a funny feeling

I can't believe I haven't blogged in a week. So much has happened, but it has been kind of hard to describe. Monday I reported to my new job, which I shall not go into detail about because this is not really a blog about work. But as my new job is the reason we moved, it is difficult to not mention it at all.
Up to this week I had not worked for four weeks, the longest period of not working since I was unemployed in 1991 for about two months. I wasn't exactly idle because moving is a lot of work. But I did not have to show up at an office at a certain time looking presentable. It was scary how natural and pleasant it was waking up and filling my time as I liked, task by task, no need to glance at the clock. I was afraid it would be really hard to be a wage slave again, but I was wrong. I slipped back into the office routine as easily as I left it. Except, of course, it is all different now. I am taking the subway half an hour to work instead of a five-minute drive to downtown Raleigh and a 10-minute search for parking. Going to a completely new and much larger workplace (where I still have to concentrate to find the bathroom).
I have not lived in New York for more than 15 years. And yet in some ways I feel like I never left, although I know that is ridiculous. The city is not the same, nor I. And yet. That subway smell of the rush of air as the train approaches, the canyons of Midtown, the dizzying view of the interior of the big public library on 42nd Street, the pretzel vendors, the crush and reek of Chinatown. It's all still here.
Every now and then, at least once a day, I am surprised by this strage feeling. I walk outside and am surprised by the light, a sudden view of the Chrysler building, (my favorite skyscraper) or something in my neighborhood that makes me laugh, like a huge burly man walking a tiny Yorkshire terrier the other night. "Come on, Cruiser," he said to the Yorkie as it pulled toward my dog. (Cruiser?)
Happiness? Is that what it is? I don't know yet; it might be happiness.

time in a bottle

I think "Time in a Bottle" is one of the two or three saddest songs in the world. It addresses the transitory nature of life in such a heartfelt way that it somehow transcends its own cheesiness. (Come to think of it, "Leaving On a Jet Plane" has a similar quality. These songs get stuck in our heads for a reason, after all.)
I am not looking backwards, these days. I am doing things now for the first time, not the last. And though in a way that is just as big, it does not feel so big, so important. In fact I feel small and humbled, rendered insignificant by this city that has seen it all, where everything has already happened.
I wish I could tell Robin that it's OK, that everything will be all right, but I am not sure. I can say from my own experience that it gets better after a time, when you stop saying goodbye and start being distracted by new things. But am I glad I did this? Was it worth it? I am not all sure. Ask me in a year. Five years.

do what, now?

Continuing the theme of cheesy ’70s songs, I was going to name this episode “Time in a Bottle,” but I understand Kathleen misses the above expression, so there you go. I heard “Time in a Bottle” the other day, for the first time in years. I guess I’d never really listened to the lyrics before, or at least they never had resonated with me before. So, as usual, waterworks.
To refresh your memory:
If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do
Is to save every day ‘till eternity passes away, just to spend them with youEtc., etc., etc. And yes, I heard it while I was watching “American Idol.” Shut up. (For the record, almost a continent away, my beloved husband also watched “AI,” heard the song, and got misty. Waterworks: Not just for dorks anymore. And my husband is definitely not a dork.)

The move is on. It was briefly, well, not off – but not exactly on, either. Steve just wasn’t sure he could make enough money to make such a move worth the trip. Now, the clouds have lifted, the situation has been resolved, and he is sure the move will be a worthwhile one. I’m so relieved. Finally, we have a light at the end of the long tunnel. I can resume packing, I can be confident, I know what to tell people. Not knowing where you’ll be in a month is the most frustrating feeling in the world. You can’t make plans; you always feel like you took your brain off and put it down somewhere – but where? Now, at long last, a feeling of settled contentment. We will be together soon. When I worried about the financial aspects of paying for two houses, my husband said: “I don’t care if I have to eat macaroni and cheese three meals a day, if we can just be together again.”

I have the greatest husband in the world.

Brooklyn

Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. Surrounded by the furniture and artwork of home (after a heroic effort, most of the pictures are on the walls) that seems so familiar yet out of context, it is home and not-home.
The door of the apartment opens into one big room; only the galley kitchen and the kitschy-60's era bathroom are separate rooms. But there is an alcove, which we have walled off with three tall bookshelvs and put the bed behind to create a sort of bedroom. Our house in Raleigh was about 900 sqare foot; this apartment is about 740. It seems like we shouldn't be able to fit everything in, but strangely, we can. The 11-foot ceilings, vs 9-foot at the old place, lend a spacious feeling and much more wall space for art.The open space means you don't lose space to hallways, doorways and corners.
One big room. A window at only one end, which we have made into the living room area. It looks out onto a quiet, residential one-way street. But just around the corner are busy commercial streets.
Busy, but not busy like parts of Manhattan. None of the buildings are taller than three or four stories, and there is a feeling of a small town. (I am already seeing some of the same people and dogs.) But a small town where there is everything.What do I mean, everything?
Within a block or two of me there is: a subway station, a funeral home, a veterinarian, a bagel store, a firehouse, a Montessori school, a shop that specializes in ironworks, a taqueria, two bars, a barbershop, a church, a real estate agency, a Thai restaurant, a pet supply store, a sushi place, a bookstore, a Starbucks, a corner store with produce and fancy cheeses....And those are just the things I remember. Every time I walk outside I am struck by the vitality of the streets and the endless variety of human types that populate it. It's the sort of place I have always dreamed of living. And Manhattan is only a short subway ride away, should you feel the need to go there.
The bad parts: Nearly everything is jaw-droppingly expensive. The dog is anxious. It's gloomy, cold and gray, and the people seem rude and abrupt after North Carolina. I already miss people saying things like "Fixin' to" and "Do what, now?" and the warm North Carolina sun and our peaceful back yard. But enough about that for now.

leaving, on a jet plane

This episode of Mile High Apple is brought to you by John Denver. Sappy, yes, but I like it too.
So, Steve has been and gone, and once again I feel a little drawn. We had an emotional visit – emotional in the good way, thankfully, not in the “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” way. After a few hours, it felt like he had never left; at least, not until a few hours until I knew he would leave, when I could feel the tension come back in my neck and hardness settle in my face. I feel like I have to keep things together from the kids, like I have to save my own tears for when the house is still.
It’s funny, also, to realize that I don’t entirely dislike life on my own. I’m lonely, absolutely; but I’m also organized and together, much more so than when he’s here. He’s a constant distraction, and I mean that in the best way. I would rather be with him than doing the other menial silliness I must do. But if I had a choice, I’d have him here with me. He’d go to work, or I would; and then we would be together at the close of each day. The heart wants what it wants.

check-in

I write on Kathleen’s behalf as well as mine. Of course, she’s in Brooklyn. Her DSL modem still hasn’t arrived, so she has no Internet access and can’t write. She called a couple of days ago – she loves it, as I knew she would. She has some time to settle in and finish unpacking before she starts her new job, thank goodness.
As for us, Steve is still away, but he comes back very soon for his one big day home. I’m so excited to see him, and at the same time, I don’t know how I’ll be able to stand it when he leaves us again. These are the times that try women’s and young girls’ souls.
My oldest daughter’s birthday is in a few days, hence Steve’s whirlwind visit, and we’re having some of her friends over tomorrow for cake. I’ve been cleaning all day, remembering how excited we were when we first moved in, sweeping clean every corner and tending the house like a child. I will miss it here when we’re gone.
I’m too tired to say anything more profound.

next time in brooklyn

I've been saying that semi-ironically for a few weeks now, as I've had dinner with various people who have promised to come visit us in New York, but now I mean it. Next time I post something here, barring some very unexpected Internet access, I will be in Brooklyn, having managed to unpack and reconnect my computer and figure out the DSL. It seems unimaginable, but the unimaginable has become commonplace. It was unimaginable that people would come and pack up my entire life in a few hours and put it on a large truck bound for Hackensack, N.J., but that happened Thursday morning. Unimaginable that we would sign a few papers and the house that I have loved, yeah, whatever, like a person, would belong to someone else. But that happened Thursday afternoon, Unimaginable that we would clean the place up, leave the keys inside, and walk out forever. But that happened Friday.
If I could do justice to the emotional roller coaster I've been on, it would fill volumes. But I can't. From now on, there is no way to go but forward. No more looking back, no more crying over the wonderful things I failed to appreciate until it was too late. Next time in Brooklyn.

Movin' on down

According to a survey in Men's Health magazine, Denver is less depressed than New York, but they're both pretty bummed out. In the survey of 101 cities, Denver came in 70th, but NYC came in 91st. Yoikes.
And Raleigh? The homeland came in a comparatively cheerful 23rd. Nanny nanny boo boo.

hasta manana

Kathleen is poetic, so much more than I. She gives me far more credit for being literary than is my due. Case in point: As I left her house on this, the last time I will see her for a long time, the last time I will drive away from her beautiful house, I burst into tears and then started singing the aforementioned horrible, horrible Debby Boone song from the late ‘70s. “Hasta manana till we meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when …” So what I’ve long suspected is true: I’m a moron. Good to know.

I was crying so hard I nearly hit two cars parked on the road. Then I started laughing, thinking about how this ridiculous song from my childhood had resurfaced at such a strange time; and then I thought about how Kathleen’s car, parked on the street, had been demolished by a bus; and then I started crying again.

Life is like that, at least for me nowadays. Emotions have gotten the upper hand. Steve is gone to Denver, and apparently he drove off with my sense of reason in the trunk. When he called to tell me a mail truck had rolled in Denver and burst into flame, I thought of the care package – the one that hadn’t arrived yet, the one with his favorite coffee and instant apple cider and pictures from the girls – and, again, waterworks. Then he walked back to work to find it sitting on his desk; and then I started laughing. I was as surprised as anyone by my reaction.

I purposely didn’t say goodbye to Kathleen today. If I don’t say goodbye she can’t leave, right? I snookered her into going on what I billed as a “Mile High Apple” errand: helping me load boxes into Ramona and struggle with the baby stroller. We laughed. She cried. I offered her scratchy fast-food napkins from the glove box. We said many impolite words. We got drive-thru coffee. We had a lot of fun. And I will never, ever have that experience again, nor one like it. You can’t get drive-thru coffee in Brooklyn, probably; and I probably won’t have her around to help me load boxes whenever I leave Denver, and I won’t have Ramona, and I won’t have a baby still in a stroller. This day, these moments, will never return, and I am unutterably, crushingly sad.

And now I have a fresh set of anxieties. What will our friendship be like now? Kathleen will have new experiences, in a new job in a new city. She will move forward. And I will move forward too, but in a new city with different points of reference. Will we still be able to relate? Or, despite our best efforts and good intentions, will our friendship wither?

I have so many goodbyes ahead of me here, reminders of the bad chi that seems to have settled into my home city. I have to drive to a distant prison to break the news to an old friend who got himself into, shall we say, an unfortunate situation. I have a birthday sleepover planned with another dear friend whose husband committed suicide a few months ago. Both these friends, I know, will get better but never well; and I can’t believe I’m leaving them in their hours of need. I have to take the grandkids away from my mother, and my father, and my sister, and my grandparents. Nobody is particularly happy or excited for what lies ahead of us. What am I doing here?

now that my ladder's gone

This entry is brought to you by William Butler Yeats, who as an old man wrote:
...Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.
(read the rest of The Circus Animals' Desertation at http://www.epicureaders.com/poems_apr00.html)

After a while, home just becomes the hell you want to escape from, at whatever price. That's how it is around here. In less than 48 hours, we will sign the papers and this beautiful house, which I have loved like a person, will no longer be our house. (Did slave owners cry, I wonder, when they sold their favorite slaves for what seemed like perfectly reasonable reasons? Can you love something like a person when it is, in the end, an asset?) The worst part is, I don't care anymore. All day, piling up trash and hauling it to the landfill, sorting, packing, discarding, plus home repairs in the middle of rainfall that gradually turned torrential, turned to hail, and finally produced thunder and lightning. It was like "This Old House" meets "King Lear." (The ripeness is all.)
So much stuff, the emblems of so many postponed decisons that I am disgusted with myself. I want to be somewhere else, leading another sort of life. In Brooklyn, leading an orderly, calm life free of home repairs in hail storms and reminders of the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. For instance.

starting anew

If anyone asked me -- and no one has -- I think Steve has it easier. He has moved onto the new life; Robin is still tangled up in the old one. On the plus side, she has the luxury of time to do things properly, to tie up the loose ends. The bad thing is, she has the luxury of time to feel sad.
I am scared to think about that moment when the movers have taken everything and we have to walk out the door of this house for the very last time. But I also think after that moment everything will get easier in a strange way, even though we will have to start over, knowing nothing. To look forward instead of saying goodbye over and over and over: That's worth something.
The strangest and most ordinary things still make me cry. The view out the bedroom window, as I sit here writing this, of our sunny peaceful little yard. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

steve uber alles

Tonight, I discovered sentimentalism in the most unlikely of sources: the Italian national anthem.
My husband and I are avid followers of Formula One; and on this night, the start of the 2005 season, we weren’t together to watch the race. I watched it here from my home as I packed vases, and he watched it with someone from his new workplace who has cable. Our least favorite driver – Michael Schumacher, who usually wins every race – got out about midway through and never was a factor, which was very exciting for us, and we called each other to scream and yell about it. And one of our favorite drivers – Giancarlo Fisichella, an Italian who never catches a break – won, and we called each other to scream and yell about that, too.
Now, Michael Schumacher drives for the Italian outfit Ferrari, and we’ve grown accustomed to hearing what we call “the Formula One theme song” at the podium ceremony that follows each race. First, we hear “Deutschland Uber Alles,” the German anthem, played for Schumacher; then the Italian anthem, played in honor of Ferrari. Tonight, of course, the Italian anthem was played first for Fisichella.
The Italian anthem is not a sentimental song. It's a bouncy, lively march. But we always make up words to it, we conduct, we get it stuck in our heads. You get the idea.
So, I heard it, I started to conduct, and immediately I burst into tears. Totally unexpected. Like a storm in the flatlands.

I’m having a hard time being alone. Emotionally, it’s a challenge. I am fortunate to be married to someone who, after more than a decade, still remains my closest friend and confidante. We are partners in every way – we work well together. I knew the separation would be difficult, but I never anticipated this. Tomorrow marks one week apart; two more to go before he’s back for a short visit, then gone for at least three more long weeks.

I’m not sure who’s got it easier. On the one hand, he’s away from all of us, with a steep learning curve at work, an unfamiliar apartment and people he’s never met. But he also gets to put home behind him and move on. And I have the kids close by and can maintain some semblance of a routine and normalcy; but, of course, nothing about it is normal because someone very important in the equation is missing. I have to pack all the reminders, keep the children from being sad, keep the house in good working order; and take care of my writing business and the family finances. I don’t think either of us has it easy.

the river of no return

This morning I opened my eyes and thought: one week, and was filled with sheer, undiluted terror. It was like staring down from the cliff you are about to jump off.
Time is a river, that's one metaphor that describes it well enough. It flows in only one direction; it bears everything away. However much I tell myself it's over, this is the end, the conclusion of this particular chapter, some part of me refuses to believe it. Tonight, a lavish dinner at the Siena Hotel in Chapel Hill with Jarek's brother and family, and with Bill and Czesia who have been our friends for so many years. The last one. Driving back from Chapel Hill; how many times have we made this drive on I-40? But never again, not like this.
Next week we will be on the highway, driving north; the movers will have come and gone. The house is going back to the way it used to look, back when we first moved in. Echoing empty spaces where we gave away furniture, the old brass faux-antique chandelier hung up to replace the truly antique arts-and-crafts one we bought. Will I ever have a dining room again to hang a chandelier in? I don't know. I do know that I will never again love a house the way I love this one.
But now I can imagine my new life in Brooklyn and feel a certain guilt about even contemplating it, let alone feeling excitment or anticipation. How dare I envision being happy; who do I think I am? I have this vague idea that I will somehow be a better version of myself in New York, less timid and vague and small-minded. I wonder. Does geography really change a person?

better that way

I have never understood how people can list a house and live in it at the same time, particularly with the chaos of moving, and when children or pets are involved. It doesn't seem human. It is better to move out first. Say goodbye to the house and move on to your new life.
Denver is very nice. Brooklyn is very nice. Yesterday the New York Times devoted its entire food section to a discussion of delivered food. Apparently now in New York nearly every cuisine can be delivered, not just Chinese and the corner deli, as in the past. An entire two open pages inside was devoted to different neighborhoods and its good restaurants that deliver. I was surprised to find that one of the areas covered was Smith Street in Brooklyn. That's right near where I will be living! I felt the first stirrings of optimism. We will be horribly poor in New York, but maybe in some ways our lives will be richer. And not only because people will bring Pad Thai right to our door.

listing in choppy seas

It should come as no surprise that I cried when I gave up my first car. It was a 1980 Chevy Citation with an unusable passenger door, rust holes in the hood, and an MIA headliner. Instead, the interior roof was covered with crumbly, terracotta-colored foam. Every time I stepped out of the car, I looked like I had rusty dandruff. Good times, good times.

The Realtor came today to assess the house. In the end, we’ll end up asking about $10,000 less than we had been anticipating. Damn our paint choices, and this ugly carpet, and the horrible dining-room wallpaper we inherited. On the other hand, the fact that someone opted to cover gorgeous hardwood floors with the ugly carpet might be a blessing. If we pull up the UC and refinish the floors, we probably will be able to sell the house faster. Of course, that’s money we weren’t anticipating spending. And I still haven’t heard the damage yet from the yard/fence/gutter/windowsill people on what their work will cost.

Our Realtor, who also is a good friend, also gently advised us to move out before we list the house. “You’ll never be able to keep it clutter-free enough for showings,” he said. What does that say about me?

The house is going to look amazing. I love this place, with its tree swing and the pond in the backyard, and the split-rail fence in front (even if cars peskily knock it down from time to time), and the floor plan with unexpected corners and turns. I love my cedar closet. I love my mud room. I love everything about it. But I’m ready to look forward. Denver is nice, so I’m told.

goodbye, car

Unlike Robin, I did not name my car. But I did not love it any less for that. A car is a very personal thing, a vital part of your identity, just as a job is. My black 1995 Camry has been a great car: safe, quiet, reliable, comfortable and capable of impressive acceleration when merging onto the highway. I always felt my Camry could handle whatever life threw at it, as when I was rear-ended twice in the span of three months and walked away without even a trace of whiplash.
If there is some confusion of tenses here, it is because I sold my Camry today. This morning I was running errands in it, listening to old songs on my ancient cassette tapes that I now no longer have a way to play. Then I met my buyer at the bank, money changed hands, the title was signed over and notarized, we went to the dmv together and I turned in my battered old license plate, the one that was rear-ended three times. (The first time, my previous car was parked on the street and it was totaled by a school bus, but that is another story.) The buyer gave me a ride home, and drove off in his Camry.
I thought I would feel very sad, but instead I felt strangely free. Lighter. Without my car, without my job, soon to leave the house I have loved so much, who am I? I just am.
Part of the attachment you have to your car is the life you lived in it. In Robin's case she spent a lot of time in her Forester, driving from Raleigh to Smithfield when she still worked with me, ferrying her children about. I remember when she bought it, how happy she was. Getting rid of a car is such a irrevocable thing!
I found myself remembering when my husband -- but he was still my boyfriend then -- got rid of his first car. In Poland, he had never owned a car. In America, washing dishes in Chapel Hill and learning English, he bought a little Dodge Colt that had nothing: no radio, no a/c, nothing. It made the Toyota Tercel he owned next seem luxurious. I remember taking our stuff out of the car at the dealership the night he bought the Tercel, carefully peeling the Solidarity sticker off the bumper. We had met when he owned this car. We had even taken it to Ocracoke, our one vacation when we were very poor. I remember I was crying, and feeling silly for doing so. But it seemed like a certain chapter of our lives ended forever that night, saying goodbye to the Dodge Colt.

ramona the brave

In addition to our moving at the same time, Kathleen and I also must get rid of our cars. She doesn’t need one in Brooklyn; and my decision is more motivated purely by finances. Why dump $400 a month into my beloved, all-wheel-drive forest green (my favorite color!) Subaru Forester when I could have a cheap Ford minivan with 157,000 miles on it that we could buy outright?
The reason is this: Because I love my car. It has a name (Ramona), and it’s never left me on the side of the road, unlike other cars whose names (Walter, the fickle Ford Escort) I won’t mention. Besides, I think Ramona would be happy in Colorado. The snow and mountains will give her a good workout. And she’s green, the same color as my idealized vision of the Rockies in the summer.
Unfortunately, my family enjoys living in a house with four walls. We like having three meals a day, and clothes do cut the chill in winter. Silly family. So, as a matter of pure economics in these trying times, I have to face this.
I’ve never loved a car like I’ve loved Ramona. I don’t know that I ever will.