lose my sense of humor right quick. MTA, Transit Workers, I feel your pain; now feel mine. Get your selves back to that negotiating table before we have to hear Bloomberg make another speech about how “determined” he is.
Whatever. I still think it sounds like fun. Raw nosed, frozen fingered, chapped lipped fun.
*shaking head* You have some serious NYC envy, my friend. — Except it is, sort of, fun, in a frigid way. Walking home over the bridge this evening felt like I was in a parade (only, what for? and I bore holes in both of my socks.)
my british friend just read your comment here, ester, and giggled a lot. apparently, in Britain, the word Frigid ONLY means ‘not willing to put out’ (in the Victorian sense): “Except it is, sort of, fun, in a prudish way.”
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