Archive for June, 2009

For Sale By Owner

Monday, June 29th, 2009

Beautifully maintained, extra large 1-bdrm. Fully renovated kitchen and bath. EIK has granite countertops and floor-to-ceiling cabinets; bathroom has tub and separate stall shower. Hardwood floors. Prewar building with charming architectural details. One block to E&F trains; 25 minutes to Manhattan by express train. Steps to Austin Street shopping and the heart of Forest Hills. P.S. 101

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It all sounds so sterile, doesn’t it?  Great and all, but kind of cold, kind of clinical.  A real estate listing like so many others.  (Why thank you, I do pride myself on my ability to write realistic-sounding real estate copy!).  But that paragraph is our heart and soul!  Our first Major Purchase as a couple.  And now it’s for sale.  A used tissue from a B-list celebrity can be sold on Ebay. And our apartment can be sold on Craigslist.

When I first wrote about putting our house up for sale it was all so sweet and sentimental. Because at that point, it was still something we were going to do. We just hadn’t taken any actual steps to do so.  But now it’s real.  Any panty-sniffing creep can log onto Craigslist and stumble upon our home.  Attention panty-sniffing creeps: you cannot buy our apartment; do not contact us.

My parents still talk lovingly about the ‘house on Lucerne.’ It was a small, charming house near Hancock Park in Los Angeles. It’s where they first put down our family roots. It’s where my mom learned to become an American, where she held her first child, where she brought me home after I was born, the fourth piece of our four-piece family puzzle. But as my brother neared school age and my parents began to wonder about the safety of the nearby schools, they did what so many other young families do – they retreated to the suburbs.

I imagine one day Mike and I will talk about ‘the apartment in Forest Hills.’  Our kids will roll their eyes at the dinner table as we once again begin a long and too-oft told story with ‘remember that time at the apartment in Forest Hills….’ And they’ll use the opportunity, while our eyes are slightly glazed over at the memory, to toss their unwanted broccoli at the family dog.  It’ll be great. It’ll be anything but cold and clinical.

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Room at the Inn

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

We all know that death and taxes are the two certainties in life. But I’m convinced there’s a third certainty – that there will always be people who come and go in your life, like guests at a hotel, checking in and staying for awhile before eventually checking out. Sure, there are those who stain the hotel sheets with the kind of blight that cannot be removed by even the most powerful of commercial washers and harshest of bleach. But there are also those who leave a special aura behind, so that the room carries their essence long after their scent has left the pillow.

E was the only person, besides my family members, who knew me when I still pooped my own pants. We were friends before we could even say the word, let alone understand what it meant. Our moms had brought us to one of those ‘mommy and me’ clubs, and for eleven years after that we were inseparable. In truth, E and I couldn’t have been more different. But that was the beauty of it. While I was more than happy to run around playing fumble rumble with my brother and his friends,  E wanted to try on makeup and curl each others’ hair. She made me practice dance routines in her front yard, introduced me to scrunchies, Sam & Libby flats, and perms. E taught me how to be a girl.

S wanted me to be his girlfriend. How did I know?  He wrote me a note that said, “Will you be my girlfriend?” and gave me two boxes to choose from: “yes” or “no.”  I was shy, and scared.  It was fifth grade, and I’d never had a BOYFRIEND before!  And I was moving across the country in two weeks.  E encouraged me to say yes.  After all, I was running out of time!  I chickened out.  I didn’t respond to S. I moved away without saying another word to him.  And no one asked to be my boyfriend for the next five years.  S taught me, in hindsight, to take advantages of opportunities when they come along because too often they are few and far between.

The second S in my life was that delightful person you meet who makes you realize that there are other people in the world who ‘get’ you.  Like me, S loved words, delighted in the pleasure of a clever turn of phrase, snickered at nerdy jokes, and spent far too much time analyzing and agonizing over the inconsequentials of life. At the most difficult time in life to do so – high school – S taught me that it was ok to be myself.

B showed up after some of the other significant guests of my life had checked out, long after their lessons had sunk in. By the time I met B, I knew enough to take advantage of an opportunity when it presented itself, and I was (mostly) comfortable enough with my quirks to be unapologetically myself. But I still had trouble letting myself enjoy moments for what they were without worrying about long term ramifications and implications and all the ‘ications’ that can clog up an overactive mind. One afternoon B advised me to  ‘be more epicurean’. I didn’t know the meaning of the word and asked for an explanation, which I answered with a raised, skeptical eyebrow. I read his advice as an intellectually-veiled ploy to get me into bed.  While that may have been true, B taught me that it’s okay to simply enjoy yourself sometimes, to immerse yourself in a moment and only that moment.

There have been so many other guests in the hotel of my life, a sort of supporting cast of transients who have impacted, shaped and molded me in a thousand little ways. The live-in residents will always be with me, will always have a key and will always know their impact. But I’m grateful that there’s room at the inn for both.

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Summer Madness

Sunday, June 21st, 2009

By this time each year, DJ Jazzy Jeff and I have usually gotten reacquainted.  Since Jazzy and Fresh Prince released THE BEST SONG EVER, ‘Summertime,’ it has been, well, my summer jam.  In 1991 when the song first came out I would crank up my Walkman and Rollerblade up and down the street, feeling really cool.  As a teenager, when the song came on the radio I would crank it up as I drove my blue Chevy Cavalier station wagon around town, feeling really cool.  Today, I’m old enough to know I was not, am not, and will never be ‘really cool’, but I still crank the song up every time I hear that soft subtle mix.  This year, I’m still waiting for that opportunity.

jazzyjeff

It’s been raining here in New York for days on end.  And I know that sounds like an exaggeration.  Whenever there’s more than a few days of rain people immediately start saying things like, ‘God, I can’t even remember what the sun looks like!’  But seriously, people, the weather gurus proved it.  Of 21 days in June to date, it has rained for 17.

I thought I was one of a small group of people who get really affected by poor weather. But rain?  It seems to get us all down.  I’ve overheard a lot of people saying things like, ‘I can’t take this rain anymore!’  I have yet to hear someone say ‘Boy am I glad how green the trees are, thanks to all this rain!’

The thing is, in the Northeast, we wait about six months every year for sunshine and warm weather to return after what always feels like an endless winter.  In New York we eagerly count down to the day when restaurants finally slide back their big glass windows, throw some patio chairs on the sidewalk, and let us linger next to the hulking garbage trucks, dirty pigeons, and off-their-meds crazy people.  We can’t wait for this! To be one with nature!  To sip mimosas on a leisurely Sunday while we chow down on stuffed French toast, chomping away while a deranged person with Tourette’s syndrome walks by punching herself in the head and screaming ‘FUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS! THE SHIT!!’ so close to you that her spittle lands among the powdered sugar sprinkled atop your plate.  It’s downright serene.  And it can only happen in summer.

And yet.  The rain.  In just two weeks it’ll be July.  We’ve already been cheated out of some of the year’s best days.  Does Mother Nature plan to issue a real ‘rain check’ and make up for her transgressions by extending summer a month into fall?  I should hope so.  In the meantime, I’m gonna think of the summers of the past, adjust the base and let the alpine blast.

(9ecni4wt7d)

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This Just In.

Tuesday, June 16th, 2009

“I knew it!”

“Are you serious?”

“That’s wonderful!”

“Are you happy?”

“Well, you know how I feel about those things.”

“Wow…”

“Oh my God!”

“How did that happen?”

What do the above quotes have in common?  They are all verbatim responses I received when I told family, friends and colleagues some news…

I’m pregnant!!!

You know, I’ve never been pregnant before.  So I really didn’t know what it would be like to share this wonderful news. I assumed I knew what our parents would say.  That is, I assumed they’d be thrilled.  And they were.  But you know what?  BOTH moms’ first response was #4 of the above.  That’s right…”Are you happy?”  Well, we’re not high school students.  And we’re not college co-eds played the ‘let’s just see…’ game one too many times.  We’re settled, happily married.  So yeah, we’re happy, thanks for asking moms!

There were some reactions I predicted accurately.  Women who are or are soon-to-be moms squealed with delight at a slightly painful decibel.  I think they feel grateful that someone else is joining the club.  Someone else they can commiserate with over lost sleep, lost perky boobs, lost carefree days of wondering whether one should buy the cute shoes or the cute bag. They squeal in anticipation of a new partner in zombie-like, saggy-boobed, diaper buying comraderie.

Telling men is…interesting.  There’s a brief moment, after the telling, of quick silence.  Where the man surely comprehends what happened to get you to this point.  You see the comprehension flicker over his face, and you have no choice but to sit awkwardly and wait for the moment to pass. I thought it would be awkward to tell my dad, of all people.  Thankfully, he didn’t make it so.  But then I had to take it too far.  I bought a book for Mike for his birthday that I thought was a hilarious view of pregnancy from the male point of view.  The book was delivered the day my parents arrived in town for a visit.  I was so excited to show off my gift and proudly pulled out my purchase: “My Boys Can Swim!”  My dad looked, uhh, uncomfortable.  Buzzkill!

So, the telling is underway.  And it’s been fun so far.  Amusing. Entertaining.  Thrilling. Who knows what trimesters 2 and 3 will bring.  Until then, we count down…

to January 1, 2010!!

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Moving On

Monday, June 8th, 2009

This is the room where we painted over the mint green walls. We hadn’t moved in yet, but we drove over every couple days, each time with new supplies. First the primer, then the paint. It was the dead of winter, but thankfully the radiators in this building make it feel slightly cooler than a steam room. We brought lawn chairs to rest in when our backs got tired from stretching to reach the upper limits of the 10-foot high, pre-war ceilings.

This is the kitchen, where the former owner had installed a mini TV under the counter. We knew it was wrong to fall in love with a place because of owner-owned amenities. But a TV! In the kitchen! We could picture ourselves here, turning from the stove to see just how many supplies Rachel Ray was going to stack into her arms THIS time.

This is the bathroom, where we discovered a host of delights. Recently remodeled, floor to ceiling tile, a style we would have picked ourselves. Better, even. A tub AND a shower? Too good to be true. Towel rack situated over the radiator. Who knew stepping out of the shower in winter could be a delight?

This is the bedroom, what the HGTV and Extreme Makeover: Home Edition folks dreamily call ‘your sanctuary.’ We pored over paint swatches, decided on Glacier something or other. Paired with sand-colored carpet and honey-stained wood blinds, we could pretend each night that we slept in a beach-side oasis. We’ve cracked the windows in winter to combat the hot air hissing out of the radiators. We’ve cranked the ceiling fan in summer, falling asleep to the rhythmic click-clicking of the blades as they spun in dizzying circles.

This is our home. The first day we turned our keys in the locks (yes, locks plural – we live in Queens, New York) we jumped up and down and scratched our heads that we were HOMEOWNERS!!! We held dinner parties here (small dinner parties, it IS an apartment), hosted beery Super Bowl parties, counted down to our wedding, welcomed my parents for long weekends.

Soon this home will be our former home. The market is right to look for a house. Yards and driveways beckon. The scent of summer barbeques tease us. We own a home, but we’re ready to own a house. It’s time.

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Bitch and Moan. And Smile Too.

Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009

What’s chapping my hide these days…

** Why do movie studios presume that we all get dumber when the temperature heats up? I for one am tired of the inane movies that populate theatres each year beginning in May. A quick check of Fandango.com reveals the following winners: Land of the Lost (sorry Will Ferrell, I love you but I will NOT be seeing this trash); The Hangover (nuff said); Terminator Salvation (when will this franchise just die??); Drag Me To Hell (no idea what this about, but the title alone is enough to assure me it’s ridiculous)

[Author’s note – after I wrote this, I noticed that I had misspelled ‘dumber’ above with the brilliant ‘dummer’. So, movie studios, perhaps you ARE on to something!]

** Movie studios aren’t the only culprits in this dumbing down of Americans in heat. Let’s check the TV schedule, shall we? Oh look, “I’m A Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here!” Premise: a bunch of sub-D-list celebrities try to live in the ‘jungle’ for some indeterminate period of time. Apart from the ubiquitous Heidi & Spencer, the ‘celebs’ are so sub-D-list that you have to spend a couple moments trying to understand why these people are considered celebrities in the first place. Enter Patti Blagojevich. She’s famous because? Oh, right, because she’s married to a wacko governor who used up his 15 minutes of fame already, mostly by having tremendously awful hair that would make even the Monkees cringe.
** Can we talk about Twitter for a minute? What’s with people who know nothing about it or how it works getting so angry about the fact that it exists? No one’s forcing you to sign up. Then you have the other camp, made up of people who also know nothing about it or how it works and yet pretend that they do, pretending that they ‘get’ it. Sometimes I feel sorry for these people. After all, they’re trying. But then again, it’s not that hard. Sign on. Write something. Read things. Repeat.

Lest this post become a Debbie downer grouchfest, I’ll leave you with a few things that are making me happy these days.
** Meaningful music that sticks in your head and makes you think
** Making people smile with simple compliments
** No longer needing a coat to walk out the door

So tell me…what’s chapping your hide? What’s making you happy?

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