Court courtesy
Sunday used to be a day of rest, but it now appears to have become a day of wrestling. For parking spaces, bargains, shorter check out lines, personal space, and oh so much more.
In my quest to prepare for an upcoming weekend of family, I woke early Sunday morning to hit the gym before heading up to Westchester to hit the stores. (Every now and then I need a little suburbia to remind me of home.) Inside Kohl’s, Home Goods, Super Stop & Shop, and Target I ran into zooming carriages, whining kids, long lines, and mobs of people pushing and shoving. And did I once hear, “Excuse me,” “Go ahead,” or “I’m sorry, was that your toe?”
Unfortunately not.
Was it the President’s Day sales? The huge February savings? Or were they in a rush to jump-start the economy? I can appreciate 40% off just as much as the next Frugal Fanny, but it doesn’t mean we need to lose our sense of civility. Especially on a Sunday. Not for religious reasons, but because while we live in a dog-eat-dog world, there’s got to be some down time when we’re not all in competition.
In middle school I played on the tennis team. We practiced on a row of connected courts and when your ball rolled onto another court you’d yell, “Court courtesy!” and someone would happily retrieve it for you. As you can imagine, for an adolescent this saying followed us off the court. “Court courtesy!” we’d say in the hallway if you dropped a book or wanted someone to hold the door for you. To this day, the phrase pops up in my head, but now it’s with a tinge of cynicism. Like when I see adults cutting, spitting, or pushing, similar to how kids behave in middle school. And it doesn’t fill me with much hope for the future of society.
By Sunday evening, exhausted and hungry, I parked my car in the Bronx and carried my heavy bundles to the train. Of course it was packed. A boy, around eleven, was sitting in front of me, his head buried in his phone. At one point he looked at me.
“Miss,” he said and stood up. “Would you like to sit?”
Phew, I thought, settling into my seat, there is hope.
Eat to your heart’s content
If it’s true that the way to your heart is through your stomach, maybe this Valentine’s Day we should love ourselves a little more by taking the
time to make what we put into them.
Last week I counted eight people eating a meal as they walked along the street. Including myself. Running from one place to another one night, I stopped at Gourmet Garage to pick up a quick bite to fuel up. And even though it was healthy, eating it while walking up Seventh Avenue negated that fact.
Then I made a promise. After five years of salads, take out, and prepared foods from Fairway heated up in my toaster oven, I now vow to wow my tummy every day with something homemade that I will also take the time to enjoy. One night I made grey sole, the next meatballs from scratch (a first!), then sautéed chicken over quinoa. What has really amazed me is how simple and fun it can be. Sure, there were nights I was tired or had a lot to do and it would have been easier – and faster – to pic
k up dinner, but now that I have a kitchen (not to mention a mortgage) I have no excuse. So on went the music as I continued learning this new dance.
On Saturday, staring at a leftover chicken carcass, I contacted a recipe resource better than Google.
“Hi Mom. How do I make a chicken soup?”
A few hours later a friend stopped by. “It smells so homey in here!” she declared, and then tasted the soup. “Delicious. What’s in it?” I smiled and said exactly what my Nana Tobey says when asked what’s in her recipes. “Love,” I said. “I made it with love.”
When someone prepares a meal for you – even if it is just a PB&J sandwich – it tastes a whole lot better because they took the time to make it. In our busy lives, it’s easy to say we don’t have time, but really, that’s all we do have, something I’m just now learning. So why not love yourself a little more this Valentine’s Day and take the time to prepare a hearty meal just for you.
Happy VD.
Peace, by Piece
With eager enthusiasm I started a new puzzle last week. I thought it would be an easy 500 pieces, but now that I’ve opened the box, it’s more like 1,000. And I anticipate this number to grow.
Completing hundreds of puzzles helped prepare me for this latest, especially since it comes without a picture. You see, this bright, one-of-a-kind puzzle is none other than my new home. Like any project or task, to me it’s like a puzzle, a game. And games, as we know, are fun.
With puzzles it’s best to start with the border. Which is what I did. I had the hardwood floors sanded and stained and the walls painted. Now it’s time to fill in the middle. I like to dump out all the pieces (that is if I have room and, I’m happy to declare, I now have more than I know what to do with!) to get a good look at what I’m working with. In this case, some of the pieces no longer fit – tiny dressers, clothes or shoes no longer worn, bags not used – and even though before I moved I donated stuff, sometimes it’s your new space that dictates what fits and what doesn’t and it’s with a sense of relief I say, “Buh-Bye” and move on.
Once the unused pieces are discarded, it’s time to group the likes: kitchen, bedroom, bath, and clothing. Since the first three categories I hadn’t much of, I had to ab
andon my puzzle and head out on a scavenger hunt. Three trips to TJ Maxx, two to Home Goods, two to The Container Store, two to Bed, Bath and Beyond, and one to Home Depot had me feeling I was in a reality show, “The Amazing Race to Stock a Home!”
While I know Rome wasn’t built in a day, this new apartment won’t either, but I am enjoying the process of putting this puzzle together, of taking my time to make sure the pieces match (all orange utensils!) and fit perfectly. Each day I’m admiring the final picture as it becomes visible little by little. How will I know when I’m done? Easy. When I find the final peace.
Close, closer, closed!
90 Square foot apartment...empty
After signing my name 82 times (yes, I kept track) and a mere two months, I closed on a one-bedroom on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The morning of the move from my tiny studio was bittersweet. That little place had become home. And despite the pouring rain, it took only two and a half hours for the movers from Golden Hands Moving to expunge my life from those 90 square feet.
And then.
Seated on a couch (a couch!) in my new apartment, sunlight flooding in the multiple windows, my stuff swimming in space, I pinched myself. Sure I’ve lived in larger homes and apartments, but this time, this time it’s different. This time it’s all mine. And even though it’s only two avenues from my old studio, it feels like a world away. On the few return trips to clean up, suddenly I was sounding like the skeptics. How did I live in this teeny room? It suddenly felt way too small.
I unpacked all 33 boxes that first night, enjoying every minute, even laughing out loud when I discovered yet another shelf or cubby for my belongings. At one point I called my grandparents, the two people most instrumental in putting the “Buy a place already and get out of that closet you’ve been living in” bug in my ear.
“Mazel tov, sweetheart,” Papa said. “Get all new furniture, enjoy your life.” Then my grandmother, making sure I had hid bread, a candle and salt somewhere in the apartment (a century old custom), said, “May you never go hungry, always have light, joy and good luck in your life.”
It wasn’t until I hung up I remembered it was Holocaust Memorial Day, the day dedicated to the liberation of Auschwitz. Of the hundreds of well wishes I’ve received, it was from my grandparents – those two who know firsthand how dark and unhappy life can be – that meant the most.
New apartment with temporary furniture...since I had none!
I do not regret one minute in my 90 square foot apartment. Was there some sacrifice in it? I guess, but if anything, it has made me more appreciative of the little (no pun intended) things. Cooking a meal in a kitchen, having friends and family visit, and not having to walk five flights and a city block to do laundry – things easily taken for granted. I’m sure after a few months I may too, but for now, I will simply enjoy the enormous pleasures they bring.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
Our lives are filled with endless decision-making. Verizon or AT&T? Kindle or Nook? Movie or play? Thai or Italian? City or country? In preparing to move into my new apartment, I’ve had to choose from 20 hardwood floor stains, 53 shades of green paint alone, and dozens of pillow top or memory foam mattresses. And I haven’t even started looking at blinds, glasses, dishes, flatware, kitchen cabinets or knobs for the cabinets. I’m starting to wonder if having lots of choices is really better or is it just, well, too many?
While everyone has their own reason for the decisions they make – what to wear, what to eat, which way to get to work – sometimes it’s nice not to have to make any. On a recent trip to Trader Joe’s on West 72nd Street I walked in only to walk right out when I saw the checkout line snaking back 75 people deep.
“That line is nuts,” I said to another woman also leaving empty handed.
Nodding, she said, “I usually put up with the lines, because the store has limited choices and it makes it easier to decide what to buy.” That got me thinking. Do fewer choices mean more happiness? Maybe she was on to something.
I read an article by a man who had a hard time making decisions and spent one week making them all by flipping a coin. I tried it for a day, but instead used a Coin Flip app on my Android.
Breakfast – heads yogurt or tails hard-boiled egg. Coin Flip. Heads.
Outfit – heads black pants or tails khakis. Coin Flip. Tails.
Commute to work – heads express train or tails local. Coin Flip. Tails.
Lunch – heads soup or tails salad. Coin Flip. Heads.
By the end of the day I realized those little decisions I made by simply flipping a coin had not been that big a deal, but what’s more, I had saved my energy, which I can now use for more important decisions…like choosing kitchen knobs.
Daddy’s little princess?
Ekaterina Rybolovleva is one lucky girl. Called a Russian princess by some, Ekaterina’s dad recently bought her an apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan for the ba
rgain basement price of $88 million. But not just any apartment.
It’s the most expensive one in the history of the Big Apple.
Sure it’s 6,744 sq ft, has ten rooms, 6.5 bathrooms, super high ceilings, a wraparound porch accessible from 19 glass doors, an oval master bedroom designed for unobstructed views of the sunrise, and overlooks Central Park through sprawling walls of windows. But I wonder, while her apartment is 13.5 times larger than my new one bedroom and costs more than 350 times what mine does, will Ekaterina’s father come visit her and sleep on her couch? Will he help her decide where to hang her pictures? How to organize the furniture? Will he give her his two-cents in choosing colors for the bedroom? Take her food shopping at Fairway market and fill up her fridge with soymilk, apples and yogurt? Will he make her scrambled eggs in her kitchen or go with her for walks in Central Park? Do you think he’ll take her to eat vegetable dumplings at Land or popovers at The Popover Cafe? Will he rest his hand on her shoulder as they walk around art galleries in Chelsea? Will he explain the history of the city’s buildings and describe the type of architecture as they walk along the streets? Will he hug her for no apparent reason when they stop along the Highline to admire the views? And will he tell her bad jokes?
Maybe. Maybe Ekaterina will get these other things from her father aside from loads of money, and if she does, I’m sure she’ll agree they’re worth much more than a multi-million dollar abode. And while her father is successful at running his fertilizer empire, to me, there’s something about giving a 22-year-old such a lavish home that just smells funny to me.
p.s. I was accepted by my new co-op board and will be moving soon. They like me! They really like me!
I took a walk on the wild side. And it was organized to a T.
Imagine being blind. Now imagine being blind and living in New York City.
I recently experienced “Dialogue in the Dark,” a simulated walking tour through popular areas of New York City including Central Park, Fairway supermarket, the subway and Times Square. In total darkness. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
At first it was a bit unsettling. Armed with walking sticks, the ten in our group listened to our guide Damon, a young man from Brooklyn, who appeared to us after the lights went out. His voice was our beacon. His sense of humor kept me calm. We listened to his instructions as we moved from room to room, our sticks shuffling back and forth from 11 o’clock to one o’clock.
In “Central Park” birds chirped and water flowed from the “Bethesda fountain.” Damon told us to touch things. We felt trees, rocks. We crossed a rickety bridge, holding the railing for dear life, before exiting into the supermarket. We touched fruits and vegetables. “Garlic! Butternut squash!” we called out when Damon asked what we’d found. The packaged foods were harder to distinguish. “Is it ketchup or honey?” A few times my friend Lili and I called out for each other, reassured to hear the other’s voice, making us feel somewhat safer in our aloneness in the dark.
Maneuvering on the subway proved tricky. Steps to descend, poles to avoid, and seats to locate, while stereo sounds of people competed with the train conductor’s voice. And the “train” actually shook. We got off in “Times Square” and the noise of traffic, crowds, airplanes, and street vendors threatened to drown out Damon’s voice as he instructed us not to step off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic. Of course there were no real cars or buses, but when Damon assured us it was safe, we used our sticks to cross.
Throughout the tour we learned skills the visually impaired use everyday. Counting steps to the bus stop, folding dollar bills differently based on their amounts, and smart phone apps that scan barcodes and speak out loud the products. But most importantly, how organized you must be. Clothes, cups, keys, aspirin, gloves, paper for the printer, cereal, scissors – every single item in your home must be exactly in one place or else the chances of finding it – on your own – prove pretty slim.
The tour ended in a mock café and as the lights slowly came on, I was dumbfounded. Damon was blind. I had assumed he was wearing night vision goggles the way he maneuvered us seamlessly throughout the obstacle course. That’s when it dawned on me. While a city would seem an impossible place for the blind, Damon said that New York City’s structured grid of streets (with some exceptions) was easy to navigate because it was so organized. I couldn’t agree more.
A big move. On a small scale.
It is with much excitement (and some sadness) I will be trading up from 90 square feet to 500. While the closing is the end of January/early February, I’ve already begun packing. And even though I don’t have a fraction of what most people own, the steps for the move remain the same.
- Weed. Your stuff, that is. I’ve given away books, tossed files and donated clothes.
- Forwarding address. In the last month, keep track of mail you receive and make a list of who to contact with your new address – bank, credit cards, magazines, friends, job, etc.
- Collect packing supplies. In the hallway on my floor I’ve amassed a number of cardboard boxes. And since I plan to get new sheets and towels (would
you believe I’ve had some for ten years!), I will use the old to wrap delicates. - List furniture room by room. Okay, so in my case there’s only the one room. But there are still chairs and shelves. Then next to each piece mark if it’s being donated, tossed or the exact room in the new place. This utilizes the movers’ muscles so that heavy objects get placed where they’re going.
- List built-in items. Is there track lighting? A shelving unit? Are you leaving it? Taking it? Will you need to repair anything in the room before you go? Write it down and you won’t forget.
- Go through your list once more. Is there more you can toss or donate? Do you really want a ratty couch in your new living room? Chipped plates in your new kitchen? Think of it as a fresh start. Say buh-bye!
- Start packing a few weeks before the move date. Stuff adds up fast, while time, I promise, will whoosh by. First pack items you’re not using. Off-season clothes, books, seldom used kitchen appliances, etc.
- Label the boxes with numbers, rather than contents, especially if stuff is going into storage. I may have to utilize a storage unit (because of renovations), so I will make a numbered list in a notebook with their contents. This is helpful if I need something then I can find it easily in storage. Of course with delicates, write “fragile” on the side, but you should ask the movers to assume all your stuff is fragile.
- Use up toiletries, cleaning supplies and food. By far, my favorite step. Who wants to have to pack a bottle with just a little conditioner in it? Half a box of crackers? Also, the remaining cleaning supplies you can use to clean after the home is packed, plus you’ll have it ready for the new place.
- Use your luggage to pack pictures.
- Pack an overnight bag with pajamas, toothbrush, clean sheets, blanket and an outfit for the next day so you’re not scrambling for the basics on your first night.
- Countdown is on!
New Year’s Resolutions… “Mad Libs ®” style
Having spent a good amount of time with my seven-year-old niece this past weekend playing “Mad Libs,” I thought a “Mad Libs” format was effective. For those not familiar with the game, first insert the adjectives, nouns, etc., then go back and read the piece with your additions. It’s a lighthearted way to target your resolutions. Who knows, it just might work. Enjoy and Happy New Year!
Gotta go! Gotta go! Gotta go! (Sung to the tune of Let it snow!)
Oh the weather outside is frightful
But my new co-op will be delightful 
And since I’ve been told, “It’s time to go”
Let my space grow! Let it grow! Let it grow!
Seems four and a half years was quite enough
And the landlord’s attorney was gruff
They weren’t thrilled with the Youtube video
So I was given the ol’ heave ho!
Well I’ve already started packing
And the boxes I’ve been forced into stacking
Finally 90 square feet I did outgrow
So I go! So I go! So I go!
I’m moving with just the clothes on my back
Plus all the totes stacked up on my rack
So with my Shrinky Dink art in tow
I’ll be moving three weeks from tomorrow!
My new one bedroom is really sunny
And having a doorman will feel funny
But no longer living like a Lilliputian with one window
Will indeed raise my status quo!
Soon I’ll be dwelling in 500 square feet
That’s five times bigger I’ll be sure to Tweet
But still my fans they want to know
Have I abandoned living simply and I swear no!
Sure there’s furniture and dishes I’ll be buying
And straight to IKEA is where I’ll do the shmying
Getting glasses, bowls, forks and more cargo
What’ll I do with so much space yet I don’t know!
Once I settle in I’ll be sharing my story
Of any homeowner’s newfound glory
However there’s still the mortgage I’ll owe
Working to get the balance down to zero!
I admit my tiny studio I’ll miss
It’s been an incredible few years of bliss
But like any great moments we know
There they go! There they go! There they go!
I am looking forward to my new place
With a ceiling not so close to my face
And though I hate saying buh-bye to my little burrow
I’m gung ho! I’m gung ho! I’m gung ho!
