Textures

I am so excited about this.

Weeks and weeks ago Michael and I got a beautiful new sofa. We were all too happy to toss our sad old sofa to the curb. I mean, I loved the old sofa when we bought it, I did. It served us for four hearty years. Four years of claw-sharpening, accidents, sick-ups, party-fouls and even a cross-country move. However, as excited as I was to get it out of my home and replace it with something bigger, newer and more beautiful, I am not one to throw things away if they may still have some use. Since the majority of the damage done to the sofa was on the arms and back and the actual sofa cushions were in fine shape, I took an idea my mother gave me and I ran with it. I cut the seat cushions off the sofa and kept the back cushions, then I made it my mission to find beautiful fabric with which to make new cushion covers, so the cushions could be used and comfy floor pillows and throw pillows, respectively.

The sofa is a white and brown design that reminds me of an antique wood engraving. I was already in possession of a red fabric that I thought very cleverly clashed with the sofa, so my goal was to pick three more fabrics that would also cleverly clash; three bold designs in bright colors that would be edgy and classy, at the same time.

Valentine poses on the new sofa.

Draped behind her is the red fabric I already had.

I love the way the color and pattern looks

with the wood-print design of the sofa.

One recent Saturday, I spent several hours nosing around in a fabric shop in the garment district. As soon as I walked in I was immediately overwhelmed by the choices in the tiny shop. I poked around, looked at a few fabrics, and then my eyes fell on a blue swordfish pattern.

Valentine demonstrates the luxurious ease with which

one may recline upon the glorious swordfish

sofa-cushions-reincarnated-as-floor-pillows.

I was in love. The fabric reminded me of my father. The walls of his office bear antique prints of whales and massive fish and giant squid. They are beautiful and I remember the afternoon in Maui when he bought them with great fondness. I wanted that swordfish fabric.

But I wasn't going to buy the swordfish fabric. That would be silly. It wouldn't match anything else in the apratment. It would look stupid. Mike would hate it. It's too nautical. It's too fanciful. It's too expensive.

I wandered around the tiny, packed shop, sweating in my coat, trying to find something for the pillows. After nearly an hour of hopeless wandering, a sales girl came to my rescue.

"Can I help you find something?"

"Oh, yes. I am having such a hard time. I feel like I don't know how to match anything!"

"That's Ok! It can get frustrating with so many choices. What are you looking for?

I knew I wanted three contrasting prints in bold colors, but that somehow tied in together and tied in with the sofa. I wanted something wild and loud, yet chic and mature.

"Something edgy and classy at the same time."

She gave me a tight smile. Then she showed me dozens of paisley, swirly, polk-dot patterns that were pretty, sure, but not at all what I was looking for.

"Do you think I could match this with this?" I held up something with yellow and green grasshoppers, and something else with yellow, green and pink stripes.

"Um, no. Absolutely not. That's a bad idea."

"Really?"

"Yes. How about this?" She held up a green-on-green tie-dye and a solid green fabric.

I sighed. She didn't understand my vision.

I spent another thirty minutes wandering from one bright bolt of cloth to the next before I finally decided, Fuck It.

Fuck It.

I wanted the swordfish fabric, I was just going to buy it. The moment I decided to let myself have the swordfish fabric, I immediately found a second print I adored. This print was gold and blue, the same blue as the sword fish, but the print reminded me exactly of the print my mother used to paper the walls in the downstairs bathroom in the house I grew up in. I grabbed that too.

I may be able to cleverly clash prints,

but my sewing leaves something to be desired.

After that it was easy. The next print I pulled off the shelf tied everything together with gold, red, touches of blue, green and purple, and the same shaped flowers that are printed on the sofa and the red fabric pictured above.

Theo demonstrates how easy it is to be classy and edgy, at the same time!

Voila! Bright, bold patterns that don't quite match, yet look great. If I'd just let myself get what I wanted from the moment I walked into the store, an hours-long errand would have been a fifteen minute errand. The lesson to be learned? Ignore sales people.

Mash-Up

Michael is making me sit here. He's forced me to sit here and type. I tried to come up with some really good excuses, reasons why I'm too tired, it's too hard, I don't remember any of the stories I wanted to write, I have nothing to say, it's not like anyone is going to read this anyway. But he sat me on the couch with the laptop on my lap, just the way I like it, a cat on one side of me and a cup of tea at my elbow. Then he said: "Just START."

This sucks so much I can't even tell you. I'm just typing words here so that I don't have to look at a blank page because looking at a blank page is worse than typing a random string of words that no one gives a fuck about. Including me.

I think I might be a little depressed.

Or maybe it's just writer's block.

Or it's writer's block caused by depression. Or maybe depression caused by writer's block.

Did you hear about the 7 year-old-girl in Florida? It's terrible. And whatever happened to the woman who ate her three-week-old infant's brains? And that 23 year-old who was accused of murdering her 3 year-old daughter? What really got me about that was when the little girl first disappeared, her grandmother, the 23 year-olds mother, told the cops that her daughter's car smelled like rotting meat, as if there'd been a body in the trunk. Then, when the little girl was found dead, Grandma changed her story and said that what she'd meant to say, what the car really smelled like was rotting pizza.

Rotting pizza? Really?

My neighbor died on Tuesday morning. She was a lovely woman, very sweet and cheerful. I was planning on making her a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving and a peach pie for Christmas. She'd lived in the building since the 1940's. She raised her children here. Her husband died three years ago and she'd had several heart attacks in the last couple of years. Tuesday afternoon the neighbor across the hall, a 50-something woman who grew up on the block, noticed that Mrs. Washington hadn't picked up her paper that morning. Mrs. Washington never left the paper on her welcome mat because she always met the delivery man downstairs. The paper on the mat at 5:00 p.m. was a bad sign. So Alice called Mrs. Washington. And called her again. Then Alice called our neighbor Janine, and Janine called Mrs. Henry and Miss Lawrence, and the four of them kept calling Mrs. Washington who did not answer her phone. So they called her son who lives in New Jersey. Then they called 911.

Even when someone has had a wonderful life and lived to a ripe old age and then died peacefully in their sleep, it's still sad to know they're gone. Or maybe what is sad is seeing the people who loved them, left behind. I didn't really know Mrs. Washington. I always enjoyed chatting with her on the elevator and we always smiled and visited for a minute when we saw each other in the hall, but we didn't really know each other. And yet, I feel an ache whenever I open my door and see hers and am reminded she's gone. And then I'm knocked out by the realization that I live in a building where people notice if you don't pick up your paper. They get to know your routines and your schedule. They keep an eye out for you.

While Mike was on his hiking trip, one neighbor in particular won my heart when he realized I was walking my dogs alone after dark. "You make sure I can see you from the stoop. You make sure you're in my eyesight so if anyone messes with you I can be there." I baked him cookies for his birthday last week.

I'll never forget the Christmas right before I moved to NYC. I was doing massive amounts of holiday baking and I'd made huge batches of decorated sugar cookies and decorated gingerbread cookies. I bought 15 of these really cute little felt gift bags and stuffed each one with cookies. Then I hung one on every front doorknob of each bungalow in the courtyard. When Mike and I came home from my parents house on Christmas night, our stoop looked as if Santa had paid us an extra visit. Fresh cut flowers and homemade tamales tumbled over cakes and cookies and handmade holiday cards. It was incredible. I was so touched I cried. Three months later I moved across the country and into a building where even if a girl screamed bloody hysterical murder in the hallway at 3:00 a.m., not a single person poked their head out to see what was going on.

But now? Now I live here and maybe I'll stick it out long enough so that when I leave? I'll have the pleasure of leaving a bit of my heart behind.

P.S. Mike's trick worked, you guys! I wrote a post!

Contrasting Elements

My metropolitan garden. From left to right: Peace lily, basil, sage, tomato, oregano, thyme, basil, sweet basil, cilantro, a third basil. It smells like heaven and brings me a ridiculous amount of pleasure.

I love this photo because of the contrast between the stark, urban background, the clean lines of modern technology, the soft curtain swaying in the breeze and the lush, green, vibrant plant life.

07.09.09

And now he has a chest infection

Since I can't seem to write about much else these days, I'm going to continue on in the vein of NOT shutting the F up about my Magical New Apartment Named Rachel. Even though I totally promised I would. I'm obviously a liar.

Michael has completely dedicated his entire life, and also the use of both of his lungs, to making our apartment beautiful. What do I contribute, you wonder? I do laundry and surf the web and complain about sawdust and eat the meals Mike prepares. Ours is an equal partnership.

Most recently Mike got a bug up his ass to repair the door sills. Which are not called lintels, after all, like we thought they were. They're called sills. (Did you know there were door sills in addition to window sills? I didn't.) Our door sills are wooden, but they had been painted a sickly grey and then, because they weren't ugly enough, someone screwed horrible metal strips into them. (And this is totally off-topic, but you know what? Yesterday I pronounced "horrible" like "harrible". I think I've been in New York a while now.)

Sickly grey with harrable metal strips.

I hate to admit this, but I never even noticed the door sills until Mike pointed them out to me. I didn't really think much about them even after he pointed them out because I was thinking about all the gorgeous sunlight pouring through the many windows. And also how wonderful our bathroom sink is. And how little furniture we own. But Mike just couldn't stand the sills. Not when he knew there was wood! Glorious wood! underneath all that awful paint. It was keeping him up at night.

So my darling, wonderful, brilliant husband who has reactive airway disease, spent the next two days stripping and sanding, polishing and staining, applying urethane then sanding then applying urethane once more, to our five wooden door sills. All while NOT wearing a mask. Because masks are expensive! he argued. Is a t-shirt wrapped around your face expensive? I'm just saying.

Kitchen door sill, stripped and sanded, waiting for stain.

As a result, for the past three days Michael has come home from summer school and collapsed into bed wheezing and snarfling and coughing. And he stays there, curled in a painful sounding lump, until his alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. the next morning. I was starting to get really worried, but this morning he swore up and down that he feels better. Something about massive amounts of eucalyptus tea he's been sucking down. I wondered why our bedroom smelled like a steam room.

And as I left for work this afternoon, leaning over to kiss his forehead, listening to him hack and squawk, I had to admit, those door sills? They are gorgeous.

Admit it. You're blinded by the sheer gorgeousness, aren't you?

From Kim's Kitchen Sink to mine

My friend Kim, over at Kim's Kitchen Sink, is suffering from a kitchen conundrum. She has a small kitchen and a lot of kitchen stuff and she wonders how best to organize it all. Seeing as how I'm very used to teensy, itsy bitsy kitchens, thanks to two years in NYC, I thought maybe I could help her out.

Below you will find photographs of the kitchen in Rachel, our Fabulous New Apartment. (Remember when I named our apartment?) And I just want to remind you, before you nose around these photos, that this kitchen is a MASSIVE improvement over the bitchen in the tenement.

Photo 1:

Hi! Welcome to our spacious kitchen! If you are seeing this view, you are standing with your back up against the far wall of our entryway. From here you can see, on the far right, our pet hutch, where we keep the pet bowls, pet toy box, flea meds, etc.; above the pet hutch you'll see a shelving unit we picked up at Ikea for like, ten bucks; to the left of that you can see the kitchen counter complete with a stool for me to perch upon while Mike cooks dinner; and on the far left, the side of the fridge. In the background you can catch our enormous kitchen window, and the various items we've purchased and installed to make the kitchen more, erm, useful. Hmmm... that looks like an awfully narrow passageway between the fridge and the counter, doesn't it? THAT IS NOT A TRICK OF THE EYE. IT IS THAT NARROW. Our kitchen encourages healthy eating because if you don't eat healthy, you won't fit in it.

Photo 2:

From this angle, you must be standing in the entrance of the kitchen. And you are probably wondering whether or not you can squeeze your body between the fridge and the counter. You are also probably opening your mouth to say, "Isn't there ANYWHERE ELSE YOU COULD HAVE PUT THE FRIDGE?" To which I will reply, "How original. I think you might be the first person to ask that. As a matter of fact, no. There isn't. We tried. I suppose we could have put the fridge in the entryway, but then we would have a kitryway instead of a kitchen and entryway, and I refuse to ever again live in a place with combined rooms. I've had enough of that, thank you. If you can't fit in our kitchen, well, you can just perch on that there stool* and look into the kitchen."

*stool not pictured in photo 2.

Also in photo 2 you can see how narrow the actual kitchen really is. It's more of a hallway, than a kitchen, if we're going to be honest here. It is a one-person kitchen. Which is fine, really, since Mike does all the cooking while I do most of the eating. On the back wall of the kitchen you'll see the set up Mike installed, which I will further describe in the close-up photo below.

Photo 3

Taa-daa! Close-up. Ok. First, we've got the Ikea Ekby wall shelf brackets, and the Ekby Stilig solid birch shelf. That is where we keep our mason jars with grains, salt and pepper shaker, butter dish, mug tree. Mike hung it at the perfect height to also be used as a little breakfast counter, and you will often find me perched upon my Ikea Bekvam step stool, eating cereal off that little shelf. Also, it is quickly cleared in case we need extra counter space for rolling out pie crusts or decorating sugar cookies. We have very little counter space (as you're about to discover) so Mike wanted to make sure I'd have space for my baking. (I love him so.) Above the shelving unit is the Ikea Grundtal wall shelf, with corresponding hooks for hanging my pot-holders and vintage place-mats. Also, we have a magnetic knife block hanging on the wall for Mike's most frequently used knives, and on the far right, a pot lid holder that we bought at Ikea for $4, but that I can't find on the website. It's wonderful how much space we saved in our cabinets by hanging so much of our stuff on the walls. I'll let you in on a little secret: Most of our cabinets are only half-full and it's ONLY because we hung so many things on the wall. Apparently, Sweden has small apartments too.

Photo 4

I just included this photo in case you couldn't tell before how TINY our kitchen is. See how small it is? It's very small.

Photo 5

At the tippy-top of this photo you'll see how Mike installed cabinets above the kitchen cabinets, to store all the stuff we don't use on a super-regular basis. I wanted to just pile stuff on top of the cabinets that the apartment came with, but Mike insisted we could actually store more things in a more efficient manner if we had more cabinets. He was right. Those cabinets were our linen cabinets in the tenement, and they were originally found in a dumpster. I'm telling you, we are super classy.

Above the stove is a shelf Mike built to hold the spatula jar, olive oil, etc. Also, to the left of the stove is our spice rack, which was about $7 at The Container Store. Mike built our pot-rack out of a packing crate he found. We couldn't believe how gorgeous the wood was once he had sanded and varnished it. You can also see here what is essentially half of my counter space. All of my teas are at the back of the counter, because I like to have them out where I can reach them easily. Hanging above my teas is another Ikea Grundtal item, the Grundtal paper towel holder.

Photo 6

This is essentially all the counter space in our kitchen, except for the birch shelf Mike installed. Tea on the left, coffee on the right. The real space saver is the Grundtal series. It's a rod Mike installed above our sink and hanging from it is our paper towel holder, dish rack, and cutlery caddy. I also hang my dish cloths from that rod. If we had to keep all that stuff on our counter, we'd really be screwed. The dish rack was pricey, $25, but SO WORTH IT. It's beautiful, for a dish rack, and it folds up nicely when it is empty. I couldn't be happier with it.

Photo 7

See how nice??

I am almost 100% happy with how our kitchen turned out. As soon as we scrounge the money together to purchase some potted herbs for the kitchen window sill, and as soon as we get our worm bin*, then I will be 100% happy. As for the rest of the apartment? It still looks like we just moved in, mainly because where there ought to be furniture there is large empty spaces. We're taking it one day at a time.

I'm gonna take a stab in the dark here and say I think this might be the most fascinating post I've ever written. I'm sure you're absolutely titillated. I do what I can, folks. I do what I can.

*Have I not told you about the worms we're adopting? Don't worry. I will.

UPDATE:

This is what happens when two people try to work in the kitchen. We've named what goes on here 'The Kitchen Dance'. It has it's own song and everything.

An Update

I know, I know. Last Wednesday I said I would resume normal posting the following day and then I never did. But I've been in a total slump, you guys. 

In the last few months, this blog has turned into something I started to feel really proud of. My morning writing hours became precious and sacred. Two weeks ago I decided I wanted to start submitting some of my little stories for publication and literally, the next day, I managed to not make time to write. Because, you know. There were piles of crap in the living room and laundry to do. And then the next day, I did it again. And then two weeks went by and I just think it's really interesting that I made this decision, to really be a writer, and all of my ideas completely dried up. 

All right, that isn't entirely true. I have thirty-five stories that I've started, that I just can't make go anywhere. THIRTY-FIVE. My mother says they are eggs that are incubating, and will soon hatch. I hope she's right. Because this? This inability to write anything that interests me? IT'S DEPRESSING.

Bare with me. Bear with me? I still don't know which it is. In the mean time, how about an apartment update?

Our new home is slowly, but surely, but very slowly, coming together. Mike built us a gorgeous bed frame out of lumber he found on the street:

 

I love that man and his ability to find trash on the street and make beautiful things with it. 

We have several different ideas for making a headboard, all of them costing us nuthin' but elbow grease, but we have yet to actually execute any of them. I'm lobbying for Mike to build me an entryway table today. Or at least a shelf on which to keep the bin of worms I want to buy for indoor composting. Yum!

The removing-the-paint-from-the-bathroom-tile project is a holy disaster. I keep thinking I never should have EVER messed with it, but the thing is, I couldn't help it. The paint started peeling off the tiles after our sixth shower, and I knew I'd never be able to really clean the shower without all that paint peeling off anyway. I figured I'd be making my life a whole lot easier if I just stripped the tiles. What I didn't realize is that the reason they were painted in the first place was to hide the fact that they are so filthy and old and wrecked that they literally burn your eyeballs when you look at them. I just figured they had been painted ... out of laziness? But really? They were painted for our protection.

While bathing Valentine, Mike has to hold her face away from the hideously 

cracked and stained tiles to protect her vision. 

I asked Mike how much time and money it would take for us to re-tile the shower and he almost passed out. I guess it's out of the question. I tried bleaching the tiles, by the way. I tried using liquid bleach. I tried using bleach powder. I tried bleach pens. All a waste of time and money. I must resign myself to having a filthy looking, cracked tile shower. But you know what? I bought a shower head that is so fabulous, what with it's high water pressure and twelve different settings including a mister and one that mimics rain, that as long as I keep my eyes closed, it's like I'm showering in heaven. So there. Oh! And also? WE HAVE A BATHROOM SINK.

My nephew John sent me this quote recently: "Life's not about waiting for the storm to pass, but learning to dance in the rain." 

Life is one complicated mother fucker and I've never been a good dancer. But I'm trying. I'm still trying. 

Making dreams come true.

About a week ago, Michael and the dogs were locked out of the apartment. Of course he called the super to let him in, but the super was away and would not be home for at least two more hours, and I was temping for the day. So Mike decided to make lemonade out of lemons and use the time to explore our new neighborhood.

He discovered something grand:

Three blocks from our front door is a trail that leads off into a forest.

Um, hi! WE LIVE IN HARLEM. Not Inwood*, not Fort Tryon**. Harlem. Who knew there were forests in Harlem?? I didn't know that. Did you? Well, there are. Is. There is a forest in Harlem. And even though it is very small and very much littered with broken glass and condom wrappers and soda cans and even though you never escape the sound of traffic at any point on the trail, IT IS HEAVENLY.

(Perhaps you would not think it heavenly if you were used to living in a place where you were surrounded by huge forests, but I am used to living in a place where I am surrounded by huge steel buildings and masses of filthy concrete. It is all about perspective.)

(I think I will start walking in my forest with a garbage bag so I can pick up trash as I go. Then my Harlem Forest Trail will be even more beautiful.)

The last three days in a row, immediately after breakfast and coffee, Mike and I have leashed up the dogs and taken them to the forest, where, once we're about 100 feet in, we take off their leashes and watch as they gleefully charge ahead of us. I cannot explain the joy I feel when I watch those two little dogs tumbling, free of their leashes, romping amongst the grasses and trees, snuffling in the underbrush, exploring their surroundings.

Having them off-leash frees us to walk as leisurely as we want, holding hands or with our arms wrapped around each other's waists, like newlyweds. It reminds Mike and I how much we enjoy each other's company and how much we love those perfect little dogs - how much they love and trust us. My heart melts when Valentine stops in the middle of the trail, watching over her shoulder to make sure we catch up with her.

Theo is more in his own universe - a universe where the quest for rotting food never ends. We know he's a city dog because the squirrels and the birds? No reaction. If he gets held up on the trail, his nose under a log and his ears shut off from our calls, you can bet it's an old piece of pizza he's sniffing out and not the trail of some small animal.

My one major concern about moving so far uptown was that in order to get to Central Park, I would have to take the subway, which meant that I probably wouldn't ever take the dogs to Central Park again. Dogs on the subway = hassel that is totally not worth it. I really treasured our early morning off-leash adventures in Central Park and was sad to think we'd never do that again. Then Mike happened upon the forest and you know what? It is WAY better. Closer, quieter, more secluded, more beautiful. And off-leash any time of the day.

I needed this. I really needed this. Remember last year when I was lusting after large, open spaces? Maybe I can't grow a vegatable garden in my forest, but I can let my hounds run wild while I hold my husband's hand and turn my face upwards into the sunlit strewn sky.

*Inwood is The Greenest Place in Manhattan. It is surrounded by old-growth forest on three sides.

**Fort Tryon is also incredibly green and lush. Sibley loves it but I have yet to explore it.

P.S. Click on any of the photos to see to get a bigger view.

Bliss

At least I know where I stand.

Me: Look at this.

Him: Is that a mosquito bite?

Me: It's a lump! And a gash! 

Him: It looks like a mosquito bite.

Me: I banged my head on your new bathroom cabinet!

Him: Oh my gosh! Did you hurt the cabinet?

I predict a riot

Me: What happened?? Are you ok???

Him: I'm fine.

Me: Are you sure? I thought I heard you screaming out in pain. It scared me to death.

Him: ... ... ... 

Me: What was going on in here?

Him: ... ... I was singing.

Me: ... ... ... 

Him: Go back in the bedroom.

Me: You were singing?

Him: Just go back in the bedroom.

Me: I'm sorry I couldn't hear that well, it just sounded like - 

Him: JUST GO BACK TO THE BEDROOM AND LET ME "SCREAM OUT IN PAIN" ALONE.

This is the last one. I swear. No really.

You know what my new favorite sound is? The sound of my dresser drawers opening. It is like the sound of angels singing, I'm not kidding. You know what else? I have a sweater drawer! A SWEATER DRAWER. And Mike and I each have our very own sock drawer and our very own underpants drawer. Our own! One for each! No more mixing of socks and bras and panties and undershorts! It is so luxurious and wonderful and completely makes up for the paint peeling off the bathroom tiles.

I know, I know, it must be really hard to relate to somebody who shudders with pleasure when she thinks of her dresser drawers, but bear with me. Bare with me? I think it's "bear with me". Who knows. Whatevs. The point is, we are down to seven boxes in the living room and three boxes in the bathroom and then all we'll have left to do is hang our photos and art work on the walls. Of course, there will always be a little project here or there that we want to work on, like the bathroom tiles or the beading around the perimeter of the rooms, or staining the french doors or buying more furniture (it is kind of pathetic how empty the place will be when all the boxes are gone because we have no furniture), but other than that, we'll be done. Done! And then I'll take photos, post them and life will return to normal. A prettier, cozier, sunnier, more spacious normal. And then, eventually, the infatuation will wear off and I will shut the F up about my fabulous apartment and resume regular posting about dog poop and crazy people. I just have to get my head screwed on straight.

I miss you all.
Thanks for sticking around.

Confused By Affection Or Infatuation

We are twitterpated. Completely. We're freshman and our new apartment is the star varsity football player. Honestly? I don't know if I've ever been this in love with something lacking a nervous system in my entire life.

Since last Wednesday we've been completely consumed by our attempt to get the place put together so we can start living in it. I mean, we're sleeping there, but everything is in boxes so our lives are in total limbo. Speaking of limbo, I'm working on an essay which explains how moving is the modern day equivalent of the seven layers of hell. But I'll save that for later.

The new place is so so so cute, you guys. I know you're probably sick of hearing about it already, but I just can't stop gushing. I didn't know one could love an apartment this much. I think I might have to name her. The apartment is a her now. I just decided. Her name is Rachel. I love her. It's a non-sexual love, a platonic love, if you will, but not at all lacking in passion. Don't get me wrong, Rachel is not perfect. Not by any means. When she was turned over she was completely repainted, which is impressive for New York, but the tiled walls in the bathroom were painted over and guess what? You can't paint tile. Six steamy showers later, the paint is peeling off and revealing the filthy, grimy tile underneath. Which means we'll have to scrape all the paint off and clean the tile really well. I don't even want to begin to think about what a hideous project that will be, especially after watching Michael rip up the bathroom linoleum and prep it for new flooring. Also, there are no cabinets in the bathroom, not even under the sink, so there is no place in the bathroom to keep extra towels or the seven boxes of beauty products I packed up. Why do I have enough beauty products to fill seven moving boxes? I don't know. I think they came with the extra X chromosome. But you know what the bathroom does have? A bathroom sink. And I love it. I kissed it hello this morning, as a matter of fact. Oh! I know! Let's name the bathroom sink! How about ... ... ... Delilah? Delilah the sink. Perfect.

Rachel has other little flaws, but they aren't her fault, really. It isn't her fault that the french doors were hung incorrectly and so must be taken down and rehung so they will actually shut. And it isn't her fault that all her other doors have been painted and repainted and the paint has cracked and been repainted over again. She's an older girl and those painted over cracks? They add character. And I'm just really thankful that my husband is so handy so that he can fix all the non-working electrical outlets, and even install an electrical outlet in the bathroom that doesn't have an outlet. But you know what that bathroom does have, right? A SINK, YOU GUYS. A SINK.

Rachel is so pretty it hurts me. A good kind of hurt. She is spacious and airy and sunny, Oh! the sun and it's beautiful sunshiny-ness. So much beautiful sunshine. We don't even need to turn on any lights until the sun sets. It's extraordinary. The tenement required lamplight by 1:00 p.m. every day. But not Rachel! And the hardwood floors. They take my breath away. You think silk is luxurious? Or satin? Or velvet? Try my hardwood floors. You don't know luxury until you take off your shoes and walk on my floors. I kissed them good morning today, too. Mike was all, "You're kissing the ground I walk on?" And I was like, "Can't talk now. Making out with hardwood floors."

And also this morning? This morning when I took the dogs out for their walk, SOMEONE WAS MOPPING THE HALLWAY. Now, in my prior rants regarding the tenement, I left out the part where whenever the hallways and stairwells needed sweeping, our "super" would down a bottle of Jack Daniels and paint the stairs with a green oil based paint that then took three days to dry. He'd tape up signs that warned us to "walk on the left" but is that the left if you're going down? Or the left if you're coming up? And inevitably you'd end up with sticky green soles, and then you'd track green paint into the bitchen, and both dogs still have green paws. Plus, cleaning up filth and painting over filth are just not the same thing.

I feel like we've died and gone to heaven. Except for the part where if we eat one more meal from a fast food joint we're going to die. Because there should only be fresh cooked meals in heaven, I'm just saying.

Movin' On Up

Say Goodbye to Tenements!

Our lease is up on May 1st and after two years of tenement living, we decided not to renew it. Sure, the bitchen has been fun. And I'll really miss the fist-sized cockroaches that scurry along the hallways. And also the dingy stairwells with the lingering poop smell. And the shower ceiling that has a habit of crashing down while you're bathing. I'll miss having an apartment that is twelve whole foot-steps from the front door to the back wall. I'll surely miss the drunken ex-homeless man that lives in our basement. And our inability to use more than one electrical appliance at a time for fear of blowing a fuse and having to wait three hours for the super to come home from the bar so he can go into the basement he refuses to give anyone but the ex-homeless man a key to and change the fuse. I will also miss having to boil water on the stove to take a bath in February because the hot water has been turned off in the building - again. And the fifteen minute walk to the closest subway station. And the landlord with his gambling problem and his habit of calling us after 11 p.m. a week before the rent is due to see if maybe we could pay early because he owes his bookie. I mean, I know how lucky we've been to have all of that for a mere $1,513.90 a month. Sure, most people in most cities could rent a house with a backyard for that, but honestly? I'm not complaining. Two years in that tenement has given me a wealth of stories to possibly write one day and that's pretty valuable, I'd say. Maybe not worth the $35,806.80 we've spent in the last two years, but hey! It's only money, right?

We have really had to cut back on our expenses (thanks, recession!) so our goal was to find a new place for around $1200 a month. And we more than met that goal when we found an apartment for $977.80, but it's a little scary the downgrade we've had to make. Really.

All right, I'm totally lying. Our new Manhattan pad is ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS. I am completely in love. I even added the apartment to my list of 5 People I Can Sleep With And My Husband Won't Get Mad. (It's cool. Mike has his own list.) My list is now officially as follows:

1. Michael C. Hall
2. Michael C. Hall
3. Michael C. Hall
4. Zac Efron (He's over 18 so it's not creepy. Shut it.)
5. Our New Apartment

I digress. Our new apartment is fabulous. It's a five minute walk to the subway, a supermarket, dry cleaners, pharmacy, and restaurants. There are five beautiful parks within a 15 block radius. And the amenities! If, five years ago, you'd have told me that I'd one day think of a bathroom sink as an amenity, I'd have laughed at you. But trust me, all you bathroom-sink-takers-for-granted, a bathroom sink is a HUGE amenity.

In addition to the fabulous bathroom sink, our new apartment also has a bathtub that is not scary. It's been refinished so it looks new and it plugs and doesn't have rust stains and years of mildew that refuse to scrub off and the best part? You don't even have to climb over the toilet to get into it. You just step in. That's it. Step and you're in. You know what else we have in our new apartment? Windows that look out at sky and have sunlight streaming in. I thought it was great to move into the tenement, with its windows just a few feet from the luxury condo complex next door and the blobs of cement permanently affixed to the glass from when they built said luxury condo complex. Those windows were an improvement from the single teensy window that was inches from an enormous cement block wall in the studio I rented in Chelsea for two grand a month. At least in the tenement we could decipher whether it was day or night without having to walk outside. But our new apartment? It has six windows. SIX. And they are all huge and when you look out of them you can see sky without having to open the window and crane your neck upwards. It's lovely. Oh! And back to sinks, because I'm really thrilled with the sink situation, the one in the kitchen, that is in addition to the one in the bathroom, is GINORMOUS. And brand-spanking new. Know what else? There are six fuses in the fuse box, which is located in the kitchen instead of in a scary, dank basement that we don't have a key to and that has drunken ex-homeless people living in it. Do you know what that means? It means that, if I were so inclined, I could watch a DVD with the AC on while blow drying my hair, heating my curling iron, brewing coffee and ironing laundry. I bet you are just now realizing all the things you take for granted about your home, huh? YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

And I still haven't told you about the beautiful elevator, the clean and shiny marble stairwells, the enormous and clean laundry facility in the basement, which is also clean and well-lit and full of windows, the buzzer that works and is hooked up to an intercom system next to our front door. I didn't talk about the trash shoot which is right next to our front door and doesn't smell, not even a little bit. I haven't told you about how the bedroom has a door, a real bedroom door that shuts, and how this aforementioned bedroom with a door is larger than the tenement living room. I haven't described the new living room that is larger than the bedroom, has brand-new gorgeous french doors and the most beautiful antique wood flooring. And since I am so excited about all the things that make our new apartment so utterly, breathtakingly fabulous, I'm going to leave out the part about how the kitchen and bathroom linoleum are completely trashed and that, because the apartment is priced so far below market (thanks, rent stabilization!), they refused to replace them, so we are forced to do it ourselves. I also won't mention how the brand-new kitchen cabinets were nailed into the drywall and so hanging off the walls at precarious angles, and how Mike had to pull them down and re-hang them correctly using firring strips, screws and the wall studs. And I am most definitely going to leave out the part about how the brokers fee cost us our first and second born children and also our souls. I'm not going to mention any of those things because, bathroom sink! Buzzer! Elevator! Trash shoot! Laundry room! Sunlight! Space! Closets! Less than five minutes to train platform! HOLY CRAP YOU GUYS. WE'RE MOVING INTO A BEAUTIFUL BUILDING AND WE ARE SAVING OVER FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH ON OUR RENT. That is totally worth using the all-caps key inappropriately.

$977.80 per month. $977.80. Nine hundred seventy-seven dollars and eighty cents. Say it with me. $977.80. Isn't that beautiful? It's my new favorite number. Move over 11! Make way for 977.80.

This is probably where an editor would tell me to shut the F up now, but I can't. Because you know what? After next week, I will never again have to bundle up and walk through rain, sleet, snow, ice and general misery to do my laundry or take out the trash. I will never again fumble to unlock my front door because my slumlord doesn't pay the building electric bill. I will never again have to put on my shoes and run downstairs to let a friend into my building. I will never again have to climb over my toilet to take a shower, bang my knees on the bathroom door trying to shut it so I can have privacy when I poop, or brush my teeth in the same sink I wash my dishes in. And that is so so so cool.

Wanna see photos? Of course you do. Click here and grab a bib because you will start salivating.

p.s. In other news, I just booked a leading role in a workshop of a very very exciting new play. I'll write more about that later. I am so excited I can't believe it's really happening. 

p.s.2. Expect posting this week to be light, what with all the packing and moving and rehearsing I'll be doing. But just think how many wonderful stories I'll have when I come back!

p.s.3. If things keep going this well, I might start to genuinely enjoy this wild metropolis I am trying to call home.

Say Hello to Luxury Living!