October 2004 Archives
As we're packing up the house, mounds of stuff are growing in various corners; odd conglomerates of toilet bowl cleaner and pencils in one pile, an old knife set and a litter box in another. We're nothing if not list-makers, however organizing those lists into functional, helpful pieces of organization are something else. As an idea or thought strikes, we rush to find it and then throw it on the To Go pile. Eventually it'll all work out...probably as soon as we get into the apartment and have a large mound of stuff that we keep having to climb over to get anywhere else in the place.
The thing is, we're not taking anything from the house that is leaving it in deficit. This is all extra stuff we've been collecting for the last three years but don't use. Why we have a second something of everything is best left for Jeff to explain. He would also be able to talk about the thirteen Air Wick Harmonization refills we have unfortunately stashed in the closet since we've now stopped using them as of yesterday, based on several forwarded emails heralding the potential fire hazard in plug-in air fresheners.
Then we got home last night to find the cats laying in the living room, rolling to and fro over the acre of Meowy-Wowwie cat nip spread all over the living room carpet from a bag that had been unceremoniously taken from the To Go pile and chewed open.
"It's rehab time for the cats," I said as the Dyson successfully picked up ever last flake of the stuff in a single pass.
"Nothing but cheap cat-nip 'ho's...willing to do anything for their next cat-nip fix," Jeff replied.
"They're so going to suffocate us in the new apartment while we sleep."
"Probably."
I remember back in the day when Jeff and I moved from the city, I made mention to Sparky how we were going to utilize and capitalize on all the time spent in the commute to and from the city. Four hours each day to discuss politics, listen to books-on-tape, learn a new language, and just really live. Sparky, in his practical cynicism gave it a week before the commute became four hours of a lot less utilization and capitalization. He was right. It became obvious the only way to sustain a two hour-one way commute was for one of us to sleep through most of it, so our daily routine settled into me driving in the mornings into the city while Jeff slept for most of the ride and in the evenings, I'd sleep from the GWB until the Port Jervis exit off I-84. About the most political thing we've done so far is buy an XM satellite radio to listen to CNN and music from the 70's. Neither of us speaks a new language though my goy-yiddish continues to expand but only because I frequently mutter, 'Oy' under my breath from sheer exasperation at other drivers or the weather or the the back up at the tolls getting into the city.
But we've persevered, regardless. Most who know we drive such distances daily for our jobs just shake their head, but we've done it for the last three years, surmounting multiple commutes throughout the winters that have stretched upwards to 6 hours, getting us home in time for bed only to have to be up the next morning at 4am to hit the road back to the city. We've done this almost without thought because it was important for us to get settled into Bashert and our lives outside the city, to take advantage of a mortgage and a regular life that isn't so hustle-bustle and draining like it is in Manhattan.
It was the winter last year that finally did us in. Our hair is graying from the thought of having to drive through one more NY winter so we started talking last summer about getting a winter sublet back in the city, to be able to crash a few days during the week and as is our way, we've evolved that idea into signing a year's lease this morning for an affordable one-bedroom in East Harlem to have a city crash pad for the week. All the sudden we're back in the city though our home will always be up in the country. And for as much as I've spouted off to people after moving out of the city years ago about how I don't miss I thing, I'd be lying to say we're both not excited to be back, to have four hours a day for ourselves to do with as we wish. I'm scheduling quilting classes and Jeff's looking for a gym membership and all the sudden, our world seems a little bit brighter and a little bit more livable. We're definitely moving forward by getting back to the city.
Anyone who knows anything about me knows I get totally hard for Augusten Burroughs, author of "Running With Scissors", "Dry", and his new memoir, "Magical Thinking". A good friend actually accosted him at a publishing convention last spring and got an autographed early copy of "Magical Thinking" for me along with a CD of him reading the book. It's on the shelf next to my bear porn and is interchangeable, for all intents and purposes. My questions to my friend about meeting Ausgusten were never about his writing or that nonsense but always about how he looked and acted. He is the embodiment of the word "humpy" and "snack" and while I'm not into breaking relationships up, I'd be lying if I said I didn't wish Augusten's partner, also humpy and snacky by the way, would go the way of the Dodo. I'm that shallow and jealous. Augusten just makes being mad crazy so fucking sexy. It's definitely his slant and it's working just fine for me.
Which is why, since I've known he was having a reading and signing in New York last night, I've been planning on attending. I didn't need the autograph and I know what he sounds like reading his stories, but I did want to go and just be that pathetic voyeur. I wanted to watch him and imagine I'm his best friend and I'm the one he calls to bitch and complain. I have room for some fun, humpy best friends like that. That's why I'm such a doofus to let something like my statistics class best me and keep me from going, preferring to continue my strive for excellence and finish my article analysis paper on profiling the distance learning MBA student. Bo-RING. I missed Augusten for a fucking paper? A paper about nothing? That's totally, totally wrong.
My only consolation is that in the real world, I'm deathly sure Augusten and I wouldn't mix. He's who he is and I who I am and in my mind's eye, those to worlds don't seem to intertwine. I have a much better sense of someday becoming good friends with Oprah than I do with Augusten, strange as that sounds. So I'm fine with using him as pornographic fodder and damp daydreams and will maybe catch him on his next tour for the next book. Who knows.
