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| think outside the box
I. Hate. Packing. Here's why: I am a packrat and an oversentimental sap. I found this old neon pink post-it with an address of a place I went with a boy and I almost cried. So, I tore it up, threw it out, and felt surpringly better. So maybe packing can be therapeutic. The purging of unnecessary things. The discovery of missing things. But mostly, it is just a mess. My apartment is a mess. I tried to pack all weekend. Honest I did. Friday night, I put on a t-shirt to stay in and pack but then got a call from a boy. What are you doing? he asked. Packing, I said. He brought over a case of Corona. Four hours later and all we managed to do was take down my lace curtains.
The next day, I searched the city streets for abandoned boxes. Why should I spend $5 on a piece of cardboard if I can get ones off the corner for free? Answer: because the free boxes on the corner have things living in them. At the the UPS box store, I bought fresh, uninfested boxes. I got home to realize: no packing tape. You can't pack without packing tape. The empty boxes were stacked in the corner of my apartment where they silently mocked me. Saturday night and I had every intention of staying in and filling up the boxes. But my friend called and said come play pool. I am no good at pool. But I'm better at pool than packing so ... out I went. At 4 am, I stumbled home and managed to trip over the boxes.
Sunday came and to postpone packing - I thought I'd dismantle my loft bed which is made of steel. No, probably not steel, but definitely some kind of heavy metal which weighs more than me. But I had the wrong kind of screwdriver. I had a flat head, I needed a Philips head, and anyone who knows how to screw (which is clearly not me) knows that will never work. I went to my super, got a screwdriver, drank the last corona in the fridge, dis-assembled the bed, knocked over a lamp, shattered a mirror, and probably dislocated my shoulder.
Number of days till the movers come: 4
Number of days till my lease is up: 8
Number of days till I am no longer a mess: never?
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| caramel apple cider There's something about autumn. Caramel apple cider. Long scarves and cashmere sweaters. Me climbing on top of a chair to reach the top of my closet to get down my autumn sweaters. Me putting on high heels to stand on top of the chair and still not being able to reach. Me using a broom handle to poke at the sweaters wearing high heels on top of a chair that wobbles beneath my weight. Me leaving my apartment wearing my favorite sweater and a brand new bruise on my thigh from falling off the chair. This is what I do for autumn.
This week I move into the new apartment. Everything I own is in boxes. My lace curtains and my cherry blossom dishes and my 98 books. I came to the city a year ago with 7 books. Some time between the office sell out job and the one heartbreak and the nights I can't remember, I managed to buy 92 more books. Even better - I managed to read them.
Movers in new york are expensive. Equivalent to a Louis Vuitton purse. I'd rather have the purse. So I bought a "man with a van" off craigslist for $100. His name is Dan. Brilliant. He's coming to my apartment (with his van) to move all the boxes to my new apartment. Dan doesn't know that the new place is a 4 floor walkup. Poor Dan.
There's something about autumn. Besides the apple cider and the sweaters. It's about how things change. As much as we hate it, some things have to change. We can cry and try to fight it. We can shove it in the top of our closet and forget about it. But sooner or later, we have to just accept it. Things change. There are new apartments and new jobs, new friends that you knew already.
That is what I love about autumn. Summer is over. The nights are cool. The leaves have changed colors. But they haven't yet fallen.
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| venti redeye 8:30 AM
Me = stumbling into work wearing oversized sunglasses and carrying a Starbucks coffee the size of my head only to walk onto the same elevator as this girl in the office who I call Perky because no matter what time of day - she is always effortlessly amazingly annoyingly perky and always starts conversations talking about what day of the week it is.
PERKY: Hey there! Can you believe it's TUESDAY already? It's like I keep thinking it's Monday but then I realize it's actually TUESDAY and I'm like I can't BELIEVE it!
ME: Yep.
PERKY: Whoa ... you look tired. Late night?
ME: I didn't sleep much last night.
PERKY: Up all night drinking?
ME: Worse ... I was up all night thinking.
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| the day the stock market almost crashed
Today, the stock market almost crashed. I don't know why. I don't know how. But I do know that all the men in my office are worried. So worried that they all left their boardroom meeting to watch the secretary of treasury make a statement. There is only one place to watch it. That is on the one flat screen television in the office. The one tv happened to be directly beside my desk. So all the men in suits gathered around my desk to watch msnbc. Some swore loudly. Some paced back and forth. The big CEO man barked at me: "Where's the volume? Turn up the volume!" There is no volume, sir. So all the men in suits watched the mute statement of Henry Paulson. I couldn't hear what Henry said - but he looked worried too.
Today, I signed a lease for my new apartment. It's a real one bedroom apartment so now I can get a real bed. I signed the lease all by myself on my lunch break. The realtor handed me a pen. "Just you?" she asked. Just me, I said and signed my name extra fancy. No gaurantor. No gaurantee. Just a one year lease for a one bedroom on the east side.
Today, I set up my first interview / lunch. The hyphen is there because it is an interview and a lunch - at the same time. The interview is to be a "dating columinist" for an online magazine. "Do you date alot?" the editor asked me on the phone. Yes, I said, but not very well. He laughed, "So what makes you think you'll be a good dating columnist?" I told him this: I can write things that make people laugh. That's when he suggested instead of interviewing at his office, we meet for lunch. So on saturday afternoon, I'm having lunch with a magazine editor at a lovely bistro in midtown where broadway actors go for brunch.
Today, all day, I felt worried. I'm worried because I don't know what to wear for my interview / lunch where I'm supposed to look / act like a dating expert. I'm worried because I don't know how to move all my stuff from my west side apartment to my east side apartment in 15 days. And I'm worried because the stock market almost crashed today.
But then I tell myself that it didn't crash. It almost crashed. That makes me worry a little less.
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| the namesakeThe man standing behind me in Starbucks came looking for his lost duffel bag and the barista behind the counter asked, "What's your name?" The man said his name and it was the same as your name and the sound of it made me stop. Why is it that the sound of your name can still make me stop? I turned to see what this man looked like. Not a thing like you. Older, for one thing, with lines etched on his face and shoulders broadened with time. He was taller than you, too. I don't know why I expected him to look like you just because you share a name. Your name is a common one, shouted across the street, signed on leases, left on voicemails. I live in a city of millions. Naturally, one of the millions would have your name. But I will never not stop when I hear it.
I keep having the fleeting urge to call you in the middle of some autumn afternoon. On my lunch break when I don't really have time to talk. You won't answer - I know you won't. You'll see my number and let me leave a message. I'd like to leave a long-winded message that is witty and sweet, teetering on nostalgic but not.
In my message - I would ask you questions. Are you working at the same job? Living in the same place? I hope not. On both accounts, I hope not. Are you meeting new people? Having fun? Dating someone? Is your life the epitome of any other single American 23-year-old boy?
There was that one time - in the dead heat of summer - that I ran into you on the street. Funny about these New York streets - how you're always running into people - turning a corner - crossing at the light and bam - face to face with someone you'd never expect to see again. I don't ever expect to see you again. But if I do - I gaurantee you won't recognize me. My hair is long and very blonde and perfectly straight (finally!) and I carry a bag that cost me almost a month's rent. You would look twice I'm sure, but not because I am the girl you used to love. I am not that girl anymore.
The man with the same name as you held the door open for me when I left Starbucks. I stared at him just a second too long and he asked if he knew me from somewhere, I said no - no, I didn't think so. But have a good night. | | |
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