So we bought this house in New Hampshire. And we are moving there. Soon. And it's not in the city. And it's quiet. And beautiful. And the last time anyone got shot it was by their drunk cousin Bubba with a skeet gun, not by a police officer during a routine traffic stop. And we have one store. One. It's a Country Store. The kind where you say to the guy, Earl, hey I'm looking for a lumber jack and he'll say oh yeah, call Johnson over on Wheelbarrow Road. His number is blah blah blah blah blah and the next thing you know the whole town knows two crackers from New York City have moved up country. It's the kind of place where you haul your own trash to the Transfer Station on Sunday mornings. It's the kind of place where # of cows > # of people. It's the kind of place where you wake up in the morning and all you hear are birds and the clicking of dog feet. It's the kind of place that sort of makes you need to vomit, it's so beautiful. It's the kind of place I never, in a million years, would have imagined I'd end up, yet it's exactly the place I want to be. It's the kind of place that makes a girl like me feel the need to get a Ford F-250 and some sheep.
Don't even get me started on the moose.
So anyway, to drive the point home, here are some pictures. In New York, I wake up to this:
In New Hampshire, I wake up to this:
Most of the people we know here think we are batshit crazy. I think, if I have to commute an hour on three trains just to go sit in Central Park with seven hundred thousand other people for any length of time, maybe I jump off the Empire State Building.
