The What in What Comes Next

As I looked out the basement window this morning and saw water pooling at the edge of our yard, I turned to devoted partner and said, "you know, I'm glad we didn't buy this place. If we ever do buy, we should make sure our yard doesn't become a swamp when it rains." Devoted partner smiled knowingly at what he termed my "honomer" mentality.

I thought it would be a radical change, the kind from which my personality might not recover. There was a chance that I would have sat in the corner with a copy of my Zagat rocking slowly and crying. Instead, I re-took up knitting.

I also thought the residents of my new home would be way more mock-able. Sure, I am, by leaps and bounds, the fattest woman I see and one of the few who needs to work, but their eerie thinness and leisure has not made them into monsters. Few, if any of them have elbowed me in the face at Whole Foods. And yes, all of the gross stereotypes one can make about the lamentable manners of inner city youth while on public transportation have flown out the window in the face of the lamentable manners of the Skull and Bones set I take the train with. But overall the Greenwichians seem mostly human. If very very very homogeneous.

So where does that leave me and this site that I had hoped would be a scathing referendum on suburban life in a rarefied locale? Aidan asked me yesterday how I was feeling about the move and the blog and it made me realize I could either, stop blogging as frequently and only when something that adheres to the original spirit of the site occurs, or continue blogging just about every day but work a little less hard at trying to make it all about this momentous move that, like much in life, when taken in stride isn't such a big deal at all. As of now, I'm opting for the latter. I like writing and I like that from time to time people read.

That being said: street lights are important. They let people know when to stop and when to go. It has been explained to me that towns don't like street lights for some unconvincing reason that involves not wanting cars on the streets, but cars will be on the streets anyway and having traffic guards all up and down Greenwich Avenue telling you when you can and cannot walk is not only annoying but, for a New Yorker, somehow wrong. Also, I'm pretty positive a light is cheaper.

Doing Stupid Stuff

IMG_5240
Originally uploaded by reallyct

Once upon a time, due to serious malaise, weekends were spent huddled in the corner, fingers stuffed in ears, pretending the world didn't exist for 48 hours until the world had to exist again. As you can well imagine, this was not the best use of time. Bearing that in mind, and bearing in mind how easily I can personally while away the weekend playing any number of empire building computer games (give me a scenario where I can be Caesar and I'm good), I resolved that with new living arrangements would come better weekend utility.

We've been making pretty good on that resolution. Sometimes to our detriment.

Two weekends ago we went to the annual Greenwich dog adopt-a-thon. In 40 degree rain. In wholly unsuitable clothing. We spent an hour permitting hypothermia to get a toehold while I played with dogs. It was great fun until I couldn't get rid of the cold feeling. Finally, a very hot shower several hours later solved the problem, but I could see where better decisions could have been made.

Which is why it seemed perfectly reasonable to go apple picking in the rain this past weekend. As it wasn't yet raining when we woke up, we decided to forge ahead. Naturally, it only started to rain once we reached the orchard. Devoted partner was the ultimate trooper, hanging out until we had enough apples, even as we both got soaked (note to self: perhaps new ex-urban living should influence rain gear purchases). Then we guarded ourselves against fresh baked pies and instead bought the supplies needed to make our own hard cider - which devoted partner is currently in charge of in the basement.

And you know what? It was fun.

It was fun to get wet and be stupid and enjoy each other and throw apples at each other and play with dogs despite not being ready to adopt one. It's been fun, ok not fun but fun-ny, to spend hours upon hours in Home Depot, buying stinky inedible lamb from the farmer's market, canoeing in the world's worst canoe for 30 minutes in the cold while being menaced by spiders, having friends and family over. It's honestly preferable to building up enough legions to overcome the Gauls. Sure, downtime is important, and I have spent more than my fair share of time on the couch, in the corner under a blanket, knitting and watching tv, but I don't need to do that all the time. As winter (yuck) approaches, I know it will be slightly more challenging to find things to do outside our house on the weekends, but I'm definitely more inclined to search those things out provided they do not involve snow balls being thrown at me or shoved down the back of my shirt.

A Room of One's Own

Room of One's Own
Originally uploaded by reallyct

We joke about needing our separate spaces, devoted partner and I, but truth be told, this is the first time I've had a separate space. In our previous living configurations, devoted partner has had an office and I've had a carved-out niche in our bedroom. This is just the way it's been. Even in our previous apartment when there was an additional room I could have turned into an office, I chose, instead, to make it the library cum chocolate storage room cum additional appliance room, rather than move a desk in and worry about wall coverings. So this big empty room that faced me in our new house was both exciting and daunting.

The bookshelves were the first inhabitants. They are relics from the first post-collegiate apartment, workhorses that are neither attractive nor ugly. They just are. They serve a purpose and have housed the book collection as it has grown and, more recently, shrunk. Instead of a haphazard shoving of all manner of printed material, they now house the paperback books I would actually choose to read again, or those that may serve some ancillary purpose in the future. The built-ins in our living room have shouldered the responsibility of my hardcover books (and who knew I had so many!). My mantra in this new house has been: less clutter. Since devoted partner and I each have a double doored closet in our bedroom, we each added only one dresser - the symmetry pleases me - and my other dresser went into my office. Which wasn't much of an office, it was the holding room for things that hadn't found a home yet. I set up my computer on the dresser because I didn't have a desk, and tried to ignore the unpacked bits behind me as I checked my email each morning.

And, as related here, the search for a proper desk began.

But it wasn't just a search for a desk.

In my life I have never thought about furniture as being anything more than functional. I love the fantasy of a huge kitchen someday, but if you asked me what it would look like, on the micro level, I couldn't tell you. Decor eludes me. Sure, when I see someone else's well decorated home, I notice (and Antonio and Amy, you guys are popping up in my memory - especially the striped walls and repeated blue accents, respectively), but rarely can I transpose that idea to my own surroundings. If you asked me, I'd probably tell you I like stark and modern, but I don't think that's universally true. The one piece of furniture I know I'd like to own is a chaise, 18th century style - so not really modern. What I do know is that furniture and decor are not things I am hard-wired to consider spending a lot of money on. So the first requirement of the desk was: less than $200. That left me scouring craigslist. In the meantime, I found the two chairs in the picture. I loved them. I don't know what style they are, I only know that when I saw them I thought they belonged in any room I was going to decorate for myself. When I decided to buy them last week, after agonizing over the decision to spend the money on chairs of all things, they effectively informed the desk decision. I had chairs and the desk had to match.

Enter desk one, acquired Saturday from a nice couple in Briarcliff Manor for the acceptable price of $150. A lovely secretary, it proved to be almost perfect when set up in the room. The one problem was monitor positioning. Meanwhile, devoted partner was angling to have us use it in the front hall (probably so he can avoid trying to make me a demilune in his garage workshop...). But I needed a desk, so it was set up in my room in the corner I had decided would be the desk corner. Then, on Sunday, we found a better desk for the space at $75 and devoted partner got his way: we're going to, I think, strip the secretary and refinish it for the hallway. I was notified yesterday that the chairs had arrived and I spent the early evening moving in the desk and setting it up.

Notice the lack of clutter.

Now, you may also notice how tightly I framed the shot - that's because the rest of the room looks like the aftermath of a tornado through a trailer park - but I can, at least, sit at my desk with the soapstone heart paperweight devoted partner made me, and the picture of me and Charlotte and...

Think.

Sure, I read the book, what over-literate teenage girl hasn't? But, I didn't think, in this day and age, its sentiment was as important. Was I so oppressed on a day to day basis that I needed my own room to refresh my very sanity? No. I don't. But what a luxury it is to have a chair you like, a desk you like, and a view you like: mine is of our front entry - not a person or car in sight. Even if I'm merely playing solitaire or reading The Onion, having this space feels good. And now that this small corner is spoken for, I'm appraising the rest of the room in a different way, wondering what should go on the walls, and what the eventual guest sleeping quarters should look like.

I like having a space. I think I understand why it was always important to devoted partner. It's not that I get to be away from him or he from me, it's that each of us can have a place of repose. Mundanely drinking my coffee in the morning can be my personal mundanity; watching the youtube video for Your Missus is a Nutter can, but doesn't have to be, a shared activity; and when there's no one in the house but me, I can unashamedly surround myself with my things and listen to George Michael loudly. So I may update this photo from time to time, as new things are added, and as the space takes shape. I just didn't think I would like it as much as I do.

My Market Share

Once upon a time, I wanted a kickass pair of knee high black leather stiletto boots. Real bad. It is true that my fantasy pair were made by Manolo Blahnik, but the year I was finally able to afford a pair (2000), was a year in which the heel on the Manolo Blahnik boots was not quite right. Having money burning a hole in my pocket, I endeavored to see if the boots I sought could be acquired elsewhere. It was about this time that a certain Jimmy Choo was garnering a lot of positive attention and had opened a boutique off 5th Avenue. I had walked by and seen a pair of knee high boots, so one afternoon I went to check them out.

I walked into the store and was the only customer. This did not seem to influence the employees who waited a good 90 seconds before inquiring if I wanted anything, and with the kind of inflection that implied it was preferable if I didn't want anything. I said I was interested in the black boots. There was a sigh that accompanied the inquiry for a size. When the boots were delivered to me in my size, the sales girl walked off, not offering to help me into the boots, etc. etc. And for those of you who live beneath rocks, these are not 20 dollar boots. These are boots that should only command such a high price if accompanied by the kind of service one more closely associates with Cathay Pacific first class and not the phone company. Sadly the boots were way too narrow. I say sadly because they were quite attractive. I explained this to the salesgirl who looked at me like I had killed her dog. I left the store with a foul taste in my mouth vowing I would never ever buy a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.

And I've kept that grudge real good.

Sure, I wasn't in a Chanel suit when I stopped by that day, but had the shoes fit, there is a 96% chance I would have parted with the thousand dollars on the spot. And these ladies work on commission. A year later I bought the boots at the Manolo Blahnik store five blocks up and they remain a prized possession.

The point of this story is that I am the person for whom you never get a second chance to make a first impression. There is too much competition for my money for me to waste a moment on a store that demonstrates it doesn't need it. Some people might get off shopping at places that are indifferent, but I am not one of those people and, truth be told, most people aren't.

So this weekend I went to two stores in Greenwich for the first and last times. The first, and yeah, I'm naming names because if the owners of these places ever google themselves, they should find this instructive, is a shop on the Post Road called Plum. I drove by it and was entranced by the words "cheese shop." Yes, it's true, the nice kids at Whole Foods have a whole bunch of cheese, but I do, in theory, enjoy supporting local business and am willing to pay a premium to do so. I think small businesses are important for a community so I'll do my part to make sure we keep them. Plum did have a nice, if small selection of cheeses. Nice because they stocked a number of my favorites. I was perusing the wares and trying to decide what I wanted when a salesgirl asked if she could help me. I responded by saying I wasn't sure yet because they had several of my favorite cheeses. She then started in on a slightly unintelligble rant about how she had lots of stuff to do downstairs and how she wasn't going to be able to get to it all because there had been a party they had to cater etc. etc. I didn't quite understand her motivation. Was it going to be too much trouble to cut me a hunk of friggin' cheese? Did she think complaining about her work was going to make my buy more cheese? Did she think, frankly, that I gave a shit? I came for cheese, I wanted cheese, and unless she was prepared to make cheese-positive conversation, I didn't anticipate conversational interaction - certainly not of the griping variety. It absolutely turned me off because I didn't understand what could possibly possess her to make it seem like my entering the store to buy something was an inconvenience to her.

I'll be buying my cheese at Whole Foods from now on.

Then I went to the yarn store. String, which has an outpost in New York, just opened on Mason Street in Greenwich in the selfsame location that had been occupied by a previous yarn store. I am back to knitting these days and am determined to actually assemble the pieces I knit this year as opposed to packing assorted sleeves and panels in boxes and forgetting the shame I feel that I am too chickenshit to try to sew them together for fear it will look bad. As such, I would benefit greatly from a knitting circle, or stitch 'n bitch, something for which my new local yarn store might be a great resource.

Now, I know, crafters are a breed apart. Generally women of a certain age who like cats and caftans, they fear outsiders, shoes with heels, and solid, patternless dress. However, a cursory census of the Greenwich market would reveal that the crafters in Greenwich will tend more towards Martha Stewart and less towards The Crazy Cat Lady, so perhaps the brand of crazy being sold needs to be tweaked. The store just opened this week so one would assume the employees would be interested in meeting and retaining new customers - the fact that the store is not the first of its kind in that location would suggest to the savvy capitalist that success is not assured - but instead, after greeting me and asking what I wanted (to which I replied that I knew the store in New York and was eager to see their new branch), I was completely ignored by all staff members who, upon discovering sister crazies tended more towards banter and gossip and less towards making an honest buck off me.

I had, in fact, come to shop. I had bought a hank of yarn for a quick project at the Manhattan branch and had decided to make a scarf instead of a hat necessitating more yarn. Getting this for me proved to be a heavy imposition. When I had been given the yarn and I went to pay, the woman at the counter, who may well be the friggin' owner, continued to type away as I waited - no eye contact, no voice contact, nothing. I audibly plunked my credit card on the counter next to the yarn and walked off. I returned twice to the counter and neither time was there any acknowledgment. The third time I just stood there until caftan-lady deigned to look up and ask if I was ready. I smiled my best shit-eating grin while answering in the affirmative.

So now for the instructive part of today's lesson. There is an invention known as the internet. Perhaps you are using it right now. The internet permitted people to buy merchandise and sell it to others without the headache and hassles of a physical location; as such, these people were able to undercut the prices of what we refer to as "brick and mortar" businesses since they had no overhead. Additionally, the customer never would discover what kind of anti-social, smelly, hideously disfigured, serial killer ran the internet business because buyer and seller never met. It was win/win all around. Perhaps you've heard of some success stories. Like amazon.com.

To the nice people at String, allow me to give a good example. While you had no time for me in person, you have put me on your email list and have sent me information about your current special: 40% off a kind of yarn. Guess what? If I type that yarn into the magic google, I find a wealth of other stores that want to sell me that yarn for $8 less per hank. So, given your personalities were so far less than sparkly, please explain to me why I would pay a 33% premium to shop at your store? A place where, as is my understanding, I will have to put on pants to attend. The internet is a pants-optional place. I can save money and not wear pants. This is the very definition of the value-add!

So, in summation, thanks, but no thanks Plum and String. I can find your wares elsewhere. If you would, however, like to see how it's done (and because A.B. bitched at my short post on Friday - bet you wish you'd kept your mouth shut now), visit the nice people at Patricia Gouley on the Post Road around the corner from Greenwich Avenue. The only lingerie store in town, the nice folks there welcomed me, asked me what I wanted and, upon learning I was new to the neighborhood and just seeing what was on offer, proceeded to speak to me in a kind and friendly manner about the store, its wares, and the inventory that would be stocked in the coming months. I didn't buy a single thing, but I will choose to purchase the same bra or panty at the store as opposed to the internet when the option presents itself because the experience didn't suck. Yes, I might pay 10% more, but I'll be supporting a local business - something that matters to me. But it only matters to me if it matters to the business itself, something I'm sorry, Plum and String, that doesn't seem to matter at all to you.

Upstairs Downstairs

A successful relationship is one where each person is able to tell the other to go the hell away before violence happens. Or at least, this is the dictum by which devoted partner and I have happily outlasted most marriages. I remember, vaguely, lying on the two twin mattresses I had put on the floor to simulate a king bed in my junior year college dormitory with devoted partner as we mused about the future:

"We'd need separate rooms, though."

It doesn't much matter who said it first, we both were thinking of it. Ah, those halcyon days.

Fast forward to assorted concerned parents, "you're going to live WHERE?!?"

"But mom, dad, mom, dad, if we don't each have a private room, we'll probably kill each other, and the only place where we can afford a place that has private rooms is in this post-apocalyptic nightmare of a neighborhood."

When we started speaking to real estate agents about the new suburban manse, there was a note of concern: "you need (pause) three bedrooms? Do you have kids?"

"No, we just each like having a home office."

"Do you work from home?"

"No."

Awkward pause.

Our two-level modified ranch house (with the Swiss Chalet interior influences) was a little non-traditional in the home office layout. There was a "rumpus" room on the lower level with a door through to the laundry room, a door to the garage, and a door to the backyard; there was a clearly delineated second bedroom; there was a dining room. I wanted the second bedroom - I don't know why, but it felt like my place. Even though I'd eventually end up spending lots of time in the laundry room thereby potentially impinging upon devoted partner's alone time. I sold him the room as close to the grass that he liked so much and close to the garage woodshop area where he could spend countless hours building things. I don't know if he capitulated because it was what he wanted or because he could sense I was about to make jokes about his constructing battle bots. Either way, I got the upstairs.

Now, of course, I can't resist the urge to make fun of this arrangement.

"Honey, are you having fun with the other morlocks?" I yell downstairs from my snuggly perch on the couch.

"What?" Aw crap, he thinks it's something important and is coming upstairs. "Did you just ask me if I was feeding Moloch?"

"No. I. Nevermind."

And Now I'm On That Watchlist For Nothing

If the number of Edward Said books and things called "The Persian Puzzle" purchased by me on Amazon hadn't already warranted a multi-paged file in the halls of big government, my online sign-up for Arabic classes through Greenwich Continuing Education probably sealed the deal. As one friend asked, "are you planning on joining the CIA?"

I enjoyed musing about my fellow future classmates. Who would schlep to Greenwich High School every Tuesday night to learn Arabic from an Armenian woman? Now, it's true, I could have taken Italian or Spanish instead, but both of those languages seem like they would be easy to pick up on one's own - or certainly easier than Arabic and, before some of you ask, Greenwich Continuing Education did not offer Portuguese. So, the people who signed up to take Arabic might be vastly different from the people who signed up to take Italian or Spanish. Perhaps, like me, they'd turn out to be just a trifle eccentric.

And, truth be told, I don't have a very good reason for choosing Arabic. Yes, my grandfather spoke it, and all his grandfathers before him, and a number of my cousins speak it, but my grandfather is dead and I see those cousins perhaps once every five years, so there's no pressing family reason to start conversing in a foreign tongue with them now. And, yes, I hope to visit quite a few more countries where Arabic is the language, but having seen Egypt and Morocco and a sliver of Jordan, I'm rapidly using up my stable Arabic-speaking destinations. I just know I've wanted to learn a little bit for a fair number of years. When I saw that for a piddling amount and a small investment of time, I could at least, maybe, start to decipher words on menus, I was excited.

Of course I knew somewhere deep down that it wasn't meant to be. Without being able to kindly put my finger on it, I had a good suspicion that the hausfraus of Greenwich were not clamoring for a good Arabic class, nor were the HedgieHusbands going to sneak out of work early to spend an hour and a half phlegming their ways through a truly non-essential tongue. I knew, without really knowing, that I was the only person who would sign up for that class - that the class wasn't going to happen - which is why I was only the tiniest bit surprised when the message on the answering machine told me precisely that.

So I'll have to spend my Tuesdays doing something else. I thought, very briefly about calling back and asking if I could simply register for Spanish or Italian instead, but I decided against it for the simple reason that my heart wasn't into it. Which is not to say I wouldn't like to know how to speak Spanish or Italian, because I would, I just get the sneaking suspicion that, given the relative simplicity of both of those languages, I might find learning them in such an informal setting to be kind of a letdown - something the difficulty of Arabic would have counteracted. So I'll refer to the little bit of Arabic I did learn in Egypt and say to this situation, ma feesh mushkeleh - "no problem."