In This Sometimes Scary Ocean, Balance is Key

Happy 2012. I’m know I’m a little tardy posting my New Year’s blog, but we’re only two weeks in. I for one, can say I’m still thinking about my resolutions.

My story begins with that exactly—my plan for the year, my resolution. It was a week after Christmas and I was in that rut that we sometimes fall into when something we’ve been waiting for and feeling excited about has come, and is suddenly gone. There I was, dwelling on that fact that there were no more lights or carols, or feasting with family and friends, and that my ten-day vacation was about to be over.

Then, the sun (and I mean this literally, because I was standing outside, and I was still in Fort Lauderdale), came out from behind the clouds and its warm white rays washed over my skin, soothing me as hot sun so beautifully does. And I remembered… It’s a new year! Instantly, my thoughts shifted from melancholy to mirth as I went from picturing a treeless living room to a calendar of 12 whole months to do!! and be!!

My 2011 wrapped up as the year always does—on a frantic note, with me feeling overwhelmed trying to get too much done in too little time and then feeling bad for not accomplishing it all. In retrospect however, it wasn’t only during December that I felt that way. For a lot of the year I felt stressed and felt a struggle to find balance in my life.

So there I was in a sunny haze, thinking of my list for 2012 and how my real resolution is to find the balance. After all, it’s me who has brought this on– it’s me who choses to be so busy. I thrive on having a million things to do. So, if it’s my thing,  rather than feel like my list is too much, shouldn’t I own it? Conquer it? Yes, of course! I never have been one to give up easily.

So my list… it’s nothing new really–

-         Finish writing my manuscript

-         Eat better

-         Exercise more

-         Save money

-         Paint more

-         Have friends over more

-         Use my cookbooks (for friends above)

-         Read more

-         And write more (beyond aforementioned manuscript)

So back to that afternoon when this story began. I was there with my sister Kristina and the sun had come out from behind the clouds. I had my epiphany about the new year and my healthy new outlook and my sister says, “Hey let’s go paddle boarding.”

“Ok,” I reply, suddenly bubbling with zeal. We’re going paddle boarding!

So Kris and I take out our phones and start Googling every place within a five-mile radius that offers rentals. Our choices are narrowed within minutes, only two of the 12 oufits we called having availability on such short notice. One company ran out of the local park and rented boards for trips on the Intracoastal Waterway. The other set up shop on the sand and ran their trips in the Atlantic. With one glance at each other, we had our answer. We were headed for the ocean.

So we arrive at the beach to find a little guy named Giancarlo waiting for us. He takes us to the shore and starts the five-minute ‘how-to’. Kris and I are getting comfortable standing on our boards and Giancarlo, our surfer dude for the hour, utters, in the most drawn-out surfer style (think Keanu/Point Break–because I love to mention that whenever I can): “Whoa…”

“Wh-aaat?” I ask in return, having noticed a hint of distress in his voice.

“Turn around,” he says. “Storm rollin’ in.”

I turn around to look and see a band of near black clouds in the distance behind us. “Will it be ok if we go out?” I ask Giancarlo, as I turn back to him and the ocean in front of me. (Uh—what Andrea? Storm coming = no going in the ocean. Did you not learn anything growing up on the beach?)

“Yeah,” he says, shaking it off. “We’ll be fine.”

Above us, the sky was still a pale blue and the sun burning brightly, so I trusted him.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” we reply with wide smiles. We run into the ocean, set our boards in and start off. Within minutes, we’re into deeper water and have made it from our kneeling positions to standing and paddling.

“How ya doin’?” Giancarlo asks.

“We’re good,” we say, almost in unison.

“You guys wanna go out?” he asks.

Well, we both know how to swim, grew up on the ocean…and the sky looks fine, so “sure” we say and we begin to paddle out, further and further, to the deeper, darker waters beyond. We’re moving along, Giancarlo starts telling us about the reef under us, we’re asking questions, feeling proud that we’re still standing, and coming nearer from behind, unbeknownst to us, is the band of black clouds from before. And subtle as it was, we could feel that the wind had started to pick up. Then in the middle of our chit-chat we hear a ringing and see Giancarlo fumbling to balance his paddle while unzipping his pack to take his cell phone out. “Yeah. Yeah, man,” we hear him say in what sounds sort of like a defensive voice. “Must have been the wind that pulled us. Yeah ok man.” And then he calls to us, “Alright, turn your boards, we have to head back in. We’re too far off shore.”

I feel a tinge of disappointment that it’s time to quit. So soon? I think… why can’t we keep going?! And then I turn my board around. And when I see the scene before me, my stomach drops like down, down, down to the reef. In all my years in the ocean I had never been so far from land (except for on a boat). It was more than a mile for sure, probably somewhere close to two Giancarlo said, but in all honesty, it felt like five. Suddenly I felt very small and I realized the grandness of the ocean and felt a tinge of fear thinking of the power of mother nature. I’d heard about the movie ‘Open Water’, but thankfully (Thank God!!) had never seen it. The thought alone that with one false move and I could be shark food, sent my heart racing and the balance I had perfected, all of a sudden shaky. It was (or at least it felt like it was) panic or die. And so I told myself, “Andrea, you need to breathe. You are going to be ok. You just need to stay calm.” And ignoring the suddenly choppy, silver water and the wind whipping against us, I lowered my body and began to paddle hard and fast. “You can do this”, I told myself. “You can do this.” And I hoped, because I couldn’t look to see her, that Kristina was ok too.

Eventually, and I know it sounds dramatic, but maybe by the grace of God, we made it back to the clear, flat water where the shore was less than a football field away and our hearts were back to beating normally.

“Whoa,” I said to Kristina.

“Whoa,” she replied. “Pretty scary.”

“Scary,” I said back, “but we did it.”

“Yeah,” she smiled.

And so I look back on that afternoon as I look forward today to the year ahead. And just like I did standing there in the treacherous waters, I tell myself to stay calm and I’ll make it through…whatever 2012 decides to throw me.

I’m ready.

The “Crazy” Tunnel

Following my last post about my thoughts on a simpler life– a little recap of some everyday NYC craziness. 

Last week my friend D was in town from LA. Thrilled as I was to have a visitor, I wasn’t able to get any time off work, so while I was chained to my desk, she went about on her own, and in my off hours we met up. Over the weekend we traipsed around the city—touring, shopping, eating—and at one point we were strolling through the pedestrian tunnels between subway stations…underground. We were strolling because it was a Sunday. I have the pleasure of walking through one of these tunnels every weekday in order to get myself to work. And I am hardly strolling. My friend had never been in one of the tunnels, didn’t really know they existed.

Well it sort of just happens when people visit—I often take on this persona of tour guide as opposed to just friend. I tell little anecdotes about my New York life that might be pertinent to where we are or what we are doing at a certain moment in time. So we’re there, in the tunnel and we’re walking a speed I am normally appalled by—like a negative two. As far as she knew, that was the norm. So I told her: “I walk through one of these every day, but I never walk this slowly,” I said. “I’m usually speed-walking.” And I zoomed off to show her. I stopped and she caught up to me. “I actually think of the stretch, as a race.”

She looked at me, puzzled. “A race?” she questioned.

“Yeah,” I said. “I pick someone who is a little way’s ahead of me and I make it my goal to beat them. It’s as if the minute I climb the stairs from my first train’s platform and enter the tunnel, I’m in this mental zone where nothing else matters. I consciously engage my leg muscles and I take off. My feet are moving so fast, my heels clicking in double-time on the concrete corridor. My heart is racing. I’m weaving in out of the other commuters, some walking with me, some towards me, many displaying little urgency in getting from point A to B. A woman with a stroller is up ahead, I wiggle around her; I’m stuck behind a man reading his Kindle while walking, I pass him; another swinging his arms with an umbrella in hand that nearly stabs me in the abdomen, I do a side step to get out from behind him. A woman is coming head-on with a bag on her shoulder and just before we collide I scoot to the right. Clear. I’m flying, under the low-ceiling with fluorescent tube lights past the dots of dried gum on the ground. And then it’s uphill for a minute at the end past the guy handing out free copies of AM New York shouting the morning’s headlines and a daily greeting like ‘Happy Monday’ or ‘Thank God It’s Friday’.

“No way,” she says in response, her eyes wide like I am ABSOLUTELY CRAZY.

“Yes!” I said. “And I’m not the only one.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“A lot of us do it,” I tell her. “We never say it out loud, but you can feel it. All of us in a race, speeding to get to the other side. It happens all the time, someone with me from start to finish, our feet in unison the whole way, in an unspoken competition. I usually get them in the end on the uphill.” I continue. “Unless they cheat and run.”

She’s looking at me, still in shock. And yes, she thinks I’m crazy.

And then a day goes by and she’s talking to her sister who visits New York a lot for work and, now used to city life that she does things like a New Yorker. So when D tells her, “Yeah, Andrea races in the subway tunnels,” laughing about how nuts I am, her sister looks back at her and says, “Race in the tunnels. Oh yeah, I do it all the time.”

The Simple Life

I once read in a magazine about a women who was stuck in that phase of life where she wondered if where she was, was where she was supposed to be. She was thinking maybe it was time to move somewhere new—to get out of her rut, to start fresh. She had the courage to do it but no idea where to go. She had no desire to be any place in particular and nothing pulling her any place else. So she tacked a map up on her wall, blindfolded herself and threw a dart at it. Where it landed, she would go.

Since reading that, I myself have thought of doing the same, thinking how impulsive, how daring. The only problem is that at this point in my life I’m not so sure I have the guts to do something so rash, recognizing more and more that I’m not so interested in straying from my comfort zone. The idea of moving to a new place and starting over all by myself gets my stomach in knots.

New York City is the only place I’ve called home in my adult life, save for my near-year in France which felt more like an extended vacation, even though I paid rent to a landlord and became a regular at the local boulangerie. But yes, it is a big wide world, why stay in one place?

So the question looms: if I left again, where would I go? And more than that, I wonder, could I handle any place else?

I write about New York all the time. How I love it, how this place has my heart. I often wonder if I could deal with the slower paced life of a suburb or the even slower paced life of a house on a hill in the middle of nowhere. Birds chirping in their natural habitat I could handle. But could I live without 5000 restaurants and 8000 bars  to choose from when a friend suggests dinner or meeting for a drink? Could I live amongst small town people instead of the big city slickers I’ve grown used to?

I was in Florida a few weeks for a wedding. A childhood friend of mine met a girl from Pittsburgh and they fell in love. Lucky for him, she also fell in love with our hometown…because he is a Florida boy, perfectly content in the calm of the sunshine state. Together they love the beach, the quiet, the slower pace. The simpler life appealing in so many ways.

I think back to that weekend and all the friends I saw with their babies in tow and I think of what I want and what is really important. A daily update from New York magazine rolls into my inbox announcing that fashion’s latest ‘It Girl’ is having troubles juggling her social calendar. Do I really care? No. Is there life beyond the big city? Of course.

Do I have the guts to do anything drastic just yet? I do not.

So I’ll make that reservation at the B&B in the country for a weekend. And I’ll buy myself a map and some darts. For when I’m ready. One day. Maybe.

Wish You Were Here

CITYarts "Forever Tall" Mural 2001, NYC (detail)

It started out an ordinary day. I was living in lower Manhattan at the time, in an apartment with two roommates. The three of us were up, getting ready for work over coffee and the Today Show, and a little after 8:30, I headed out to catch the subway to the office. Like so many have said, the sky that morning was an amazing blue. It was a perfect late summer day—clear, cloudless, beautiful. I noticed it especially, because the night before, it had been pouring rain. I had no umbrella, so I stood in the lobby of the World Trade Center, waiting for it to calm. The World Trade Center towers stood on top of the subway station I took to work, so at the beginning and end of every day, I passed through the building. As sad as it is to admit, I was always a little suspicious of the briefcases that entered with the businessmen and women, thinking that one day, one would hold a bomb. Still, I went in an out like it was nothing. I loved the towers. They were a landmark of New York City that led the way for lost tourists. They were mighty and proud, as if given the task to preside over the neighborhood. Of course, I didn’t know that night would be the last time I stood inside them.

When I got down into the station that Tuesday morning, I swiped my metro card, only to find that my monthly pass had expired. So I went to the machine to buy a new one. While my transaction was processing, I heard that a train had already come and gone, so I knew I’d have to wait a while for the next one. Down on the platform, I worried about the fact that I was going to be late. Little did I know what was to come. Maybe a minute later, I heard a big boom that had come from somewhere– in the distance or nearby, I couldn’t tell. I had noticed it, but I remember thinking nothing much of it. I’d been living in the city for already six years by then; noises didn’t bother me. So I continued to wait, my feet planted. And then a man walked by me and said, “I would leave if I were you.” I listened.

There was an exit nearby, but the gate was down at the turnstiles, so it was one by one that the fifty or so of us there, moved through the single revolving door. We were being directed by a police officer on the other side who was telling us to stay calm. I had no idea what he meant.

When I got onto the street, I saw the burning building standing above me. Black smoke flooded the perfect blue sky. Paper rained down like confetti, with shattered glass and pieces of the building lined in fire. I had never seen anything like it. Except maybe in a movie. And I knew this was only the beginning of something very bad, and that I needed to get away. So I ran, in my leather, thong flip flops. In the commotion I heard something about a plane and a mention of terrorists. And I started to cry. It was the first time in my life that I thought I might die. I was twenty-four years old but I felt like a child. I wanted my mom and dad. I could feel that my mascara was in streams down my face as I gasped for air. A man running beside me put his arm around me and pushed me to keep going. So I continued to run. And then the second plane hit. And there was more smoke and more fire. And I kept running.

The first tower fell when I reached Washington Square Park and as the day played on, the news continued to get worse. Thankfully, I knew no one who was harmed and the worst of it for me was losing my apartment. I was one of the lucky ones.

So today marks ten years. I’ve cried a lot these past few weeks, seeing the photographs and videos. They bring me back like it was yesterday. I look at them so that I won’t forget. I think of those people who lost their lives that day. Compared to them my story is nothing. I hear the names read aloud and can’t imagine being a parent and losing your twenty-three year old daughter or son, or being a teenager losing your mother or father. So many there that day never had a chance to live their lives beyond that morning. I’m so grateful that I did.

There is a memorial now where the towers once stood, with two reflecting pools and the names of all who were lost inscribed in bronze. Though the story of September 11 will never be one of peace, I hope this can be a place of peace. Not that we ever forget the void left in our city or worse, the void left in so many hearts; but that we remember the ones that were lost, and continue to live with hope for brighter days.

Hurricane’s A-Comin’

A Florida girl, I know the drill: board the windows, stock up on supplies, gather important documents, stay off the beach and evacuate if necessary. The basic rules remain the same, but preparing for a hurricane up in New York, for me is a first. It’s a week of firsts I guess. Only days earlier, I sat at my desk as the ground under my feet and the lights hanging above me shook. An earthquake!

And now we’re bracing for Irene.

As of about 3pm yesterday you could feel a change in the air. It wasn’t so much a meteorological one, but a behavioral one. Officemates began to stray from their work in favor of storm-tracking websites and blogs describing worst case scenarios—like Manhattan disappearing under water. And on the street, there was almost a silent madness. Not just any old Friday night. Though no one spoke of it, everyone knew what everyone else was doing. Preparing somehow for Irene. Some sat at outdoor cafes to revel in the calm before the storm, for what looked like their last meal. Others flocked to Home Depot for flashlights and batteries and whatever else they might have found to protect them.

I joined all the others at my local Food Town, where by 9pm the bread shelf was cleared out. Kashi bars were gone, as were the whole grain chips and batteries and bottled water. And for reasons unknown—maybe out of panic or pity?—I found myself reaching for Cheeze-its and juice boxes and frozen cheese ravioli (that of course I would cook before a power outage). Luckily my brain came back to me. I never eat that stuff, so why would I now?

The rain has started. Still waiting for the wind. I baked pita chips and boiled some eggs. I have fruit and nuts and water and oh yes, wine. I’ve gathered my candles and flashlights, made ice for an army, brought the plants inside. Had a terrifying and hopefully irrational vision of my charming garden apartment—which after months of getting together finally feels like home—flooding. So I propped up the sofa, rolled up the carpet…

…and now we sit and wait.

New York My Love

This past week one of my favorite girls was in the city. I’ve known her since I was nine. We grew up together in Cocoa Beach. She was my sister’s best friends, and always like another sister to me. When it was time for her to go to college, I convinced her to join me in New York City, and for another four years we did almost everything together. It wasn’t until that miserable September in ’01 that she left. And I’ve missed her since. These days she’s living in Florida, but thanks to her job, she comes to New York twice a year. And, of course whenever she’s here, I get to see her, even if just for dinner at the end of the workday.

So it was Wednesday afternoon. It was pouring rain and I still had a few hours in the office. My phone rang and on the other end my friend was asking for a recommendation on where she and her co-worker to go for a cozy happy-hour drink. Little did she know she put me to my favorite test—to send them to a place they would never forget; to share with them a piece of my New York. But being at work, on the personal call, with my boss just over the partition wall, on the spot, I came up blank. Of course I didn’t want to disappoint them, so I had her wait for a minute. And then it came to me. I’d send them to The Raines Law Room. I had been to this place a year before and though it is quite a memorable gem, I would have forgotten it had I not read a friend’s recent post about it on her blog “My Heart, New York”. Thanks for the reminder Mel!

So off they go to Raines. Fifteen minutes later, I get a text that reads: “Perfect!! We love this place. It’s so great. Thank you!!” Two hours later I arrived there to join them for one more cocktail before dinner, and on and on they continued how the place is ‘so New York’ and how it will forever be on their must-do list whenever they come back. So, I earned a feather in my cap for that one.

After Raines Law Room, we headed down to Grove Street to a new little star called Buvette. I had never been, but had heard its praises being sung through a grapevine of stylish New Yorkers I kind-of know. And, I’d taken a few peaks at their blog so fittingly entitled “I Love Buvette” and at the dreamy photos alone, felt captivated by its charm.

We arrived at the tiny West Village hideaway where waiting patrons had trickled onto the sidewalk and inside, the scene was one that could easily be mistaken for chaos, but in New York is all part of the experience. A cacophony of clanking glasses, of fork and knife, nutcrackers cracking walnut shells, conversations upon conversations; waiters dancing amongst quaint wooden tables cluttered with tiny plates of French inspired goodness from the kitchen; lights, candles, mirrors, wine; a harmonious clamor playing out under a pressed tin ceiling.

So as I imagined, the girls loved it. Another feather in my cap…yeah, yeah, yeah. As we sat over our plates of country paté, and creamy cow’s milk cheese and our little pot of coq au vin, sipping wine and chatting with the eccentric artist couple in the next seats over, my mind kept drifting. Even the mousse au chocolat (that’s more like a dollop of chocolate butter on a plate—and I mean this is a good way) wasn’t enough to keep me thinking, about how when dinner was over, I would go back to my lonely life and the girls would be heading home to their husbands and children. And while we walked down the quiet west village streets my eyes welled up. And then my friend, she looked at me and put her arm around me. And she assured me that it would come some day. And she told me to enjoy every minute of New York until the day it does. We walked on and I dried my eyes and together we reveled in the moonlit night, the trees that canopied the sidewalk, the brownstones that lined the block and the aproned shopkeepers closing up their cafes for the day. “You have this,” she said. “Because you stayed. If you had left, surely you’d be married with kids by now. And If I had stayed here I wouldn’t be. It was the choice you made. And you shouldn’t regret it.”

Thankfully we have friends to remind us of these things. It is the choice I made, yes. And though that night I suppose that fact slipped my mind, I think about it often. I wonder what my life would be like if I’d chosen the other path. I probably would be a wife and a mother. But I wonder too how well not being here would suit me.

I suppose like they say, if I stop looking so hard it will come. I guess I just have to wait and see. And in the meantime, I’ll keep on loving this current (and maybe forever) love of mine. New York.

A Good Hair Day

I have this friend Alysa, who for almost a year now has been trying to get me to go for a haircut with her to her stylist Topher. There’s a deal her salon offers where clients bring a friend in and each get a cut or color for half price. “A two-fer with Topher.” She’s told me a gazillion times, “You have to come with me, you have to come with me. You’ll love him.” So, finally two weeks ago, knowing I’d soon be due for a ‘do, I said yes. The appointment was this past Thursday at 1:45.

Having planned for this well enough in advance, I chose a day that I knew my boss would be out of the office. Because of course when he’s away, I have a little more freedom to run a long errand, or as in this case, sneak off for a little afternoon beautifying. Still, I was anxious stepping out of the elevator on the ground floor of my office building as I took off for the salon. Will I have to wait long? Will I go over my one hour? Will I end up being late getting back to the office and be forced to explain the metamorphosis that has taken place from shaggy hair to shiny new cut? I really, really didn’t want to go. Of course yes, haircuts are great. They freshen you up. Make you look better and feel better. And everyone gets them. I know some of my office mates also sneak off for their own lunchtime hair appointments and no one cares.

I wanted the haircut, but just not right then, in the middle of a workday when I’d be crunched for time. I like the after-hours appointment or the Saturday morning appointment, because I know that a weekday lunchtime appointment brings out ‘Paranoid, Ridiculous Me’. I worry worry worry and forget that this is okay once in a while. I typically take no more than a mere twenty minutes to eat lunch…at my desk, still answering the phone and responding to emails, not really taking a break. So I’m on the subway platform, waiting for what seems like an eternity for the train to arrive and bring me to the salon. I can feel the anxiety bubbling inside me as I watch the minutes pass and I stand there wasting precious time. And finally I say to myself, “Shut up. Go for the haircut and enjoy the experience.” Enjoy the experience! Well, this is a pretty cool salon after all. They pride themselves on making the experience enjoyable.

So I arrive. I go in and I’m greeted by this bright-eyed girl who brings me to the changing room. I get into my robe and follow her to the chair where minutes later Topher comes by. He’s as great as Alysa described. He’s easy-going, has a big smile and most importantly listens to what I am telling him. Bright-eyed girl brings me to the sinks and washes my hair as we chat away about her move to NYC and working at the salon, and I agree that it does look like a fun place to come to everyday. Then it’s back to the chair to Topher and his scissors. We begin to chat away and lo’ and behold, I have not looked at the clock once. Before I know it, Topher is finished and I’m looking into a handheld mirror to check out the back view of my head. And then in the reflection I see this girl walk by and my mouth drops. No way, I said to myself. That’s the girl.

Let me flash back.

It’s nine o’clock the same morning, when I should’ve have already been at work, but was still in the middle of my commute. I was standing amongst the crowd on the train, people-watching as I do, when my eyes were drawn to this girl a few feet away from me. She had a punky hairstyle, candy apple red lipstick, a black mini poodle skirt (sans poodle but that I think might have even had a crinoline underneath), a cropped black tee shirt with cut-off sleeves—a band t-shirt, like Sex-Pistols or something—, black and white striped Keds-style sneakers and white, nylon socks with lace trim. I secretly admired her crazy style. When the doors opened at First Avenue, after the usual reshuffling, I was lucky enough to find myself a seat. And right beside me, standing, was the punky girl. She is now talking to two others girls that she found in the reshuffle and were then sitting on the bench beside me. They’re having this conversation that’s laced with bits of gossip, and laughter and an impersonation here or there about their boss. So I find that they all work together. Yes I was listening. Their chatter just happened to be so much more entertaining than the book I was reading. And so there I sat eavesdropping—if you could even call it that—trying to pick up clues as to where they might work. Wherever it was, based on their outfits, and the aforementioned hair and makeup, I’m there thinking it must be a really fun/cool/awesome place to work.

 

Cut to that very afternoon and there’s the cute, punky girl from the subway, in the very salon I had an appointment at. An appointment I didn’t want to go to! It was meant to be. Indeed a very cool place to work, I’m sure. A very cool place go for a haircut, even if you have to squeeze it into a weekday lunch break.

One of those super cool New York stories. And a pretty awesome hair day I would have to say.

A Minute of Your Time Please…

 

The other night, while home making dinner, I realized one of the pilot lights on my stove was out. No huge deal. I’d dealt with this before. So I lifted the stovetop, re-lit the flame and moments later, all was well again.

A couple of nights later, as I arrived home from work, I noticed a faint gas odor inside my apartment. I figured it had something to do with the stove, following the issue a few nights before, and sure enough found that the pilot light was out yet again. When I went to re-light it, the match wouldn’t take. After a moment of frustration I thought maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe this match not lighting was a sign. Maybe what I had thought had been a ‘faint’ gas smell was really too strong and if I lit the match, the place just might just blow. So I dropped the matchbook, paced for a few minutes and then called my parents (who still provide the best advice when I can’t figure things out myself). My mother agreed it was a little too late in the evening to call my super in a panic and advised me to open the windows and deal with it in the morning. Fine. Thank you mom.

Cut to an hour later when I’m on the phone with my sister. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: “Well the website for the gas company says if the odor is faint, to open the windows. When the odor is strong they say leave immediately. The odor is definitely NOT strong so I think I’ll be ok with the windows open until morning.”

Sister: “Well what if something happens while you are asleep?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Sister: “Well, wouldn’t it be better to call the gas company and have the guys come check it out even if it’s late, than something happening to you and you not wake up?”

Thank you Kristina! Now, however irrational this may or may not have been, it was definitely not good for my already over-imaginative brain. I agreed, better to call the gas-emergency hotline than—well….

So I hung up with her and decided I would make the call.

I’ve done this at least once before. The routine goes something like this:

- smell gas

- panic

- Google ‘gas leaks’

- waver internally

- call ConEd, explain the situation, waver a little more and try to convince the rep that I’m probably making a bigger deal of it than I need to and that there is no need for her to send anyone.

- end up waiting for the service guys to come and hope I don’t blow up in the meantime.

So here it was, the other night, 20 minutes after eleven, I’m in pajamas and I dial the emergency hotline. 25 minutes later the gas guys are at my door looking less than thrilled. They assess the issue at my stove as I pretend to be comfortable laughing on my sofa five feet away, watching a Seinfeld re-run as the minutes tick by and I am secretly cursing myself for being such a girl.

“Your pilot light’s out,” the guy says.

Yeah, I think to myself. I knew that. But is there a harmful amount of gas in the air that had I lit a match I would have blown up the building? I think to myself.

“And…?” I reply.

“And nothing. That’s it. Your pilot light was out.”

“And that’s normal? The gas smell?” I press.

“It’s fine,” he replies packing his things.

“Everything’s ok?” I continue, following them to the front door. “Why did the pilot go out in the first place? Is there anything at all that I should know?”

“It was just the pilot light,” they replied again, at this point on the sidewalk heading to their van. (And yes, I’m in my pj’s on the street).

Wow. I think to myself. How silly of me to think they would actually take two minutes to answer my questions… to ease my worries. Sure guys, you probably get dozens of calls just like mine and are sick and tired of trekking out at nearly midnight to tend to some pathetic damsel in distress who has afraid of a blown out pilot light. So we don’t know much about gas leaks. And we’d rather call you up than risk not waking up or worse, burning out buildings down.

Forgive us.

…Inspired

My wish list of things I’ll never have. That’s where I left off last time. In the weeks since, I painted a wall in my new apartment. Just one wall, but really, it’s enough. The color is called Wild Pink. It rocks my world. I actually had an epiphany while standing on the ladder rolling the paint onto the plain white wall that my place came with—a way out of a writing rut I’ve been in. I was inspired I suppose. Inspired by this minor change of scenery. Inspired, thanks to thirty-dollar can of paint.

A few weeks ago I came across a website called “An Afternoon With…” about people and their spaces. Of course they are not just any people. They’re a carefully selected group of artists and creatives, so most of them live in really awesome places. Or they live in places that were once nothing special that they have turned into awesome places. A scroll through the photographs is a feast for the eyes…and for the imagination. “Ah!” I think, as I drool. “I want to live like you.”

Yes, as I said in my last post, I would love to one day have a home with luxury plumbing fixtures and a piece of Bauhaus furniture from an auction catalog. For now, I’ll settle for things that fit within my means and I will make my home awesome. And instead of seeing this as a daunting task that I cannot conquer, I will remember that yes, I can do this! Of course I can! I went to school for this! I know what I like and I have good sense about how to put all of it together! And, I live in New York City—where one man’s trash is another man’s treasure—literally. One of my favorite things is a cubby shelf I found on the sidewalk in Soho a decade ago—a secondhand piece from a school or a studio or something, with graffiti and carvings on it. I’ve since acquired some nicer things, but this guy still holds a place in my heart…it is now home to my shoe collection and residing in my entry/mudroom.

So, as I approach the six-month mark I will make a new list. Not of the things I want but cannot realistically attain, but of the things that I have or can find or make, that will brighten my world—the 550 square foot apartment I call home. Not a mansion. No guest bedroom, no reclaimed wood plank floors or marble clad bathroom, but certainly one happy little dwelling place.

Photos to come….

My Happy Dwelling Place

It’s nuts to me that I’ve been living in my new apartment for five months already.

My process of settling has been slow, but so far the adjustment has been great. This is true, first because it is a place of my own after too long a time spent being a nomad, and second, because it is so satisfying to really take the time and make a house—or…a 550 square foot, partially subterranean apartment—a home. I know—most people, after five month’s time, would have everything in place and every detail sorted out. Those of you who know me, understand why this is not the case here. I’m particular to the point of being borderline irrational about everything in my life—from the décor in the office I work in, to the brand of jeans the guy I might be dating is wearing. So why would I not be just as particular about every individual thing I put inside my home in order to make it a happy dwelling place? In my last real apartment it took me sixth months to find the right chairs for my marble-top kitchen table that is the most beautiful piece of furniture I have ever owned and because so, happens to be one of my most prized possessions. Likewise here in this place, it’s taking some time to find just the right pieces.

In my defense, this is the first time my apartment actually includes a living room, thus, there is a lot more furniture to be found. So far I have the sofa, which arrived a few weeks ago, and not only made it safely through the window and into my living room, but also, looks as good in the space as I had imagined it would and is a rather cozy piece to curl up on when I actually allow myself to be lazy. The new blinds are up, the jute rug is down, and the armoire to hide my part-time guilty pleasure of TV watching, arrives in two weeks.

I have a ways to go.

The reality of the situation is that for the past nearly ten years, I’ve been living in a dream world. Let me clarify. For the past nearly ten years, I have been working in the high-end/luxury/(unrealistic for most of us) field of architecture and interior design. This is a world in a galaxy far, far away from Home Depot, Lowes and Do-It-Yourself/Design on a Dime. This is a world where a new sofa costs fourteen thousand dollars and if you want to reupholster an old one, the textile for it costs $300 per yard. This is no joke.

At my last job, my friend/desk-mate and I found it sickly humorous that we spent our days designing bathrooms for which we would specify bathtubs that cost forty-thousand dollars and faucets that cost two-thousand, while in our own homes, our bathrooms were literally falling apart. I had the pleasure of discovering one day that my ceiling had collapsed into my bathtub and he, that his sink had fallen off the wall, and into his boyfriend’s lap no less. For months he was haunted by nightmares of his toilet falling through the floor below him (with him on it of course).

Ah how the middle-class live.

Even funnier to us than these domestic mishaps however, was that over time, we became comfortable with the idea of a ten-thousand dollar table or a twelve-thousand dollar pair of chairs. And so the crazy truth still today, is that regardless of what my bank account says I can afford, I dream big. These luxuries, even though I’ve only ever bought them for other people (who happen to fall within the mega-wealthy bracket), have become a norm for me. Because as much as no one is deliberately brainwashing me, I am in a way brainwashed–that this is the standard, and that I of course have to have these things too. My wish list includes line item after line item of things I cannot and likely will not EVER have.

Case in point…

First night here in the apartment. After a long day of lugging boxes, climbing up and down steps, in and out of doorways and feeling like I was about to keel over, I treated myself to a bubble bath. It was a slice of heaven there in the steaming water as I relaxed my weary bones and felt thankful to simply be home. And then, amidst this humble moment, I had the most ridiculous thought. I was extending my foot to turn off the tap, exhaling a breath of relief as the words just fell out of my mouth. “I do love this place,” I said to myself. “Now if only these tub fittings were Lefroy Brooks…”

Above: Lefroy Brooks MH 1270 Mackintosh Wall Mounted Three Hole Bath Mixer, Approx. $2400

TO BE CONTINUED…