There is a cherry wind* ablowin' through red hook this morning as I sit down by the window to get some work done and eat breakfast.


Ms. Poops joins me. She's started begging for food like a dog, and I'm a sucker. Ms. P is 15 and has recently svelted down to little old lady status...a polite way of saying the cat is busted. But we love her (if one can love an animal whose mess you clean off the floor before you have coffee every morning, thus, her name).


I'm writing a lengthy email I'd rather not be and so I turn to photobooth as a means to waste time and capture some of our last precious moments together. Ms. P and me. Sharing breakfast.

*Our neighborhood is home to one of the largest maraschino cherry processing plants in the country.** You would never eat a maraschino cherry again if you saw what they do to these things...bleach, dye, packed in garbage bags, etc...the point here is the smell. Think about it and trust me when I say that the smell of maraschino cherries is exactly the same as a (albeit, clean) porto-potty. Exactly the same friends.

**Not a proven fact.