I just got back from New York City and now I am glad again to live in Northeast Ohio. I was walking around the Upper West Side, looking for Meg Ryan, when I came across an open house for an apartment for rent or lease. So, I decided to check it out.
Long story short, it was a one bedroom in a basement that would have rented for at most $500 a month in Northeast Ohio. Rent in New York City – $3,000 a month. Almost 10 times what I would pay.
There’s no place like home.
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There is at least one (that I remember) well supported psych theory about the relativity of happiness. In essence, in time we become habituated to new stimuli or circumstances that for some initial period of time seemed to increase our level of happiness. So, to maintain the happiness high, we continually need varied and new stimuli (the next fix). Better to be satisfied with staying on an even keel.
I’ve lived in the city and in the country, in the Chicagoland area, six blocks from the Vieux Carre in New Orleans, in the farmland/country of Northern Illinois and N.E. Ohio, etc.. I’ve also travelled extensively through the lower 48, Alaska, and Canada. Home is not a geographical location, it is where I hang my hat. Being satisfied with where you live is more about you than the local environment (perhaps barring some extreme examples). Ultimately your geographical location doesn’t matter, it’s what you make of it. N.E. Ohio is as good a place to live as any. This reminds me of a little story. Note that the third moral is the operative one here.
ADVICE FOR THE DISHEARTENED RESIDENTS OF NE OHIO
There once was a little bird who waited too long after winter’s approach to fly South to warmer weather. All his mates had flown South weeks before he finally decided to leave. As he began his journey the weather turned for the worse. It began raining. The temperature dropped. The rain was freezing. His wings became heavy with ice, he could no longer remain airborn, try as he might. Finally he crashed to the ground landing on a pile of cow manure in a cow pen.
As he began to lament his premature death, freezing to death on a bed of manure, a cow ambled over him and dropped a fresh steaming load, completely burying the poor little fellow. Our avian protagonist’s mind whirled with hysteria as he envisioned his pending death smothered in bovine droppings.
Here’s where our little friend found hope. First, he found that as foul as it might be, he found sufficient air to breath. Second, the warm droppings were quickly thawing his wings. He joyously welcomed this second chance at life with his most jubilant and raucous birdsong.
A cat, in passing, heard this celebration of life, quickly dug the bird up and ate him.
There are three morals to this story:
1) Everyone who gives you shit is not necessarily your enemy.
2) Everyone who takes shit off of you is not necessarily your friend.
3) Even if you are buried in shit, if you’re warm and can breathe, you should keep your f….in mouth shut.
i wouldn’t pay a dime to live within smelling distance of cleveland.
Talking about manure. Tim, your mother will be 95 11/27/09.
Not that you give a shit.
After that story about the cat and bird, I feel warmer all over.