insomnia haiku

Accidents will happen

I just saw a woman get hit by a car.

Correction: I saw the aftermath of a woman getting hit by a car. I was walking toward the intersection of Atlantic and Smith when I heard a loud "thunk." I turned to see a woman about 50 yards away from me, crumpled on the ground in the crosswalk, a cab stopped at an angle in front of her.

I am ashamed to say that my first reaction was not to run toward her and see if she was all right. Instead, my first reaction was to stand stock-still, stare at her and think, "Oh my God."

I would like to think that that's a normal reaction, that the brain needs time to process something so extraordinary, and that I am not, in fact, a coward with no morals. Then slowly, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw other people having the opposite instinct I did—running toward her, phones out, yelling, "Are you OK?" Something in my brain moved, and I thought, Oh, I'm supposed to be doing that, too.

I headed toward the intersection, and by that point the woman—who was wailing out in pain—was surrounded by a few people, at least one of whom was on her phone trying to get help. At that moment (I think perhaps coincidentally), an ambulance came screaming down the street and pulled over alongside us, the EMTs hopping out to bend over the fallen woman as the rest of us stood there stupidly.

To his credit, I suppose, the cab driver didn't cut and run but stayed put, standing next to his cab and looking at the woman with a penitent expression on his face. The woman standing next to me said that she had been right behind the woman as she crossed, and that she had had the light, not the cab, who had turned into her without paying attention. As a cop arrived, I asked the woman next to me if she'd talk to the police about what she saw, but she seemed uncertain. She still had one of her headphones in. I'm sure felt she had someplace to go.

Me, I hadn't seen anything. I hadn't done anything. I felt useless. I saw the EMTs finally strap the woman to a stretcher as she groped next to her for her phone, which had fallen on the floor. She put it in her pocket and I was glad, at least, to see that she could move her arm.

Every day, we pedestrians and drivers play a game of cat-and-mouse, worrying that something like this will happen to us. Most of the time, it does not. I remember the first time I ever visited New York, with my family; our cab driver hit another car—just a gentle tap in the rear bumper—and kept driving. Once, in Washington DC, I was exiting the train station when a cab inching forward hit me in the leg, then drove away. I turned to see an attendant looking at me. "Did you see that?" I asked. "I sure did," he said. He seemed to be on my side, but what could he do? (Once I got to the conference where I was going, I mentioned the incident to the women there, who shrugged and laughed. "Happens all the time!" they said.)

We aren't invulnerable. Far from it. There are lies and truths we tell ourselves every day just to get out of the house. If we didn't, I suppose we'd never leave our couches. As I looked at the woman, crying out in pain, now surrounded by medics and cops, I thought, I hope she's OK. I thought, I wish I could do something, but I can't. I thought, I hope someone calls her family for her. I thought, I'm glad it wasn't me.

Then I turned and walked slowly home.

Something you don't see every day (anymore)

This car was sitting outside the place where I had dinner last night. I have no idea ... what exactly happened here. Was this hurricane-related? Or not? What the heck is that white stuff? The car was at a crazy angle to the curb, with the driver's-side door open, as though either the owner or the thief had to take off in a hurry. The front fender was on the ground. It was like a crime scene, and the victim was the car.

As my friend Kevin and I stared into the rusted, stripped-out shell and walked on, a guy behind us laughed. "It's like Brooklyn in the '80s," he said.

So beautiful, so hurtful ... yes, I'm talking about shoes

I'm back! Yes, because I can't sleep. I am sorry if I sometimes treat this blog like the uncle I only remember once he's won the lottery. I'm just kidding, I love all my uncles. What?

Tonight I went to a birthday party and wore closed-toe heeled shoes for the first time since the spring. They're old shoes I've worn a hundred times, and they're hardly four-inch stilettos or anything (they're patent leather slingback Mary Janes with clunky heels, if you must know). At first they seemed comfortable, until they weren't. Because feet that have been clad in flip-flops, which barely even count as shoes, for the last five months don't take kindly to be smushed into something leather and then made to stand on the balls of... um, your feet. (That sentence seemed so much better when I started writing it.) Half a mile walk to the subway, third of a mile from the subway to the bar -- I'll admit, I probably should have paced myself.

By the time I headed home, my feet were screaming in pain. I was walking so slowly and gingerly, I would have understood if any New Yorker in a hurry behind me had shoved me out of the way. Once I got off the subway, I didn't hesitate: I took my shoes off and walked home barefoot, slingbacks swinging in my hand. I was not drunk, nor homeless, nor insane; yet everyone I passed seemed to be looking at me as though I were drunk, homeless, insane, or some combination of those three. Granted, it's not every day that you see someone walking barefoot in New York City. But come on, couldn't I have just a little bit of sympathy here?

I wasn't being reckless -- I was studying the sidewalk in front me of carefully, so that I wouldn't step in gum, glass, dog poo or some unidentifiable urine. It was pretty clear sailing all the way home, aside from the parts of the sidewalk that were gravelly, which were a little painful against the chafed balls of my feet, but that was far preferable to putting the shoes back on. And any woman who saw me with shoes in hand should have nodded empathetically. But here in New York, I guess we're all a little judgey when it's late at night and you see a woman walking home barefoot.

Me, I'm not one of those women who loves and hoards shoes. When I was a kid, I had one pair of sneakers and that was about it; in college and post-college, I had three pairs of shoes: sneakers, brown shoes and black shoes. I would go without shoes every day if I could. In fact, when I used to work at my corporate job, I would frequently take my shoes off under my desk, then when called to a meeting would shoot up and forget I was barefoot, running back to throw them on so that I could appear like the competent corporate minion I was.

The "job" I had before that, which was supervising a bunch of writers and editors overnight, required no dress code whatsoever. Why care, when there were no bosses around, since the real bosses worked normal hours? I was the closest thing to a boss they had, and I didn't give a flying fig what they wore, as long as they were wearing, you know, tops and bottoms. (It didn't always happen.) Barefootness was rampant, even celebrated. We were like a commune of people who shouldn't be let out into society lest they be forced to wear nice clothes, put on shoes, eat normal food (what, Cheetos isn't a food?) and work at jobs that didn't require watching television all night and then drinking until 6 a.m.

Anyway. It was fine to be barefoot there. And it was certainly fine to be barefoot in college, because how else were you going to spontaneously race someone down the dorm hallway? And kids before college -- well, being barefoot is their default. 

So I ask you: Why do we wear shoes? At all? No longer the fashion-averse tomboy, I do see the value in shoes, and even deem many of them "cute." But isn't walking around in your natural state, your toes let loose and wiggling, just more fun, relaxing, freeing? If we all just did away with shoes, wouldn't life be a happier place? (Except if you're a firefighter, athlete or clog dancer. You can keep your shoes.) If I had my druthers, whatever druthers are, I'd make everyone go barefoot, and I'd throw in free pedicures, if druthers are big piles of money.

Once, not long ago, I was walking down the sidewalk with two young men, and when I mentioned my feet hurt, one of them stopped and asked me, very intently, "Can I ask, why do you wear them, then? Why do you choose to wear shoes that hurt your feet?" At first I had no answer (because jeez, what kind of question!), then began lamely, with, "Well, these are the kinds of shoes women wear."

"But they're hurting your feet!"

"But they're fashionable and they lengthen the leg, making me seem taller and more attractive." (This was slightly better.)

"Are you doing this for men? Is this why women wear painful shoes, to attract men?"

I didn't know what to say to that. I wasn't specifically wearing these shoes for men (like guys ever notice shoes anyway), but I was wearing them for other people, because I am a member of society and when out in society, I want to seem attractive. According to these men, that made me some kind of puppet or pawn. "I don't know what to tell you," I said. "Maybe these shoes hurt, but I'm not doing it for you. Women's fashion has rules, like it or not, and I have to live in the world."

"Fashion has rules." I sound like someone participating in a Milgram experiment. I do have to live in the world, I need shoes to protect my feet from the walking I do every day, and I occasionally think shoes are cute and want to buy them. Sometimes -- like tonight -- using the half-thimbleful of fashion sense I possess, I realize that my outfit will look more dressed up if I wear heels instead of flats; then I pretty myself up, walk over a mile, stand and smile perkily, and end up with blisters on my feet and toes, shoes in my hand, feeling judged or perhaps paranoid, wondering if maybe I should have chosen a hippie path instead.

What is the moral of this story? I don't know. Be barefoot when you wanna. Screw 'em if they judge you. And buy Clarks. They're cute, and the most comfortable shoes I've ever owned. I bought them at the beginning of the summer and have worn them completely out and will need to replace them, but they're the best damn $60 pair of flip-flops I've ever bought. See, that's me, being a girl. Liking shoes.

Please send water

On Thursday, my downstairs neighbor (whom I'd never met before) knocked on my door. There was a leak in his kitchen ceiling, he told me. His arms were crossed, his face accusing, as though I'd left the faucet running and flooded my own floor just to mess with him. I took him into my kitchen, looked around. No water. No leak anywhere. I sent him on his way.

Half an hour later, he returned with the super. His arms were still crossed. His face was still accusing. They came in, and the super and I searched meticulously. I tried to make small talk with my neighbor. "So is the leak big?" I asked. "It's like the ceiling's going to come down on my head!" he said. The man was not in the mood for small talk. I was starting to feel like the sober driver who's pulled over at a DUI checkpoint. I didn't do anything wrong, but I felt guilty regardless.

The super and I found nothing. "I'll be around if you need anything else," I said to their retreating backs. "Good luck!" 

Saturday. The super was back. My downstairs neighbor's leak had started its mischief again. The super and I searched my apartment for over an hour, finding nothing. We flushed the toilet 15 times in a row just to see if it would impact my neighbor's mysterious leak, but it didn't. After my super left, I tried to take a shower, but -- irony of ironies -- on the hottest day of the year, there was no hot water. I let the tap run forever hoping the water would warm, and after I'd given up, I found a small trickle of water coming from a knob underneath the sink. Eureka! I called my super, who, on his way back to the building already to fix the boiler, came over again. We thought this might be the cause of my neighbor's leak. We looked at each other smugly, conspirators who'd solved a crime.

A couple hours later, when I was out to dinner, my new best friend the super called me. The guy in the first-floor apartment now had a leak in his ceiling.

I returned home last night to find a note that the water in the building had been turned off, as there was a water pipe with a leak. Oh boy. I still had some drinking water in a glass, so I used that to rinse my mouth after brushing my teeth. I "washed" my hands with hand sanitizer. This morning, I used all my remaining drinking water in an attempt to flush the toilet. When I went downstairs, the door to the apartment on the first floor was open, and I could see large chunks of the ceiling scattered all over the table and floor.

A plumber has come over to inspect whether or not he's going to have to take my floor apart. (He was accompanied by my super and downstairs neighbor who, now that action is being taken, was much chattier.) We still have no water. It's hitting 90 degrees today, which is better than yesterday, but still. I am telling you all this in case my entire building ends up dead of heat stroke/dehydration and on the news. Listen up, kids: Always refill your Brita pitcher. Or, hoard bottled water like a crazy person fearing the apocalypse. That'll work, too.

Update: Turns out there are two leaks in the building. There's a broken water pipe on the second floor, which caused the first-floor apartment's roof to collapse. The trickle of water from the knob underneath my sink was causing the (miniscule) leak in my downstairs neighbor's ceiling. The two leaks are entirely unrelated.

After my super finishes supervising the plumbers fixing the broken water pipe, he has to come to my apartment and fix the knob under my sink. (He kindly pointed out to me that I had no way of knowing anything was wrong, as the previous tenants -- freaking out from seeing a few water bugs -- had sprayed foam sealant around the knob, a definite no-no that prevented us from seeing any kind of leak until he knocked some of the sealant off.) Forgive me, but this weekend, we had the perfect storm of water leaks in my building.

Everything I needed to know about relationships I learned from the New York real estate market

For years, I used to be fond of telling people that looking for an apartment was just like dating.

I would tell them the story of the first time I looked for an apartment in New York City. Oh, the treasures I saw. The apartments with bathtubs in the kitchen. The railroad apartments that realtors tried to pass off as two-bedrooms. ("Just put up a curtain!") The peeling paint, the chipped floors, the weird stains.

I was in a rush then, as my soon-to-be roommate was coming back from California and expected me to have rented a place for her to move into. The time period for this was oh, about a week. (Our previous apartment plans had abruptly fallen through. Story for another day.) And I needed to get out of the apartment I shared with four strangers on the Upper West Side, which I'd found in the Village Voice under "Shares." The only roommate whose company I enjoyed was the one who didn't speak English. Yet another story for another day.

So there I was, taking two- and three-hour lunches -- because my boss was helpfully in Paris that week -- to run from midtown down to Brooklyn, a borough with which I had zero familiarity, and be taken by realtors around to these places that filled me with, if not despair, then discomfort and then a growing resignation:

Step 1. Gasp. I can't live here. Are there no doors anywhere? And wow, that was ... a lot of stairs.

Step 2. I'm just going to ignore that stain over there. Maybe it's coffee.

Step 3. Well, I ... guess I could take a shower in the kitchen. If I'm desperate. Which maybe I am.

And then, as the story has grown into legend, I walked into the place that would become My Apartment, and everything changed. It was big. It had real rooms, with real doors. My heart lifted, my complexion cleared, I swore I heard angels. I just knew. And this was before I saw the washer and dryer, at which point I nearly cut myself grabbing for a pen and said, "Can I write you a check right now?"

Yes, this apartment, my huge rent-controlled two-bedroom with the washer and dryer in a beautiful tree-lined area of Brooklyn, would end up being the love of my life, lasting longer -- at 16 years -- than any romantic relationship I've ever had. I went through five roommates before finally kicking the last one out and luxuriating in that place all by myself. But I couldn't ever leave. It was love, I told people, just like in dating. I had contemplated all those other, poorer alternatives but I didn't settle, and I didn't cave, and I ended up ... happy.

My friends were all jealous, and I told them my little parable, and I sagely informed them that it was all about holding out for The One, and recognizing it when you find it. I told them that story when we were talking about real estate, but I told them that story when we were talking about relationships, too. It was always well received. I mean, I had a washer and dryer, so I had clearly figured this shit out.

Keep in mind I was 23 at the time.

Flash forward to a few weeks ago, when I suddenly had to find an apartment in, let's see, a week. Sound familiar? The difference is, 17 years ago, I had a job -- a low-paying one, but a job nonetheless. Realtors found out what I made, requested a guarantor, which I supplied; and they had no problem dealing with a guarantor from out of state.

This time, however, I do not have a job. And rents have gone way up since last year. Also, as you know, I have no current place to live. I am "between jobs" and "between apartments." I thought it best to be honest about that. But after seeing one early place, the realtor said to me out of kindness and concern, "Can I give you some advice? Don't tell people you're between jobs. Say you're a freelancer building your client base. And don't tell them you applied for a job in Chicago. They'll think you don't want to stick around."

I was taken aback, but it was great advice, which I took care to follow. I embarked on a pattern where I would play coy, not telling the realtor anything about myself until they were finished showing me the place, or until they asked what my salary was (which was often the second sentence out of their mouths). I trotted out the "I'm a freelance editor, starting my own business" line (not a lie, incidentally), and the "but I have a great guarantor" line, to which the response would be, "Are they in-state?" After I replied that no, they were in California, their faces would fall, and I would then spend the next 15-20 minutes trying to charm them into liking me and thinking I'm a trustworthy person.

When they asked where I was living now, and why I was ready to move "immediately," I made up some lie about how I'd vacationed in California after my last apartment fell through, and when I got back I started the apartment search a little late. They raised their eyebrows (I mean, who's that dumb?), but they mostly seemed to believe it.

All of this usually worked, but it was exhausting. I am a bad and uncomfortable liar. And watching someone's face fall as you describe yourself and your work situation is not the stuff of empowerment. So I worked it, I worked it like I was trying to charm a standoffish date. This had the effect of reminding me why I don't like to date.

And here we went, back again to the weird apartments that, no matter how desperate you are, you can't quite bring yourself to embrace. Examples:

1. Realtor takes me into a building in Prospect Heights, which is really more on the border of Crown Heights. There is a bathtub in the front lawn, along with other assorted trash (some statue heads?). The building is also directly next to a subway track. Inside, it's dark, the walls are spidery, and I'm generally getting a sense of decay. Meanwhile, the realtor can't get hold of the super. He's supposed to be in Apartment 1E, but we can find no 1E anywhere either on this first floor or in the basement, and the phone number the realtor's assistant has given him is no longer in service. "We can come back later," he said to me as we drove away." "It's cool, never mind," I said. I still wonder whether that super lives in a secret portal and emerges at night only to kill the tenants.

2. The same realtor takes me to a new construction in Crown Heights. The apartments are about what you'd expect -- cookie-cutter, sterile, lots of particle board -- but the weird thing is that, according to the realtor, everything is electric, including the oven and stove. And they have special pots and pans that you're supposed to use, I guess because normal ones don't work with this type of electric stove. The realtor mentions something about "convection" invection, but he clearly has no idea. We find the special pots and pans (rather, "pot" and "pan"), in a box under the sink, wrapped in plastic. I'm sorry, but this will never work out between us. Next!

3. I tell one realtor how much I'm willing to pay (which is higher than what I'd initially been prepared to pay). He leans on the desk and stares straight at me. "Now," he says, "what is the upper limit of how far you'd really be willing to stretch?" Me: "I just told you. That was my limit." [Face falls.] There is further face-falling when he finds out my guarantor is out of state. "Is there someone else you can ask to be your guarantor, who lives in New York?" he persists. How much would they have to make? "$170,000 a year." Errr ... I consider this for all of five seconds. There is one person I could ask. But it would be awkward and horribly embarrassing and I just can't do it. His face falls some more. "Well, just think about it!" he says. He never calls me back. I am glad.

4. I talk to one realtor on the phone about a listing I'd seen for a one-bedroom in Prospect Heights. In the pictures it looked spacious and great, a rare thing, since most of the stuff I'd seen in my price range were small studios. So we're talking about the apartment, which he's trying to get me in to see, and he says, "You know that the apartment has no door, right?" Me: "Um, what? It has no door?" Realtor: "Yes, you have to walk through the landlord's apartment to get inside. ... But it's big!" He says something about two of the other rooms being out in the hallway, but I am no longer listening. Dealbreaker! Pass.

Finally, I got to the point where I figured that if I liked a place at all I was going to go ahead and put in an application on it, because I was weary and this had been going on long enough. (It had been less than a week, though it felt like months. And my couch-surfing options were about to run out.) So I did, and I did. A real one-bedroom (though the bedroom is tiny), with a depressingly small kitchen -- let's just say I've never had a kitchen with zero counter space before -- but I decided to pretend I'm a chef on some reality show about making gourmet meals with one burner and a sink. And it's in a great neighborhood, near my old one, near lots of trains, close to parks and the Brooklyn Bridge. I'd be more or less paying for location, and that's OK. As many friends pointed out, at least it has a bedroom. Only in New York would I be thrilled, at this stage in my life, to have snagged an apartment that actually has a bedroom.

That afternoon, my application was accepted. Hooray! (And amazingly without a guarantor, because it seems I have excellent credit. Upon seeing the score appear on screen with the realtor, I felt like I'd just gotten the results of my SATs.) More than anything, I was just glad to be done looking -- done running around, obsessively looking for potential matches, downsizing my expectations, making appointments, selling myself, charming strangers, dealing with disappointment, experiencing rejection. It was over. I was off the market.

Or so I thought.

My realtor called. After some initial confusion, it turned out another realtor in her office had spoken to the landlord the night before and secured the place for her client, even though my application was filed first. The landlord had approved both applications, and the lead broker made the decision that the other woman, having made first contact, would get the apartment.

So I didn't get the apartment. And ... I was back to square one again.

Depressed. Frustrated. Hurt. I'd rapidly gone from "This place isn't ideal, but I'll take it," to "I can't believe my perfect apartment was stolen from me! Whyyyyyy meeeee??!!!" My feeling of stability had been whisked away -- again -- and now I had to go back to trying and looking and failing over and over again. Remember that line in "When Harry Met Sally"? "Tell me I'll never have to be out there again"? Yeah. That.

Back to the hunt, where I got rejected on my very first phone call because the realtor stopped me the second I said "freelancer." The next day, I saw a place that was again, just OK (over a busy avenue and only one closet), and as I was ready to put in an application -- these cost $500 by the way, designed to keep you from having the "oh I'll just apply for everything" attitude -- my previous realtor emailed me that the other applicant had fallen through, so the place was mine after all.

Callooh Callay! I ditched my realtor "date," ran down to the other realtor's office, got two massive checks from the bank -- one for the landlord and one for the broker -- signed the lease and that was that. I felt electrified and drained. I still won't believe I have the place until I have the keys in hand and the current tenants are out of there, but in just a couple of days, I will find out.

So in the end, looking for an apartment is ... still like dating. It's just that my views on relationships have evolved since I was 23, and so, apparently, have my views on finding a place to live.

When I was 23, I walked into an apartment where the angels sang, and it felt right, and I was so proud of myself for not settling because that put me in a space where I could end up with my apartment equivalent of a soul mate.

Then I was dumped, and I was devastated -- my life partner of 16 years was abandoning me to become a duplex. I picked myself up and found another place that was nicer in a lot of ways, and could have made me happy, except that the landlady who lived downstairs -- my apartment's mother, so to speak -- kept meddling in our relationship ("No shelves!" "What's that noise?"), so when she broke us up, I felt indignant that she'd cut short a relationship that never had time to grow. Also that I brought all this stuff (furniture) to the relationship, and in return what did I get? A whole lotta unused stuff. And a mouse problem.

And finally, now. I have found a place that I will be moving into on Saturday. But unlike the apartment I gloried in finding all those years ago, now I don't feel joy or excitement. I feel relief. My first apartment was my dream apartment, though I admit that I often ignored the peeling paint, the crumbling tiles, the rat, the fact we nicknamed it "the Cave." This new place ... it's cute, and it's nice, and it has roof access, and it's surrounded by lovely buidings. The kitchen and bedroom are too small, and it's half the size of my old place, but ... it's good enough. It's good enough.

Is that what love turns into, when you get older? You see the imperfections and rise above them to consider the whole person, the bigger picture, the scenario you can live with? Do you take things and people off their pedestals and see them for what they are, so that you're not "settling" as you once thought you were, but being realistic? Do you appreciate what works and then work with what you have to make it better, rather than expecting everything to be handed to you perfect already? In that sense, can "good enough" evolve to being "pretty great"?

Well, we'll see what happens. My eyes are open. Maybe we will tolerate each other for only a year, and then go our separate ways. Or maybe, instead, we'll grow fond of each other, imperfections and all, and we'll share our own memories, and this place will end up being the new love of my life.

Coming soon: How looking for a job is just like dating.

How we gonna pay... Next year's rent?

In the Now It Can Be Told department: I just learned that I didn't get the job I've been trying to get for the past three months. (If you know me personally and don't know what the job was, feel free to email me and ask.) That job would have been out of state, which is the reason I've been homeless this past month, as I was waiting to see whether I would have to up and move to [name of new city... oh fine, it was Chicago. Clue!].

It was a little disappointing not to get the job, or any job, but when one door closes, a new something something, right? And in this case, my new something something would be an apartment in New York. I need to find one, and fast. Let's see, October 1 is three days from now -- CAN SHE DO IT?

I should create a reality show. Contestants are in a race around New York City to rent the best apartment they can, using criteria like square footage, number of rooms, amenities, layout, neighborhood (safety, restaurants, shops, "would I let my mother walk there alone"), proximity to subway, niceness of landlord and possible inclusion of outdoor space. Price is naturally one of the criteria, though the contestants would be capped at, say, $2,000, and you get bonus points for scoring a great apartment for less than that. And also for not paying a broker's fee. Ready? Set... go!

Can you just imagine the contestants -- or "rentestants," as we'll call them -- running up to people on the street asking them if there are any apartments for rent nearby? It's "Cash Cab" meets "Million Dollar Listing" (in reverse) meets "The Amazing Race"! Oh, and rentestants can't be from New York. You have to cast Charla or Mirna or Chuck and Millie (though they can't be paired -- that's too easy.) Trust me, this will either be hilarious or cruel, but great television either way. I'd certainly rather watch it than live it.

Rents have gone up significantly since the last time I did this, lo those many 12 months ago. Now, scouring the broker listings I see nothing but studios and places in faraway lands like Bushwick. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Bushwick, having never been there. The name just make me think of bushes, hence the jungle, urban jungle, chaos... hence I would rather live somewhere else. (Sorry, Bushwick. I'm sure you're very nice.)

It's funny how, when you're on a quest, you can start off with firm convictions that crumble one by one. I had known all along that I didn't want to pay more than the rent on my last place, since I don't have a job right now and have no idea what my eventual income will be. I didn't want to live in a studio -- the very thought of living in a single room makes me claustrophobic (quick, someone feel my pulse, I'm hyperventilating right now); and particularly for an insomniac, having your bed and your couch in the area is a big no-no. 

I've also loved the last two neighborhoods I lived in (which are more or less the same neighborhood): Carroll Gardens and Cobble Hill. Carroll Gardens didn't have much in the way of gentrified infrastructure when I moved there, but it was always pretty and always safe. Then boom, the rest of us yuppies moved in, and suddenly there were great bars, restaurants and shops everywhere. Friends started moving to Brooklyn, some even near me. And then, when I was finally forced to leave that apartment and get another, I found a huge apartment at the exact same rent, and this one had a stoop and was just a block and a half from the subway, half a block from my favorite butcher, and across the street from my favorite bar. SCORE. (Also, half a block from Starbucks, but I don't like admitting that.)

Let's pause for a moment. I went from one two-bedroom apartment with a washer/dryer and dishwasher to a big one-bedroom apartment with a big kitchen and a stoop, a block and a half from the subway.

Is there some kind of bad juju karma that's about to come crashing down on my head right about now? I think there is.

These days I'm nose deep in listings. Everyone has convictions, dealbreakers, and at the beginning of this process mine were: 

1. One-bedroom, no studios

2. Rent no higher than my previous rent

3. Nice, safe neighborhood with restaurants and stores

4. Nice, safe neighborhood with reasonable transportation nearby (and by reasonable I mean "a subway line I've heard of before" and "not the G")

5. Can't be loud (ie, quiet street, not on a busy avenue)

6. Pre-war building preferable

7. No broker fee if possible

That was about it. First I noticed that in my price range, there were studios. Studios, lots of studios. I looked at the pictures and winced. Take it away! I'd scream like a diva refusing appallingly inferior food. Except, of course, that there was no one to take it away, and I had to face my reality. No. No. Noooo. Couldn't do a studio. Just couldn't.

Then there were the listings for one bedrooms that were within my price range -- some of them even had that holy grail of New York apartments, outdoor space -- but were in neighborhoods much farther afield than I was used to, and that I hadn't been planning to consider. It's not a snob thing, exactly. I just like a nice, quiet, familiar neighborhood where I can go out and eat good food and maybe buy something cute to wear; is that so much to ask? I would enter these addresses on Google Maps and if I saw busy highways, auto-repair shops and check-cashing places across the street, an abandoned warehouse in front of the building... I passed. Time is ticking here. I gotta stick with what I know.

Gradually I came to realize that the thought of living in a remote, industrial or otherwise sketchy neighborhood unnerved me more than living in an (ugh) studio. I think what sold me on it were two things: 1) I saw a photo for one studio listing in which the tenant put a big bookcase next to his bed, to hide it. That could work, maybe? 2) I saw a listing for a studio in a cool art-deco building, and 3) I saw a listing for a studio on a lovely block with a front door that simply captivated me. And this one was cheap.

Today I saw a listing for a real one-bedroom, within my price range, in Fort Greene. Such closets, and a kitchen with a pantry! But then I looked it up on a map, and walking to the subway would take 12 minutes ... to the G, nemesis of my life. Well, the G's a little too sorry to be a real nemesis. And it does have some cool friends, but let's just say I wouldn't rely on the kid to back me up when the chips are down. There's another subway line nearby, but it would take 20 minutes to get there. That's a long way to walk at the end of your work day, or late at night home from a party, or for your friends to brave on their one-time visit to your new place. Translation: Live here, and I really will be alone forever.

So in less than a day I have gone from "no studios" to "studio if it's really big or has an alcove," "studio if it's in a cool building," "studio if it's significantly less than what I paid before," and "studio since I can't find anything else in a neighborhood I like and trust." Um, studio it is? Gaaaaah!! Massive stoop sale at my new apartment, folks. But I suppose I have learned that living in a cool neighborhood is more important to me than living in a studio, even if it makes me claustrophobic and gives me insomnia. Yes, I am shallow. I'll be shallow and sleepless in a studio. That's a movie, right? Maybe about Harry and Sally's daughter, forced to live in an economic time far more tenuous than theirs?

Oh, and I completely caved on the broker thing, too. I hate that I'm paying them for this -- it's such a scam, really -- but if you need someone to look for apartments for you super fast, some of which might not be listed yet, I guess that's the easiest way to do it.

And let me add one thing: Regarding apartment listings, wtf people, why is it so hard to post a picture? A picture of the inside of your apartment? Because a picture of the building and then one of the restaurant down the street isn't telling me much about your place, which makes me think you're hiding something, which makes me not want to see it after all, or think you're much more than a bozo who got his realtor's license at clown college. Ditto for when a realtor posts no photos at all. Really? You couldn't borrow a digital camera from... anyone? Again, what are you hiding? And the best are the ones that show you a room, and then the other three pictures are of that same room, from two slightly different angles. Show me the kitchen, for crissake! Sigh.

Finally, I would like to call for a moratorium on the usage of these words in rental listings:

cozy
charming
quaint
"requires vision"
full bathroom (that's not something to brag about)
landlord pays hot water and heat (maybe because it's the LAW?) 

Well, the hunt continues tomorrow. Wish me luck. 

Living in interesting times

Well! I'm packing up my apartment, taking care of various details related to moving, looking for a job, and now there's a hurricane coming. It's possible that I'll have to evacuate -- or that my parents, who are flying in to help me pack, won't be able to make it after all. As the Chinese say, "May you live in interesting times." Interesting they are indeed.

Since my stuff will be in storage for a month, I opened a PO box today. Put that down on my list of "things I've never thought of having to do before." And here's the rub: In order to open -- and, presumably, keep -- a PO box, you have to have, and prove, a physical address. But the whole reason I need a PO box at all is that I won't have a physical address. It's a head-scratcher.

In order to sidestep the issue, I dumbly handed the guy my lease and kept my mouth shut. After all, I do live here... right now. He nodded, handed the lease back to me, and a few minutes later gave me the keys to my very own PO box. And I thought, whew! I pulled a fast one on a federal employee just there. (I'm just kidding, I didn't think that. Much.)

I'll be couch-surfing for the month of September. This will also be "interesting." I'm a notorious over-packer, so the concept of living out of a single suitcase for a month is daunting, to say the least. As usual, I play out all these scenarios in my head regarding the kinds of clothes I might need, and I pack things like, a pair of sneakers, a fancy black dress, four skirts and a short-sleeved jacket (all of those things are in the suitcase right now), which means that I will be making some perilous fashion choices all month, or else not wearing any of it except for the same t-shirt and pair of jeans every day, all the while pining for the polka-dotted dress and flip-flops I packed in a box I'll never be able to find again. I would make a terrible nomad. Check that: I will make a terrible nomad.

Well, I don't really have much else to say right now (I gave in to temptation on the way back from the post office and let myself eat Popeye's for dinner, and ate it at the "wow I really am old" hour of 5:50 pm, which means I have felt disgusting and regretful for the last several hours yet am now screamingly hungry), but I did want to write something here, just for the hell of it. And now I have.

I will leave you with some of my favorite things from around the Interwebs recently:

Ryan Gosling Breaks Up Street Fight. Yet one more contribution to the increasingly solid body of evidence that Ryan Gosling is, in fact, the man. 

Say Something Nice. My favorite: "Hey, you with the umbrella! I like it! It's pretty!" A close second favorite: the little Asian kid. I won't spoil it for you by telling you what he says.

Craziest Beard Ever. What really makes this video is the yelling offscreen. "OH MY GOD, A BEARD DOOR!"

The Daily Show: The Poor's Free Ride Is Over. This went viral, so you may have seen it already. Jon Stewart is on fire here. "That's the problem with poor people. They still have some of their skin." Make sure to get to the 4:30 mark... I'll admit I did get jealous of "poor" people when I saw that 25% have a dishwasher. I don't have a dishwasher. They are so lucky.

Anderson Cooper Gets the Giggles. A week old by now. Already a classic. I love Anderson Cooper. In fact, if I could make one news anchor my new best friend -- Anderson Cooper or Brian Williams -- I'd have a tough call to make.

Pictures of Recent East Coast Earthquake Devastation -- here and here. The first link practically gave me a fit of Anderson Cooper giggles, and I realize from the time stamp that the picture may not even be from this week's quake, but it's funny all the same.

I did feel the earthquake, and since we never get them here, my first thought was that my building was falling down, or (more likely) I was experiencing vertigo. I got up because I figured if there was something wrong with me, maybe walking around would help me shake it off. I then listened for clues from people outside, but I seem to live in a nighborhood of nonchalant Brooklynites, because there were no shouts, no sounds of distress -- and by the time I thought it might be an earthquake and vacillated between ducking under the table or bracing myself in the doorway, it was over. (I picked the doorway, only to realize later that standing in the doorway is so 20 years ago, and I should have gone under the table instead. This is what happens when you leave California and don't get earthquake refreshers.)

I watched New York 1 and CNN for the next couple of hours, and I know it's a cliche to mock East Coasters for their/our reaction to the quake, but I found the news coverage faintly ridiculous. Yes, I get that if you've never lived through an earthquake before, it can be scary. But, as a Californian, I've certainly felt worse (most notably the 1989 quake that halted the World Series), and while this one was alarming, no one died. No one was even injured that I can tell. All those people running outside in a panic? Faux pas!

The anchor on New York 1 kept telling viewers how terrified she'd been. Ma'am, I appreciate your suffering, but after the tenth use of the word "terrifying," you may want to keep that to yourself. Or pick a new word. And watching Hour 2 on CNN with Wolf Blitzer in DC interviewing his second straight "Dude at Train Station Who Felt the Quake" ("Where were you? What did you feel?) was a little too much for me, and I had to turn the TV off.

That's why the most amusing things I saw in the aftermath of the quake were tweets like "We will rebuild" -- linking to a picture of a recycling container tipped against a wall. We East Coasters are self-important wimps... but at least we have a ball making fun of ourselves.

I wanna wake up in the city that has hooks under the bar

I like that at Bed Bath and Beyond, there is a guy whose entire job it is to package up your purchase so that it's easier for you to carry.

I bought four curtain rods there today, and just in front of the exit, the "bundle guy" (as I have now dubbed him) carefully placed the boxes together, bound the ends in plastic wrap, used a string machine thingy to secure the middle, and then affixed two plastic-and-metal handles and handed the whole thing to me. He even held the door open for me so that I didn't have to get stuck in the revolving door. I felt like I had a butler.

I don't know if there's a "bundle guy" in cities other than New York. I'm sure there is, but this is one of those things that -- true or not -- I like to pretend only exists in New York City, since it's such a god-awful pain to go anywhere and buy anything here. It's small and fitting compensation to give us a bundle guy in return.

Ditto for hooks under the bar. Every time I sit at the bar, I reach underneath, find the hook and go "Aaaah -- this is my favorite thing about New York. Hooks under the bar." Because we need them, you see. We wear a lot of coats. Except that once someone told me that other cities do, in fact, have hooks under the bar, and it's not special to New York, and I practically put my hands over my ears and went "la la la la la!" Don't take away my (illusions about the New York-ness of) hooks under the bar!

Nothing is unique to anything or anyplace or anyone, really. You are not, as Tyler Durden says, a beautiful and unique snowflake. But still. Isn't the fabrication of uniqueness what makes us all feel special, in some small way?

And therefore, a quick list of some of my favorite (non-location-specific) things about New York -- whether they happen to be New York things or not:

• hooks under the bar (YEAH)
• hailing cabs
• the ease and ubiquitousness of takeout and delivery
• laundry drop-off service
• getting rid of old stuff by just leaving it on the sidewalk -- and finding it gone hours later
• reading the New Yorker on the subway
• reading anything on the subway
• walking
• 24-hour delis
• realizing that when a double decker bus drives by, you're part of the "tour"
• unlimited Metropass
• not having to worry about drinking and driving
• old buildings
• the fact that everybody has a vermin story
• summer nights, outdoor dining
• sitting on your stoop
• halal carts (though I will admit, L.A. has passed us in food truck culture and I am jealous)
• bars staying open until 4 (or later, if you're special)
• the food, the food, the food

That's all I can think of for now. But I know there's more. Share, please. Even if it's not about New York.

 

New Year's Resolutions Are Made to be Made

Well, 2010 was an interesting year. I certainly can't accuse it of being dull. Let's see -- though I stayed at the same company I changed jobs four times, had three different bosses, and got promoted; I traveled to two music festivals (SXSW and New Orleans Jazz Fest); I got kicked out of my beloved apartment of 16 years; I moved into a new place; I dropped a knife in my foot and went to the emergency room for the first time (got stitches for the first time, too). And now I still can't move my big toe.

Oh, and I turned 40. As some of you already know, after spending a year trying to figure out what to do for my 40th, I settled upon a whole-pig dinner at Back Forty, and drinks with a larger crew of people at Eight Mile Creek afterward.

And then it snowed. And 10,000 flights were canceled, so I got stuck in California and had to cancel the grand plans -- which means my birthday didn't happen, right? I'm still 39?

But that was all right, since I had already had a fabulous birthday dinner with my family, consisting of ceviche, smoked prime rib and four wines from places I've been to as an adult (definition of "an adult" being somewhat vague, since it included France and I haven't been there since I was 18, unless you count Charles de Gaulle Airport). The wine highlight for me was a 1970 Mouton Rothschild, which my dad bought back in 1976 for $14, and which is currently worth ... a lot more than that. We toasted with the hope that I had aged better than the wine. That's a pretty tall order.

The meal was capped off with the cake of my dreams: bacon cake courtesy of my brother Lou and sister-in-law Julee. Bacon baked into the batter, and mixed into the frosting filling, and piped around the top. Oh dear. And by that, I mean YUM.

On the birthday itself, Abby, her boyfriend and I had lunch at Angelini Osteria (I had the branzino -- delicious), saw True Grit (great fun), dinner at Father's Office (the famed burgers were good, but not the best I've ever had -- I probably should have split one with Abby instead of tackling one on my own), and the ultimate dessert finisher, butterscotch budino at Pizzeria Mozza. So not too shabby, in the end.

I hate making New Year's resolutions, and yet I always find myself making them. And then breaking them. Am I unrealistic? Strangely optimistic? Lacking in resolve? Stupid?

At any rate, a new year is the time to look ahead and envision your better self. So with that in mind, here are a few ... let's not call them "resolutions." Goals? Determinations? Things it'd be nice to do? Wishes?

Write in this blog more. Duh. Part of the problem is that whenever I get the initiative to write something, it's usually to vent, and more often than not it's about work or something else that I wouldn't necessarily want exposed on the Internet. (There is a fantastic blog that lives in my head. You'd be blown away.) Maybe it'd help if I tried to stick to themes. Food? Customer service rants? The chronicles of fixing up my apartment? Suggestions welcome.

Plan my meals out in advance. This isn't always going to be possible, of course. But I find that my cooking pattern for the week tends to go like this: Saturday: intend to cook, nap instead, order in. Sunday: Cook a stew or roast chicken. Monday - Friday: eat Sunday's leftovers until I run out or get sick of them, get home too late to cook anything, have no food in my apartment, order in.

When I was a kid, my mom created a "menu calendar" that she posted on the refrigerator each month, and we all got to enter what we wanted to eat in every fifth square. We loved it because it meant we got to eat all our favorite foods; and though my mom surely didn't relish when we "ordered" gourmet meals that required hours of cooking, it probably made her life easier in some ways, because she could plan ahead. So I may try something like this. Not that I'll ever be the menu planner my mom is, but at the very least if I can think ahead a little, then I won't be eating oxtail stew from the Dominican takeout counter three times a week. Not that there's too much wrong with that.

Go meatless one day a week. I am about to get my cholesterol checked. I am afraid. And I figure that going "vegetarian" once in a while is probably "healthy," or something. (Note: Do not be surprised if every vegetarian meal I make consists of something that has a poached egg on top. I didn't say vegan. I'm not crazy.)

Do some regular exercise that involves using my dumbbells. My arms are flabby. Eww.

Do some regular exercise, period. My belly is flabby. Eww.

Fix up my apartment in the next three months. I told my mom this past week that my apartment, which I moved into in October, doesn't feel like home yet. All the unpacked boxes probably have something to do with that. So I'm going to suck it up, unpack for real, and buy all the things I need to buy in one fell swoop (come on, bonus check). Necessary purchases include, but are not limited to: coffee table, bed frame and headboard, shelves for kitchen, curtains and curtain rods, cabinet for bathroom, lamp for my bedroom, floor lamp for living room, throw pillows for couch. Also a handyman to pick up and install it all. And a sugar daddy to finance it.

Eat a burger from Five Guys. I'm told that the burgers here are amazing, possibly even better than In-N-Out's or Shake Shack's (sacrilege!). I am ready to accept the challenge.

Travel someplace I've never been before. My money's on Argentina.

Achieve a better work-life balance. I don't know that I'll ever actually be able to achieve this. But I'm trying more and more every day. I'll get there if it hurts me.

Save money (for a rainy day). Hmm, looking back at last January's post, I see that then, too, I resolved to save money. But it's not really fair to hold me to that, given that I moved and went to the emergency room. So I will buy a messload of furniture and THEN save money. While also eating out and doing fun stuff. This can happen. Somehow.

Do one thing a month that's cool, unusual, different and/or unique to New York. What's the point of living here if I don't take advantage of the city? What's the point of being young-ish and single if all I do is stay home and worship my DVR? I used to go to theater all the time when I was in my 20s. Goodness knows how I could afford it then. I guess it helped that my dinners used to consist of 7-Layer Burritos off the dollar menu at Taco Bell.

Still, while I love going out to great restaurants and drinking with friends and staying in and being a homebody, there are tons of interesting, can't-do-anywhere-else things to do here (as there are in every city) that I haven't bothered to go out and find. This year, I'm determined to find them. The first one happens on January 7, and I'm super excited about it. Details to come.

Eat at these restaurants: Torrisi Italian Specialties, Kin Shop, Brucie, Aldea, Ma Peche, Fatty Cue, ABC Kitchen, Northern Spy Food Co., Joseph Leonard, Recette, the new Shake Shack in Brooklyn, the new NYC outpost of Lotus of Siam, Eataly (or just shop there). Also: Eat at Mile End more. Montreal bagels and smoked meat poutine, mmmmm. Also: Get the lamb burger at The Breslin and see how it compares to the superfluous lamb burger at Strong Place. Also: Hit up fried chicken night at Seersucker. (I *think* it's Tuesdays.)

So basically, ignore what I said above about "while I love going out to great restaurants ..." Let's face it, I'll never stop going out to great restaurants.

***

All right, as I keep writing I keep thinking of more, so I will quit while I'm delusional. What are your resolutions? Are you smarter than I am, and didn't bother making any?

Happy 2011 to all. It's going to be quite a year. How do I know this? I just do.

A whole new world... with a whole new apartment

The factors that have delayed my writing this blog post are the same ones that got in my way when I was looking for a new apartment, or packing, or even researching a couch. The enormity of it loomed so large that I was paralyzed, seized by doubt ... in short, like Prufrock, I was afraid. And then, despite panic and despair, I got through it, just like we all get through challenges that seem insurmountable; and looking back, we think, what on Earth were we actually afraid of?

It was just a move, but on top of that, at work we were doing (that same week) a major site relaunch; and on top of that, of course, I was moving 16 years' worth of stuff. Which led to the breakdown I mentioned before. But my friend Hannah came over the next day, and, not having any emotional ties to any of my possessions, ruthlessly and efficiently threw things into boxes -- which was sorely needed.

See, one of the things I learned about myself in this process -- and I learned a lot -- was that being a perfectionist is great and admirable on many levels. But it holds you back, too. I would put things in a box and step back, proudly, the box a third full. Then I would think, what else could go in this box? What will match? What will make sense? What will fit to fill the box precisely? And of course nothing would "match" exactly, and I would freeze up, and walk away, and that box would remain a third of the way full. And then the same process would start with another box. That's not good packing.

And that's why I needed Hannah to come over and be the huge help that she was. This did, however, make for amusing situations, since she packed up my entire kitchen yet doesn't really cook. One box was labeled "random kitchen unbreakable things."

"Uh, Hannah, what's in this box?" I asked.

"I don't remember."

"What did the things look like?"

"I don't know?"

We opened the box. "That's my rice cooker! It's not 'random'! I use it every day!"

So it got done, and I never could have done it myself (thanks also to Nomi for coming over the day before I moved, as well as moving day itself), but along the way I picked up some useful packing tips I will pass along to you. They are:

Patricia's Useful Packing Tips

- Get small boxes. As I mentioned before, you need these -- not just for books (although especially for books), but also to help you organize. Big boxes are for big items. You don't have that many big items in your place. Small boxes are easier to pack, seal up, label and be done with.

- Label boxes on the sides. Not the top! Do the sides, and more than one. Or else you'll be doing what I've been doing, which is lifting boxes off of piles every time I need to find out what's in something.

- Don't pack your tools until last. I had to leave several things in the old apartment because I could no longer find my screwdriver, and thus couldn't get anything out of the wall.

- Pack by level of importance, not by size or "type." If I'd packed, say, my shoes with my utensils, that box would have been  unpacked within the first day. Instead, I packed important things first, at the bottom of a box, then would end up throwing lots of shit on top of it, rendering the important things difficult to find. It's not that much fun digging through a box of hangers and purses looking for your knee-high boots.

- Ask for help. Some people find it easy to ask for help. I, clearly, don't. I don't like imposing, and I am inclined to think that if people don't offer, they're busy or don't want to help. (Who really wants to help someone move?) But I realized that I had to get over my pride and learn to ask, because this isn't something I could do alone. On the other hand, not everyone does want to help, or even thinks of doing it -- and that makes me eternally grateful to those who offered generously, genuinely and willingly.

I moved on Sunday, Sept. 12, and my movers were these adorable tattooed boys from Brooklyn. (Rabbit Movers. Big thumbs up.) I asked the guy who was in charge how he got into the moving business, and he revealed that he was studying for his graduate degree in art, and he liked getting the exercise for free, but he didn't know how he felt about being at the bottom of the food chain. Um ... OK, just making conversation, but I feel ya, tattooed boy from Bushwick.

When we got to my new place, he looked around and told me he liked it better than my old place, which I appreciated hearing. Then, when they were all done -- it took 3 hours and 15 minutes -- he mentioned that his mom was in town for the first time. "Are you going to a nice dinner?" I asked, and he said yes, and asked for recommendations. "How much are you willing to spend?" I asked. "Oh, not more than $100 for three people, so ... $25 or so a person?" It's funny how various friends' responses to this anecdote have ranged from "McDonald's" to "KFC" to "pizza joint" to "Shake Shack." (For the record, I told him he should try Quartino Bottega Organica.)

After moving, I immediately had to focus on the site relaunch at work. That was fun. There were two days that week that I got less than four hours' sleep (the night before I moved, and then the night before we relaunched, when I was at the office until 4 a.m. and then had to be back again at 7 a.m.); and then, unsurprisingly, I got sick. So I'm really only starting to turn my attention to unpacking now.

Other things: I bought a new mattress but it wasn't delivered for two weeks, so for two weeks I slept on my old mattress on the floor, having left the boxspring and bed frame behind in the old place. I already feel like I'm living in a warehouse, what with all the unpacked boxes; and by sleeping on the floor, I felt like a homeless person. An exhausted homeless person squatting in a warehouse. (Turns out my mattress didn't come with a frame, so though I had bought a boxspring, I'm pretty much still on the floor.)

And I left my old couch behind, as well, so I've been couch-less in the new place. I knew I needed a new one -- watching TV in a folding fabric chair from Urban Outfitters has rapidly lost its power to charm -- but then that same anxiety that seized me in looking for a place overwhelmed me again. 

No one gave me the same advice. Some people liked Room and Board, some people thought it was too expensive, some thought they didn't hold up. Some people were just fine with Ikea, others warned me not to go near it. What ... to ... do? I was up until 2:30 a.m. last Monday researching options, and ultimately decided I didn't want to buy a mass-produced couch. I'm a grown-up now, I want this thing to last (I've never bought a couch before, the last one having been a hand-me-down), and from all that I could read, mass-produced couches at places like Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn, Room and Board and even Restoration Hardware are simply not well made.

So where else to go? There are mom-and-pop places that custom-make furniture, but those places are far more common in California (like this place, Furniture Envy, that I would have visited in a shot ... if I lived in the Bay Area) than they are in New York. Tell this to a Californian, and they express disbelief. Tell it to a New Yorker, and they nod sympathetically. The reason? New York doesn't have the space, real-estate-wise, to support businesses that make, store and sell furniture.

At any rate, what happened was more or less what happened with finding an apartment in the first place. I spent a lot of time dithering about in indecision, then resolved just to start looking, just to DO it -- and immediately found something. I bought my couch at Mitchell Gold, an independent company known for the quality of its furniture, especially its sofas, although some reports I'd read claimed they were a shade too expensive. But they were having a sale, so, why not just look? I walked into that place and felt ... "Hannah," I said (for she was helping me with this, too), "I feel something. What is it? Is this ... am I in love?" "Yes," she said, because she felt it, too. I'm not kidding. We flitted about from piece to piece, hugging pillows. We swooned over ottomans. I got goddamn butterflies. I love every single thing in that store

I splurged, and I took the plunge, and I bought a couch. It's a little more expensive than it would have been chain stores, but it's an investment, and I couldn't be more pleased. In fact, I was so taken with how comfortable it was that I spent extra and got a sleeper sofa. Bring on the house guests! And it's slipcovered, so I can change the color if I get the whim, which I probably will, because I have this secret desire for a red sofa and didn't quite have the guts to buy one.

"I can't believe I spent all that time freaking out, and then I bought a couch the first time I walked into a store," I told Hannah. "So what does that tell you?" she asked, not looking up from the catalog through which she was flipping. "Don't psych myself out?" I said. She nodded. But thinking about it now, I wouldn't change anything. If I hadn't stressed, I wouldn't have done all that research, and I wouldn't have learned about Mitchell Gold, the new love of my life. (He sounds like an accountant, doesn't he?)

I'm starting to realize that my behavior over the apartment, and then the couch, follows a pattern. Fear of commitment, panic-inducing anxiety, mental paralysis and then -- flip! I'm on the other side, and running at top speed. All or nothing. Indifference or love. I suppose this is why I spend months without a new toothbrush yet can spend $100 on a meal without blinking. And it's not the ideal way to do things, to be sure; but in my defense, by the time I get around to acting, at least I know what I want.

So in the last few weeks I have moved, bought a mattress, a couch, and this weekend a kitchen island from Ikea. Don't ask me where this money is coming from. Let's just say I have apparently decided retirement is less important than furniture. (Also on the list: cabinet/armoire for bathroom, floor lamp, bed frame ... it really never ends, does it?)

As for the apartment itself, I'm still not unpacked enough to feel as though it's my home. It's weirdly like I'm staying in someone else's apartment -- that is, someone who's a big slob and living out of boxes.

But despite how attached I was to my old place, and how sorry I was to leave it, there are so many great things about my new place. For one, it's near places, which is something I couldn't quite say about my last place. It's a block and a half from the subway and from TWO 24-hour delis -- I could run out and pick up beer or a bag of chips right now! I almost went and picked up a six-pack the other day at midnight just because I could (but then didn't, because it kind of made me feel like an alcoholic). There are several restaurants and bars within one or two blocks. I step outside my apartment, and there is the world. I am really not used to this. But I'm getting used to it.

And there is light! My last place, being on the ground floor, was a cave; this one gets actual sunshine. And I can leave my windows open without worrying that dirt will come in or that passers-by will peek into my apartment. And the living room has these cool tin ceilings with a fleur de lys pattern on them.

On the other hand, I'm not looking forward to going to a laundromat for the first time. I know, I know. Cry you a river. Also: There seems to be a lot more traffic -- foot and car -- on my block, which I suppose is part and parcel of "being near things." Right now I can hear a homeless person going through all the recyclables up and down the street. It's harmless, but a tad annoying.

Well, that's enough of all of that. All that anxiety over leaving a place that I loved, and poof! I've moved on. Life keeps runnin' in cycles, as they say, and I'm on to the next one. It feels good.

I wasn't prescient enough to take good pictures of the place, and at this point it's in far too embarrassing a state for pictures, but here are some from moving day. Can't wait for some of you to see the new place.

Goodbye old bedroom...

 

Hello new bedroom!