Incentives

It should come as no shock to any who have been to our home that housekeeping is neither a talent I possess nor an avocation I pursue. Frankly, if you're coming over, there is a 100% chance that devoted partner and I have spent the previous 24-36 hours frantically sweeping up dustbunnies and hiding piles of clothing under the bed where we hope you don't look (also just shoving everything we can't be bothered to sort in the closet - in our previous apartment, you may have noticed that sometimes there was a handbag "locking" the closet doors; that was why). I simply don't enjoy cleaning and think it should only be done in dire circumstances.

Some things are different. Occasionally, after an especially failtastic jam-making session, the kitchen will see a wipe down. Actually, the kitchen is the area that gets most frequently cleaned because it gets most frequently dirty. And for a day or two after we change the sheets, we try to make the bed. But honestly, we're just getting back into it at the end of the day... I currently have about half a year's worth of magazines in both the bathroom and the kitchen that I am slowly going through to pull out the recipes and articles I want to keep thereby freeing me to discard the rest of the magazine, and I am creating a large bag of clothing for Goodwill, but I'm not going to tell you that we spend our weekends mopping things.

We simply do not.

But yesterday was different. Yesterday we went to the Container Store for such necessities as shower caddy, knitting caddy, bra caddy, and boxes. Armed with our haul, I set about organizing my underwear drawer (I give it a B: the bras sort of fit in the caddy, and the drawer sort of closes over it, but there's definitely room for improvement; still this solution is an improvement over the old chuck everything in a pile and fish out what you want on any given day plan). Then I installed our shower caddy (installed might be too ambitious a word for slinging a hunk of plastic over the shower head and making sure the little rubber bit went click).

Then I sorted my knitting. This was a biggie. At the beginning, I just sort of threw things into a basket - this caused knots. Then I started bagging things and putting them in the basket and when the basket became full, plastic bags would overflow onto the floor. But since the overflow was in the newly appointed knitting nook, I considered it ok. Well, the Container Store begged to differ and reminded me that for $20, I could have two new baskets to put things in. Ah, Container Store, how wise you are. So now there was the task of organizing the basket: projects I'm not really working on right now, active projects, and yarn for soon to be active projects. Sounds like a good plan. And it was right until the moment I realized I was missing two skeins of soon to be active yarn. Two expensive skeins. Two skeins I really really liked and didn't think I could easily replace.

So then it happened. The Tasmanian Devil-like exorcism of the office/library/guest bedroom and living room in an effort to seek out the skeins I was very much hoping had not gone out with the trash (in truth, the non-wet trash was searched as well). In a matter of 45 minutes, the cluttered office suddenly had floor space and the bed was home only to pillows, sheets, blankets, and the box we need to save to send back my ring for resizing. Dry cleaning bags, and packing material from discarded boxes, and the boot box I didn't need, and many many receipts that had escaped from equally disorganized handbags - all was discarded in an appropriate trash receptacle. Shoes were returned to or near to closets. Dirty clothing found the hamper. Coffee cups the sink.

And nothing. My yarn was nowhere to be found. Which is confusing for the following reason: I may be a slob, but I am an organized slob. Underwear is rarely found in the dining room, nor are plates found in the bedroom. Bills are in piles only in rooms where bills get paid. Dirty clothing is, for the most part, found in the bedroom. So my mess doesn't travel. This makes it easier to find the not-too-dirty-to-be-worn-again jeans and the lipstick I really like (hint: either in a TSA-approved bag in the bathroom, or in the zip side pocket of a handbag). I was a little despondent. More than a little. I was downright pissed. Even though I held out hope that it was somewhere. It's just that I had run out of somewheres where it could be.

It is possible that devoted partner suggested I check the yarn baskets again, but he might be making that up to make me look bad. I knew that the yarn was in a plastic bag that crinkled noisily and, several hours later, remembered that I had a not-working-on-right-now project that was stored in a bag that crinkled. And come to think of it, even though I had moved that bag while organizing, the project that was in it was very similar in color to the missing yarn and-

Yes. The missing yarn was in the bottom of that bag. It has since been moved to the soon-to-be-active basket and I am no longer making the sad face. Furthermore, the house is remarkably cleaner than it was this time yesterday. I'm thinking win all around.

The Little Things That Prevent Me From Being An Adult

My aversion to showering is well-documented. This is a character failing I know. Most adults do not consider "took a shower" to be a milestone needing celebration. But I think it's important to note that it's not the shower qua shower that I object to, merely all the things showering implies: hair conditioning, exfoliation, combing of hair, application of various types of moisturizer - and that's on days when I don't suck it up and actually do my hair and makeup.

Our shower is perfectly sized, but short on storage. Since I have no special affection for the act of showering, I have done little to ameliorate this problem. As such, it is not unusual, especially during shared showers, for various wash items to fall to the floor: combs, body washes, conditioners, etc. And yet, as I attempt to embrace adulthood with all its hygiene requirements, I find that I would like to have more room for my stuff.

Oh who am I kidding? The entire bathroom could use some assistance. Neither of us is really all that keen on bathroom maintenance (see empty roll of toilet paper on the dispenser and active roll of toilet paper on the counter; towering stack of magazines; unused but unmoved cups; assorted daily items not replaced in medicine cabinet). I don't even grok this, which is what I found when I google imaged "Martha Stewart bathroom." Now, I also read the post that accompanied the picture of an impossibly groomed medicine cabinet (who does this?) in which the author admitted to being occasionally lazy, but her occasionally lazy and mine have two entirely different meanings.

I did, however, take solace in her 8-minute regimen. Take 8 and only 8 minutes to do something tidy. I like this in theory. Much like, "only eat until you're full," it makes a lot of intellectual sense. In reality, my full and other people's might be different, ergo I simply avoid eating altogether. I would very much like to become an 8-minute kind of person. Since the last cleaning of my kitchen (long long long long overdue) I have been wiping up when I see spots of stuff on counters and stovetops, so there might be hope, but amidst that hope is the stepstool with the stack of magazines that didn't fit in the bathroom perched precariously on the top step so...

I have been to many of your houses (I'm looking at you AMY) and I notice that they all seem well-kept. Do you have maids? Or do you actually take time to fix your own houses and how do you do this when the DVR beckons? Or the knitting site? Or, really, well, anything?

But this weekend we will pack ourselves off to the Container Store for 8 minutes of looking for bathroom organizers. And I will try very hard to spend 8 minutes actually unpacking and installing our purchases.

Giving In To Temptation

Just a housekeeping note: did anyone understand one word Stephen Colbert's guest said last night? Not only did I find his thesis the opposite of cogent and so incredibly convoluted, but he was a really poor representative of whatever it was he was talking about. Here's what I understood: poor people should make noise about their poverty while, somehow, not making the noise rich people don't like that poor people are in the habit of making any way like street noise. Just wondering if anyone else got something out of that four minutes.

But we were going to talk about temptation. If your name rhymes with "gamey," you are well versed in the brand of temptation that strikes around July 4th. The temptation that says one need not have an expansive estate to enjoy the good life; that a blender is sometimes the only accoutrement one needs to be sated; that repetitive tasks become more interesting the more one uses the blender and enjoys what it produces.

For many years the people whose names rhyme with "gamey" enjoyed turning devoted partner's parents' lovely, staid, appropriate Greenwich colonial into a strawberry flavored and colored redneck's dream. For 2-3 glorious days we mixed up strawberry daiquiris and played epic games of "asshole."

In a kiddie pool.

Now you may scoff, but until you've tried it you don't even know. Armed with a wooden salad bowl that served as our floating discard pile and actually armed with an air rifle to protect our pool from pigeons and deer, we took the July 4th bull by the horns and got it massively pissed on girldrinks.

Now 1/2 of "gamey" has moved on and gotten married and while the other 1/2 of "gamey" did partake in some nostalgic pink drinks with us the other month, it isn't the same. It's like trying to recapture magic moments.

Or is it?

You see, on Sunday, after sweating through about 50 minutes on the miserable beach, devoted partner and I were ready to throw maturity to the wind. We entered Target with a plan. We exited Target with a 30 dollar ENORMOUS kiddie pool and some light up rubber duckies (sadly made in China and not all that sturdy).

So Monday found us in our pool, playing gin into a wooden salad bowl (until devoted partner accidentally got water in the bowl which was an accident even though he hates gin), and grilling up burgers and dogs.

I'll admit, "gamey," it wasn't the same, but it was pretty darn good. We hope to lure you and your new additions back sooner rather than later.

Around the House

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

This morning, as devoted partner removed the screen from our bathroom window in order that he might have a clear shot at the family of feral cats cavorting in our yard with his air pistol, it occurred to me that I hadn't updated much about the domestic suburbification. Perhaps it's that, while I think shooting at cats is perfectly normal for a Monday morning, I worry my former citymates would not. Perhaps it's that, should my gardening projects end in tears, I will be embarrassed at my total inability to thrive in grassy cultures. Perhaps it's simply that because the quotidian is so easily taken for granted.

So let's get right to it: my blue table still needs some help. I'm hoping the "Coming of Amy" will help with this. I just kinda need some guidance and some motivation. The laundry room could stand to be emptied of, well, laundry. Apparently it is true that the more space you have, the more space you fill. I feel distinctly cluttered until I remember that we have an attic for "emergencies."

But I guess there are two big changes, one of which I'm sure you can guess at based on the photograph: I am gardening. I dug little holes and lovingly put plants in them and sprayed them with water when they looked thirsty. Sadly, for my mother at least, these are not the pretty kinds of plants. These plants are utilitarian. 8 varieties of herbs and 9 heirloom tomatoes. I envision a long summer of endless fruitings (in reality, I know I'll be lucky to get one salad's worth). I even paid the neighbors' kids to water my pretty little plants while we were in Miami. Yes, I fear for them when it gets hot and they look wilty, but a cursory evaluation of their health while I was gone yields some positivity: they seem spry.

Now there are some problems. For one, I have not consulted the great Internet for information on, let's just use this example, what it means when the leaves are yellow. Does that mean too much water or too little? (Oh, and by the way, now that I have searched, there are more new questions and too many answers.) Also, at the same time as plants were going in the ground, another outdoor toy landed by the front porch. My new bird feeder, a small gift from devoted partner. It is now exciting to see birds eat things out of my feeder (though I need to create a blind from the kitchen window so I can try to take pictures of them feeding). But, of course, the bird feeder has also brought squirrels who, I am not certain of this, might enjoy eating my garden. (The nice man at the garden store assured me to the contrary, but I am skeptical.)

So we sit back, relax, shoot some animal intruders, and await our homemade mojitos and tomato/basil salads. Kids, this, it seems, is what it's all about in the suburbs.

P.S. Many Miami postings coming once I edit and upload the photos.

Ye (plural) of Little Faith

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

Though devoted partner just called me on the phone and proceeded to recite the definition of sloth to me (for which there will be just punishment) I did, in a fit of not wanting to do my taxes, start work on the table this past weekend. Ever since I attempted to paint my own bedroom in 2000 resulting in paint on hardwood floors (suck it, illegal sublet) I have been afraid of paint. I just might be a trifle too messy for paint as could be amply attested to by any of the lovely patissiers at DB Bistro who know my propensity for "getting in the confectioner's sugar." But I had been to the dreaded Home Depot, had purchased enough drop cloth to blanket Port Chester, and thought the time had come to man up and get over my fear of destroying everything within my radius.

Guided by the wise and offensively talented Amy (who makes these kinds of home improvement projects seem like no big deal), I had purchased the proper brushes, sandpaper, and paint, and knew how I was to proceed. Step 1: sand off laminate gloss; Step 2: paint. At least those were the steps I remembered. There was a polyurethane step in there as well but Home Depot didn't have that kind of polyurethane so we'll be temporarily avoiding that step. I sanded until the table no longer looked glossy, but, as you can see from this first picture, I may have stopped sanding too soon. No matter, like nail polish, I assumed this could be the base coat.

I should now mention that I sort of forgot to buy that plastic receptacle for the paint and a stirrer. Now someone in another home would have been at wit's end over this sort of oversight, but my house is different. Simply take one's food service grade (and length) plastic wrap and double wrap a mixing bowl and, voila, paint receptacle. Similarly, 3 wood skewers stand in quite well for a paint stirrer in a pinch. As for cleanup, well, what home would be complete without approximately 12 spare rolls of bounty towels. And goodness knows, if this project should require sugar at some point, we've got that well covered with the 50 gallon drum in the basement.

So I felt pretty good about my domestic prowess and MacGyver-like substitutions. True, coat one was not smooth, but coat two was definitely smoother. I remembered Amy's admonishment to attempt to paint in very broad strokes, which I attempted. Yet the space where the first and second swaths intersected was, by necessity thicker, and I felt I had to smooth it out. This in turn made neither swath especially smooth, but I felt certain that subsequent coats would even this out.

Thus far, two coats in, and I'm reevaluating my earlier logic. Even dry, it still isn't as smooth as I would like. Enter devoted partner, himself a professed knower of things. He has suggested a very fine grit sanding might prep the table well for coat three. I shudder at the inevitable return to Home Depot (though perhaps someone there could advise me on my polyurethane problem...) but still have hope that this table might be good in the end. Some things I've noted, though: the color is a little more Go Tigers! than I would have liked - something neither the paint chip nor the daub on the top of the paint can would have suggested and something I am attributing to the fact that the table was woodsy colored to begin with thus, perhaps lending a yellower cast to the whole project; though, come to think of it, once I had the base coats of blue wouldn't this have gone away? Never mind, once completed and accessorized (oh I have accessory plans, fear not), I think this will be a kind of cool table. And, depending on the overall success the first of many such painting projects because, as Amy foresaw, it's kind of addictively fun!

More Projects To Unfinish

I see a pattern developing. The table I've been meaning to paint blue...still not blue. Even though I have all the equipment downstairs in a bag. The iron lawn furniture we bought last summer...still not finished being spray painted. The only reason the Amy Guest Bed has sheets and pillows is that I bought them the same day the bed was set up. I have some difficulty with these domestic projects even as I presume that a life spent Martha Stewart style is what I crave. Martha would have finished spray painting the lawn furniture and, what's more, would have painted little birds on it or something.

So nothing makes more sense than the new spring projects I wish to embark on. Our lawn guy mushed up some soil in front of the house for my heirloom tomato transplants which should arrive today. I'll now need to go back to Home Depot to get some fencing stuff to keep out our menagerie of coyotes, foxes, opossums, and feral cats. Much hilarity, I feel certain, will ensue. Also, I'm not really a talented gardener. I kill plants. All plants. With alarming frequency. But I like the idea of having a dizzying array of tomatoes at the ready this summer. I'll also plant some herbs I think.

With that project firmly destined for failure, I envisioned another. We have, in addition to a profusion of land mammals, some avian visitors to the manse. I don't know much about birds, but I'm pretty sure the blue one is a blue jay, the really red one is a cardinal, and the one with the orangey chest and brown back is a robin. I never gave much thought to birds and their relative attractiveness because for most of my life I lived in a place with only one variety of bird: the pigeon. Which doesn't invite much thought save for the most expedient ways to destroy it. I'm also aware of gulls which are on the beach and also worthy of extermination.

But as the weather has warmed and the ground has yielded bird yummies, there seem to be more of them around and, dare I say it, they are attractive. And kind of peaceful. I'd like to get them to sit still long enough for me to photograph them. Clearly what I need is a bird feeder. Now I know of the pitfalls of the bird feeder: most notably bird crap and an open invitation to squirrels; also there's a good chance they'll eat my tomatoes. Still, I feel as though were the tomatoes and the birds on opposite sides of the house, both could live unmolested.

I too am frightened by these mental developments and what they imply.

Busy Bees

Devoted partner is having a bit of a work meltdown. After several months of buildup, his project has officially commenced. This neatly coincides with the Passover/Easter holidays, friends visiting from out of town, and spring cleaning.

So, naturally, I helped out by arranging for us to pick up a bed in Manhattan on Saturday kindly donated by Ariane.

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

We needed a bed, she needed to not have to worry about this one. It was perfect, really. So, yet another item was roped down to the top of the trusty Subaru and transported back to our manse (after Chinese for lunch, natch). Upon reassembling the bed, devoted partner took off for the office and did not return until long past nightfall, though happily as he was able to get much work done in an empty office. I decided to use the motivating forces swirling around our new acquisition to go to the store and buy those items necessary to dress the bed. As you see, the (what I've christened) Amy Guest Bed is now fully operational. It is also housing two cherished childhood stuffed animals which, before this, were in a closet. You may all commence making your reservations.

Sunday, I was far kinder. Devoted partner left the house early for the office while I did the parts of spring cleaning he hates: deciding what on the floor is garbage and what is not, and finding a home for the nots. This was before Kim arrived for our cake decorating date. We'd been planning this for ages and I had prepped by making several cake layers Saturday night, and outfitting the house with a dizzying assortment of gel food colors.

Much butter lost life in the creation of these two cakes:

Mine

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

And her, much better

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Originally uploaded by reallyct

Would you believe she'd never done it before???

I was really quite impressed as someone who finds coloring within the lines challenging. I mean, look at her leaves!!!

And now comes the Overpass part. Devoted partner cleaned like a champion while I was at my parents' last night, leaving me to, well, feed people. The food has been bought, the necessary wine is chilling; all that remains is for me to get off the damn computer and go cook something!

Reporting Live From Ice Station Zebra

With the supply of tea light candles and non-spoiled Jello Sugar-Free Pudding running low, we thought we'd take to the dark quiet streets to assess how local residents are coping with LightsOut2010.

Q: Many are saying that this is the worst storm damage to hit the greater Metropolitan area in 30 years. How are you weathering (chuckle) this storm?

A: Brains....brains....brains....

Q: I see. What are your thoughts on the response time from Connecticut Power and Light?

A: Must have brains....or internet updates....but mostly brains....short supply of brains....CP&L trucks no come to street....difficult to get brains....

Q: What about the new experience of having your home powered by exposed electrical cables as opposed to the underground ones you used to have back in your old apartment?

A: Con Ed brains, er trucks, everywhere....CP&L brains nowhere....Con Ed good....underground wires good....brains good....

Q: How have you spent these past few powerless days and do you find that you don't really miss the trappings of modern life?

A: Mother-in-law....so much mother-in-law....not allowed to eat brains of mother-in-law....need....warm....embrace....TV....

Q: And your neighbors, how are they handling the current power outages?

A: Locked in house....baseball bats....protect brains....neighbors on NY side of border....flaunt lights....TV....refrigeration....retribution swift must be....

Q: Now you're talking like zombie Yoda, tell us a little bit more about the day-to-day changes you're making?

A: House cold....Skinny Cow Ice Cream Sandwiches melted....toilet seat very cold....high likelihood of burning house down with candles....must set out in search of brains....

Well, there you have it. I think we can conclude that there is no earthly reason why in a country as sophisticated as ours there could ever be a good excuse, save the utter demolition of power stations, why 60+ hours would pass between lights out and lights on. As you can see, the total uselessness of the local utility company has turned some previously normal people into cable-deprived zombies. This reporter can smell the revolution in the air, though that could be the rotting brainless corpses strewn along the avenues, and urges those residents for whom power has been restored to remain in their houses, sensitive to the deprivation of others, and perhaps avoid using your outdoor floodlights throughout the night until this crisis is over.

Reporting live from Greenwich, let's send it back to the studio.

Assorted Technical Difficulties

There is, I don't know quite how to say this, a tree in my yard. Yes, I know what you're thinking, I live in the wilds, there should be, conceivably, many trees in my yard. But this tree is different. This tree is decidedly...

horizontal.

Now I'm no treeophile, but I'm pretty sure these things are supposed to go up/down not side/side. As god was continuing to vent his weather anger on account of our war/gays/health care reform/MTV he inadvertently deposited one of his up/down trees in our yard in a side/side manner. I found this quite funny (after doing the math necessary to realize that my car was protected by our bedroom and that our television was protected by our attic). Because nature is generally amusing, and side/side trees are particularly so. Also, devoted partner and I were about to leave the manse for our anniversary evening in Manhattan (please start your teasing now).

And I would have thought nothing of it, save for wondering if this is our landlady's problem or ours, had we not returned yesterday to discover that trees, apparently, are subject to group mentality. For another tree decided to align itself in a side/side manner; this time blocking our driveway.

As devoted partner went to alert our neighbor, whose tree it was, I went to park the car. Sort of. You see, devoted partner's garage door opener wouldn't work. So I got out of the car to open the door using the keypad. Which also didn't work. Funny that. I let myself into the house by the front door to discover a certain lack of light, not super surprising considering we had been absent a day, but even the ambient light from things like hard drives, oven clocks, and cable boxes was mysteriously absent.

Oh, yes, because we had no electricity. Because the trees were now unionized and many of them were now choosing to be side/side trees as opposed to up/down trees. Now I have experienced a lack of electricity before, dare I say I'm an old pro. People like air conditioning in the summer and sometimes they like to have more air conditioning than the folks at Con Edison can provide and then there is no power. Generally for about 2 hours. Sometimes 4. We light candles and play gin. But something about this lack of electricity was odd. Our neighbor told us at 2:00pm on Sunday that he had been (and by extension our neighborhood) without electricity since 8:00pm the previous day. My math skills kicked into high gear and I can now tell you with a strong measure of assurance, that is a full 18 hours without electricity.

That just seems barbaric.

We took refuge in the house of the mother-in-law (or rather, I took refuge while devoted partner "bravely" fled the scene to go to his office). When we returned at 11:00pm, there was still an obvious lack of electricity (hour 27). We set iPod alarms and such (though we needn't have bothered come to think of it as I was awakened by both the iPod alarm and the regular one, prompting me to think the crisis was over when really it's just that we have one of those alarm clocks that has emergency battery power). I dreamed that electricity had been restored. But, that was merely a dream. As I left the house (hour 37) I wondered how long we would be without sweet sweet power. Our neighbor had said he thought power would be restored sometime today (Monday), but 1010WINS ominously warned that some areas affected by downed lines might not have power until Thursday.

Well I cannot live at my mother-in-law's until Thursday, despite her willing hospitality. I couldn't live at my parents' house until Thursday.

So the reason there is no picture of the awesome tree in our yard is that, while my digital camera has it's own power source, the computer does not, preventing me from the download upload. Believe me when I tell you the downed tree is pretty spectacular, though it will become less spectacular in summer when I want to traipse around the yard naked and the neighbors, from whom we were once shielded by a tree, decide they do not want to see my naked traipsing. And devoted partner assures me the law is on their side.

I shall therefore predict that this summer many of these updates will be made from the Greenwich pokey.

Invitation to a Hunt

We had a lovely dinner with friends Jim and Erica on Saturday night and joked afterwards that we would have been happy to stay up late and make it a slumber party. This works, in theory, because Jim and Erica have that special thing we currently lack: a guest room. Though, in theory, so do we.

When we started setting up house, I assumed that my Room of One's Own would eventually play very occasional double duty as a guest room - mostly because my bookshelves occupy a mere single wall and my desk a small corner - the rest of the room is strangely empty and clearly large enough for a bed. However, I didn't want an actual big lump of a bed hanging out in my room. Then it would no longer be my room, but clearly a guest room that I used as an office.

Recently, I have permitted devoted partner to move some of his items into my room. Devoted partner chose poorly when he selected the basement rumpus room as his office as our heat does not vent down there. So currently, devoted partner's office is a constant balmy 50 degrees. So the spare television (which I desperately wanted to destroy) and the PS3 have taken up residence in my heated room. It would now be nice if there was seating that one might not sit on the floor while playstationing.

So I invite you, especially that one of you who finds things on craigslist and emails them to me and who, coincidentally, was the first person thought of as a potential user of the guest room (since otherwise there would be that uncomfortable three-in-a-bed moment), to assist us in locating the perfect used daybed. My requirements: no bedbugs, bloodstains, or mold, and I don't want to spend more than $150. Also, please nothing larger than a queen-sized apparatus (if they even make daybeds that big - I was hoping for a double) as it will need to somehow fit in or on a Suburu Outback.

Joke entries welcome!

Water Politics

Ah, summer camp, my first encounter with the others - people mostly like me who grew up in a strange netherworld known as suburbia. You were a fascinating bunch, most especially because you found me such an anomaly: when not asking if I was your counselor (I wasn't) you were inquiring after my safety in the dangerous streets of New York. And yes, while the Koch/Dinkins years did have their share of, well, crack, I found your wide-eyed disbelief that I had never been a victim of a violent crime charming. I thought you all were so sheltered...

Now devoted partner, a suburban boy himself, has a theory about New Yorkers which I have heard so many times (and find so boring and "look at me, I watch science documentaries") that I cannot believe I am about to repeat it, but here goes: New Yorkers are like deep-sea creatures; perfectly at home in an environment that would kill normal underwater creatures and unable to survive anywhere else. Blah blah blah. Ten years that boy spent in Manhattan and still asked me questions about which subway line to take (whereas I have perfectly adapted to my new environment if you don't count asking him to check my tire pressure, go into the attic because it's gross up there, and being indignant that the people who pick up our trash want to be PAID for the service - that's what municipal coffers are for).

But I am learning that my sophisticated urban upbringing sheltered me from what I fondly refer to as reality. I know my suburban friends will bear with me as I share a fascinating thing with my city friends: hot water runs out!

I'm not talking about when your landlord posts a notice in the elevator telling you that they are working on the boiler and there will be no hot water from 10:00am-4:00pm; nor am I talking about some bizarre confluence of events where, if you flush the toilet while the kitchen sink is on, the hot water will temporarily disappear (or appear with vengeance). No, I'm talking about taking a shower and suddenly noticing the water is getting colder; adjusting the temperature and realizing that you have a finite amount of hot water, and it has run out.

And I'm not taking what I would consider superlong showers. After all, I have to wash my hair with shampoo twice, condition, wash the rest of me, wash out the unmentionables, finger comb my hair, and then rinse everything. Also, there's that 2 minutes at the beginning of the shower when you are adjusting in the temperature and reveling in the warmth. I reckon I have about 8 minutes with which to do this. It's not a lot of time. I remember growing up, my mother would always complain about how long I spent in the shower, but those were the "learning about your body" years and she should have damn well understood. This is not about that.

This is about, occasionally, wanting a leisurely shower, perhaps with devoted partner, who mumbles something about the temperature of the boiler, but I'm really not listening because HOT WATER SHOULD NOT RUN OUT! God help me the times I have forgotten this and gotten in the shower while either the dishwasher or washing machine was running.

Now, to pull this back around, I am reminded of summer camp, where, from time to time, there was no hot water in the showers. I don't remember why this was, but my guesses range from we were in the middle of nowhere and I'm surprised we had clean running water to begin with to it was an intentional deprivation by the rulers of Zionist summer camp to remind us that our ancestors spent 40 years wandering the dessert where, presumably, a shower was an undreamed of luxury. What I do remember was putting on my bathing suit, packing up my toiletries, and heading to the cold water pump where I, and several friends, would tip our heads upside down and wet our hair under the freezing cold water in order that we could wash it. That sort of shenanigans is fine for 14-year olds at sleepaway camp, but not at all fine for 32-year olds who (again, apartment dwellers, don't flip out) have to PAY for water (like garbage, apparently it is not free).

I don't know what power source creates the hot water, but environment be damned, I am considering amping that shit up. I have been very content to live as old-timey folks do, you know, in a house and not a sturdier structure like a building, but I shall not take to boiling water in all available pans merely so there is enough for the washin'. There. I have said my piece.

Nopropos: I have always been a fan, but sheesh, Bob Barker is AWESOME! Suck it, Japan!

The Stainless Steel Table

It's a game changer. Really.

The lovely Amy found the commercial stainless steel kitchen table I wanted on craigslist for a phenomenally good price. Devoted partner and I drove into the city, disassembled it, and miraculously fit it into the back of the Subaru. Devoted partner reassembled it in the basement, and I've been in love ever since.

I realize this needs some explaining.

If you go into any commercial kitchen, you will see these tables. They are the workhorses of the industry because little else is as easy to clean. In some of the kitchens where I apprenticed, we literally sudsed up the surface and then dumped buckets of water on top and let the run off go down the drains in the floor. They are nearly indestructible, can support any appliance save a floor-model Hobart, and are sturdy sturdy sturdy. This one had casters which made me nervous, but damn if the locks don't really hold the thing in place.

The table has gotten a bit of a workout recently as I have been producing chocolate and confections in numbers not seen in quite a while. I literally would have been unable to do this without the table. Sure, I could have used the dining room table, but then our lovely dining room rug would no longer be as nice as it currently is. Because it would be covered in chocolate. I am not neat. My apron looks like I performed an autopsy on a 50 pound block of chocolate. But no matter how haphazard I am, the table becomes clean in about three minutes. Using water and a sponge.

I wish everything I owned was like this.

For reasons that can't bode well, I have been watching the Home and Garden network and open-mouthed gasping at how much home renovation costs, and how personal style is frequently subsumed by marketability as the decisions a person makes could grossly affect the resale price of his house. When I dream of the perfect kitchen, I see a lot of stainless steel. And a drain in the floor. This means that should we ever buy a home, we should make sure we will live there forever because, from what I've seen, this is an unpopular decorating choice.

The only thing that could make my downstairs prep kitchen better would be an induction burner and, frankly, given the up and very down nature of the chocolate thing, I can't really justify the investment.

But table, you were worth every penny!

A Project, Part 2

IMG_5383
Originally uploaded by reallyct

Once upon a time, in our old apartment, we decided we would spruce things up a bit by painting some accent walls. I took the fun trip to Home Depot and loaded up on paint chips that I then pasted to the wall. Devoted partner might claim this was a pretense as I already knew what colors I wanted, and in point of fact the two walls did end up those colors, but had a convincing counter-argument been made, I may well have given it its due. The colors I was looking to match were bordello red and tropical paradise blue. Both were easy to narrow down and find and I would use both colors again (though in all honesty, I forget the name of the blue we used).

So now that I have a project, I skipped to the Home Depot to pick out my navy-ish color.

There were way more choices than I expected, and frankly than I think are strictly necessary. Yeah, I brought them all home because maybe devoted partner could see something I didn't. Yes, well, devoted partner took one look at this hot decorating mess and asked if I was joking. He may have a point: there certainly are a number of virtually indistinguishable choices.

So, I guess, dear Amy and others who like to weigh in, should we be looking at the slate dark blues, the royal dark blues, or the violet dark blues? I feel a bit or vertigo even staring at this picture for too long. I'm ready to get my hands (and clothing, and hair) dirty, I just need a little more direction!

A Project, Part 1

The lovely Amy came over on Sunday and cast her expert eye over our belongings, decor, and domicile - a surprising number of things passed muster, but there were those that didn't. Singled out for a home makeover was our dining room table. Which was my parent's dining room table. Which was selected in the 1980s. And looks it.

The table top is a faux bois laminate and the table is supported by a gigantic silver apparatus that looks like a reconfiguration of department store clothing racks. Add to this that the chairs around the table are folding wood chairs from IKEA, and you get the idea. Yet, until two months ago, we had never had a dining room table and only used this one when we were having more than two people over for dinner (which was once a year). Also, we like free things. Free things, strangely enough, cost significantly less than non-free things.

But where we merely saw a temporary monstrosity, Amy saw potential. Calling forth from her mind a series of "easily" undertaken tasks, she recited the list of things we would need to do to transform the table from acid-washed to couture, and I'm going to do it.

Obviously, though, this will be humorous. I have no special talent for things like painting inside the lines, and there will doubtless be many a misstep (I'm thinking the orbital sander will be a good starting place for disaster). I have already visualized the chairs that I will create to go with the table so, there's that funniness to come.

I will post the 'before' picture of the table when I get home, but in the meantime, however dated the image in your head is, rest assured, the reality is far worse!

What Makes a Pest?

Our previous domicile, due to a vast confluence of circumstances, was beset by vermin. Domestic partner, a science geek through and through, had an elaborate ecosystem theory of relationships, but all I knew was that we had mice and we had roaches; infinitely preferable to rats and waterbugs, but not nearly as nice as nothing at all. When our crazy next door neighbors moved out, there was a lull in the onslaught, but the continued presence of chicken bones in the hallway ensured a constant stream of new visitors.

I was a malicious and feared warlord. I treated the violators of our borders with a Ghengis Khan-like ferocity, and did enjoy their deaths. I am reminded of a SNL sketch for a roach motel that not only kills the roach but tortures it along the way. Chucking mice attached to glue traps out the window to, I fervently hoped, upset my super, was the only pleasure I derived on some days.

On our first day in the new house, I stumbled upon something I had, quite possibly, never seen before: a slug. I hear tell that slugs are pests that, aside from being icky, eat things homeowners would prefer were not eaten. But he was so cute, slimily meandering through our yard. I named him Harold.

Our house in general has, what I would venture to guess, is the single most sympathetic environmental conditions for the proliferation of spiders as can be found along the eastern seaboard. They are everywhere. Or the evidence of them anyway. Any unattended corner will soon find itself host to a web; see also shrubs, window frames. These are generally of the tiny spider/daddy long legs variety and I feel certain none of those we house is a threat to my health. I don't happen to like bugs (yes, I know, a spider isn't an insect), but I know that spiders are the best of the bunch. After all, they eat the other insects. So I leave them pretty much alone.

Yes, if they string up a big web somewhere I think is inappropriate: the kitchen, over our bed, in my shoes, that web will have to be destroyed, but I'm almost content to let them have the corner crevices on every one of our stairs. I hope that this forbearance is remembered during mosquito season and that my spider friends protect me from bites.

So when I see a pair of spiders presumably mating in our mailbox, or when one chooses the moment I walk through the garage door to descend, I try not to totally flip out. I mean, I flip out a little, but my composure if markedly more sincere than, say, when I see a hornet outside. Which, by the way, spider friends, I would be much obliged if you could see to.

I don't want to read too much into this, especially because I think being a nasty, sarcastic wanker is an essential part of my charm, but is it possible this suburban house thing is mellowing me? Ok, now I have to go find something to be royally over-the-top-ly pissed off about.

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.

A Post in Three Parts

I.
The phone rings at 9:00pm. From our position on the couch I am closer to the nearest handset. As I get up I remember that I've spoken to both of my parents within the past three hours and that devoted partner's sister was spoken to the evening before meaning, "my bet's on your mom." I was wrong. It was his dad.

Now devoted partner's father and I have had our ups and downs, but for the past two or so years we've been in an ups phase. Still, and with no malice, whenever he's on the phone there's something strange. Like he still can't believe that telephonic technology works. He is always calling from in transit - and much like my father believes that other people really really want to talk to you while you're driving your car and cursing at traffic - and always seems a little confused that, after dialing our number, a person picks up on the other end.

So his mild discombobulation is normal. Last night, however, there was a fever pitched-ness about it: he was, obviously, calling from a moving vehicle, but the scenario he described was reminiscent of a Thelma & Louise scene from the cutting room floor. He was in the car with devoted partner's aunt (it was her car); they had wrangled a large rug out of his apartment, stuffed it into the Audi convertible, and were on their way over to give it to us. One might inquire why this was being done in the middle of the night, but I know better than to ask. I myself have a younger brother and I loved this imagery.

Surprisingly, given the slightly bizarre location of our house, they arrived about fifteen minutes later in one piece and yes, with a rug hanging out of the convertible. Devoted partner and dad wrestled it out of the car and into our house while I refreshed Aunty's drink and gave her the grand tour. I could sell neither of them on a slice of nectarine cake, but was able to pass around some freshly picked Honeycrisp apples - my role as hostess preserved.

Now we need another rug pad.

II.
Yesterday morning I stopped off at my parent's apartment to pick up some black cherry tomatoes my mother had kindly purchased for me at the market. As I was getting ready to leave, I calculated the number of blocks to work and realized it was the perfect number for a leisurely morning cigarette.

And then I remembered I'm not smoking.

I think New York smokers all calculate distance by number of cigarettes needed. For example: my best friend's house was 2 cigarettes away from mine - 11 blocks. From my house to school was 1 - and what a good 1 it was; our old apartment to the subway wasn't long enough for even one cigarette which never seemed ton stop devoted partner (and which always perplexed/vexed me) - and while our old apartment to my old job was also a little short for a full cigarette, given how I didn't want to rush to my desk, I didn't mind spending the extra minute or so outside finishing my cigarette.

I mention this because even though I have not had a pack of cigarettes within grasping distance in over a month, the habit is still in there. In fact, I think one of the reasons the quitting has been so easy for me is that I think of myself on vacation from smoking rather than on permanent holiday. This has the potential to be very dangerous - mostly because I already catch myself thinking that I could become one of those rare birds for whom a cigarette every once in a while is an easily accomplishable thing; the kind of person who, when out for the evening sipping bourbon obviously also smokes a quarter or a half pack, but then doesn't smoke again for a month. I can almost see myself as that person. But, I'm not going to test that theory quite yet.

I may have mentioned that built into my quitting plan was the escape plan: smoking is permitted on international vacation. If you've ever been a smoker, and you've ever been to Europe, you'll know that this makes lots of sense (even now as those damn Europeans are smoking less). Still, walking across Paris from south to north without a cigarette in your mouth seems somehow wrong. This was a fairly easy caveat to squeeze in, mostly because I knew there was probably not going to be international travel for at least six months (the islands don't count - no one had her enjoyment of the tropics diminished by a lack of cigarettes). So I gave myself an opportunity to outlast the craving. If six-twelve months from now I still think I'd want a cigarette while driving from the Geneva airport to Dijon, I guess I'll see what happens; but I simultaneously allow for the possibility that I'll become one of those horrid ex-smokers who wrinkles her nose at the smell of smoke. If I can last 6-12 months, I can try a cigarette and rely on my sheer force of will, that same force that made quitting a breeze, to prevent a slide back to habitual smoking.

That's the theory, anyway.

III.

It strikes me that I could, from time to time, encourage you to cook. I liked this cake I made Sunday. It was easy. It needed only a little tweaking. I think some of you should make this cake because making cake is good for the soul.

Nectarine (or any fruit, really) Cake
adapted from Gourmet Magazine, September 2009

• flour........................125 grams
  
• baking powder........10 grams
  
• salt..........................good pinch
  
• butter.....................115 grams
  
• eggs.............................2 whole
  
• sugar #1.................170 grams
  
• sugar #2...................20 grams
  
• vanilla extract............5 grams
  
• almond extract...........2 grams
  
• fruit...............................to taste
  

Combine dry ingredients. Beat butter and sugar #1 until light and fluffy; add eggs one at a time; add extracts; add dry ingredients and beat until just combined. Slice/segment/ensmallenate fruit. Pour batter into greased springform pan (9") and spread evenly; stud with ensmallenated fruit (next time I make this I will be pushing fruit under the surface of the batter as well as piling it on top); sprinkle sugar #2 on top. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 50 minutes.

Some ideas I've been toying with:

Use pears and add some star anise;
Use figs and add some chopped pistachios;
Add vanilla bean;
Add candied almonds.

Play around with it, the recipe is a cinch!

No, Sadly, Not A Joke Part 1?

Prior to penning the first of these posts, I worried that I would run out of things to write about, that there wouldn't be enough amusing fodder to justify this entirely self-indulgent exercise. Now, I know, it's only been a week or so, leaving plenty of time for doldrums, but today is not that day. Today I went to the basement to go out to the garage and stepped in water.

Lots of water.

The kind of lots of water that can only be present on one's floor when something is horribly horribly wrong.

Now, my initial response was that devoted partner had spilled, say, one of the gallon containers of water that lives in the basement and "forgot" to clean it up. This is both uncharitable and not "unpossible." Since the first evidence of water was in his room, I looked for the telltale bottle source. Not finding that I worried that the laundry room which has a sink, a shower, and a toilet, was having some problems. After all, we hooked a dehumidifier up with a hose leading to the shower. And sure enough the shower was clogged and overflowing.

Not a happy camper was I.

I shut off the dehumidifier, cursing devoted partner, and called to curse him at work since the dehumidifier idea was his making this entire problem his. I left an irate and vaguely lucid message. I returned to the downstairs shower and stuck my (ick) hand down the shower drain to see if there was an obstruction. I came away with what felt like, yes, toilet paper. Very very wet toilet paper. I washed my hands, called my boss, and then, call waiting alerted me to devoted partner's call. I apologized for sounding like a lunatic, explained the problem, which he assured me he hadn't noticed (I remained skeptical in my uncharitable way), and hearing the obvious crazy in my voice, told me he was coming home to help. First we ascertained that the toilet downstairs had also exploded, so the water on the floor was, indeed, of the poo-infused variety. I got in the car, went to Home Depot (that's 5x since moving for those keeping score), and selected from the dizzying assortment of mops, buckets, and cleaning solutions.

Arriving home, I found devoted partner already in slop clothing with many theories. The first part of the grand theory was that it was my fault for taking a shower that morning. Let's put aside it was he who used the downstairs toilet last night. His suspicion was that we either had a clog or a septic problem (for those who know what this means, apparently the former is a cheap fix, the latter is most certainly not). He comforted me by reminding me that we don't own this house, so a septic problem, while both gross and expensive, wouldn't really be our problem, financially or emotionally. We emptied the laundry room of all items on the floor (thank god I treated this move like an adult and had already unpacked my cookbooks and kitchen gear), called the landlady and left a message, and called the nice guys at, I kid you not, RotoRooter.

They should arrive momentarily.