Monday, October 31, 2011


Fifty-two minutes, when I get to the new apartment off of 1st Avenue, the movers are already there. And they have unpacked the entire truck and all of my belongings are lined up along the sidewalk. I unlock the front doors and they swing into action. With stealth speed my boxes and belongings begin the ascent to the 4th floor walk-up apartment facing south. After three years of no direct sunlight, I am read for the sun to beat against my window every morning.

I somehow squeeze my way into my apartment and walk in awe as the small 312 square space fills with boxes and boxes. Is all this stuff really mine? And if so, where oh where will I stow it all? In order to avoid dealing with my pack rat ways, I work with the movers to set up the bed and then direct them on where I want the other furniture to go. 

I open the closet and begin unpacking the wardrobe box that the movers nicely set in the hallway. One hanger after another the closet slowly beings to fill. “Microwave on the fridge Miss?” I hear someone ask. I have been in a knee deep zone in the closet that I have forgotten these poor men are lugging all my crap up four flights of stairs. “Excuse me?” I hear again. I spin around, arms will with hangers and smack into one of the movers holding the microwave.  I knock some of the balance out of him. Luckily he moves other people’s shit around for a living and bounces back and pops the microwave onto the top of the fridge. “Hope that’s where you wanted that,” he says and chuckles.  We’re standing very close and he flirts with his eyes and his face.  I start to step away but he kind of pins me in the corner. His cologne (not all overpowering) has started to mix with his sweat, which makes him smell musky.

Of all the movers he is the most attractive, probably has a girlfriend or two, a complete “playa” who clearly spends all day flirting with the girls he moves. He has actually been smiling at me all morning and catching my eye. I presume it was me being sleep deprived but I have to say, even if he does this with “all the ladies”, it is an ego boost, while clad in sweat pants, baggy tee shirt, hair in a ponytail/bun mix and no make-up, to have anyone flirt with you.


I walk around the almost empty apartment for a few minutes. There is miscellaneous stuff still to move. The food in the fridge. I have my tax papers and financials still stowed in the closet. Oh, and I dropped off my dry cleaning that still needs to be picked up at a later date. And the apartment needs a final cleaning - yes, I have a few trips left to make, but ... WOW. It strikes me. I lived here for three years. That is a lot of days for a lot things to happen to me.  Mostly all good – a little bit of heartbreak.

I cooked dinner for Reindeer three times. Had a few get togethers where Jane mixed some SUPER strong drinks and got all my guests drunk. Didn’t eat enough sushi at Sushi Yu 2 – definitely someplace I will miss. Won’t make any more Target runs. Fort Tryon Park – ah, that I will miss.

I take one more pass through the four rooms I called home and shut and lock the door to the old and leave to embrace the new.

Sunday, October 30, 2011


Okay. The movers are scheduled to be here in 20 minutes. Where in the HELL is the woman who is going to pick up the arm chairs?

I hear my phone so I reach for it.

Text from Town and Country: Good luck on move in day! Tell me how it goes.
Text from Desi Girl: Thanks! I shall! You should come see it once I am moved in!
Text from Town and Country: Will do.

The buzzer startles me and I drop the phone. Before asking who is there, I hit the entry buzzer and then peer through the peephole. I really should have asked who was there. I mean, sure, living across the hall from the front door allows me to see who is entering, and I can always refrain from opening the door. This is actually a very bad habit I never shook in the three years I lived here. I buzz too freely.

I open the door to the movers, of which there are four. One mover begins numbering my items and boxes. As soon as the items are numbered, two of the movers begin moving the items, while the fourth mover surveys the contents to be moved against his roster. I have more boxes than I originally stated (closer to 50 than 23, sidebar: who the EFF bought all this crap?!). My undoing is paperwork and books.Working from home requires A LOT of stuff. Computers. A printer the size of a robot. More stationary supplies than found at Staples.

On the upside, I won’t be moving the air conditioner, the piano bench, dining table or wine rack. So perhaps less furniture + more boxes = moving math.

“Okay, so these stuffed chairs are not on the list,” he says. “Ah yea, someone is coming to pick them up,” I reply. He nods, seems satisfied with my response and helps the other movers move my stuff. I have to say, they are a finely tuned unit. Moving in a synchronized, well-oiled unit that is able to take the bed apart and wrap it in 10 minutes. It takes me 10 minutes to put the fitted sheet on the bed!

I hear the front door buzzer and for some reason, this time I peek out the peephole before buzzing the nurse who is buying the arm chairs into the apartment. “Hey there,” nurse says and shakes my hand. She’s an attractive woman with dark skin, wavy hair and deep rich brown eyes. “Thanks for working with me on the price,” she says and hands me $160. “I don’t have a $10,” I reply. “It’s fine,” she says. “Do you think your movers will help me?” she asks. “Sure,” the head mover says, and then says a few words in Spanish and just like that my chairs are loaded into her U-Haul pick-up.

“How is your friend unloading those chairs?” head mover asks. I shrug.

He nods, and within an hour, he and his crew have taken all my things and loaded them into the truck. The four of them pile into the truck and away goes everything I own.

(NOTE FROM DESI GIRL: I am two posts behind. I am hoping to post three  posts tomorrow and catch up! Sorry --- life has been life this week!!!! xo DG)


A few hours later I am exchanging emails with a woman, she’s a nurse.  She’s (luckily) only interested in the overstuffed arms chairs. She is also shrewder than anyone I have met before. She wants both arm chairs for $150.00, so $75.00 a chair. A part of me feels wounded. I spent WAY more than that to ORIGINALLY buy the flipping arm chair(s).

Then again, three years have elapsed, but these arm chairs are BARELY used. I kinda want $150 PER chair, not for BOTH. But I have movers coming in less than 48 hours and I don’t think I have the luxury of kicking around my weight. So I agree.

“So I am moving on Friday, will you be able to stop by before then?” I ask. “Sure,” she replies. “Cash is okay with you?” she asks. “Ah, yes,” I reply.


Mrs. Rama Rao makes good time. I hardly notice the 30 minutes that elapse as Rama Rao and I make small talk. I learn that he and the Mrs. have lived in Asia and across the States as he gone from programs, residency and jobs. And he is indeed a doctor, which I assumed since he works about 10 blocks from here, but he confirmed it. It is quite possible that he was a hospital administrator, you know. Not all desis are doctors.

When I buzz Mrs. Rama Rao into the apartment, she is NOTHING like I expected. First, she’s not a desi, she is an adorable cherub of a Southern Belle. She’s about my height, has shoulder length wavy hair, the kind that knows how and where to fall into place, brown eyes, pale skin and is curvy.

“Hi, so nice to meet you,” she gushes. She, like her husband, look like they are five years old. I presume they have to be at least 25-30 if he is a doctor. But they seriously look like they are 19 years old and look too young to be married. “Nice to meet you as well,” I reply and escort her in. Her eyes light up when she enters, I presume from seeing her husband, or maybe the couch. “Oh my gosh,” she drawls and flops onto the couch.

She has such a GREAT spirit and energy that I feel certain she would be someone I’d be friends with. She reminds of me Tate --- though I think Tate from Texas would ask if she could sit on the couch first.

“Oh my GOSH! This couch is so great.  You don’t even know what we have looked at and what couches cost, and you’re selling the whole set for less than what a couch at Macy’s costs! Did Rama tell you that we only want…” she begins. “Ah, honey,” he interjects. He clears his voice and says, “We were thinking, given the size of our place, we really only need the couch and ottoman…” he begins and stops. Ah, yes, desi bartering. Not that I would do differently.  “We were thinking if the whole set is $900, we’d take the couch and ottoman for $600?” he suggests. Well, at least he is not cheap.

“Sure,” I reply. Besides, who the hell has enough space in New York for an over-stuffed, four-piece living room set? And if people have that kind of space, they are NOT coming to the Heights for a sofa!

Tuesday, October 25, 2011


Rama Rao is not what I expected AT ALL. First of all, he’s desi, but not from India desi. He’s an ABCD. And he’s Southern…waaaaaaaaaaaaaay Southern, with a waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay draaaaaaawl. “Hey, thanks for coming,” I say and let him into the apartment. “Please excuse the boxes, clearly, I’m moving,” I say. “Nah, no problem,” he says, enters and removes his shoes.

Oh this one of the reason I love about desis, we know to take off our shoes upon entering someone’s home without being asked. Stocking footed, Rama Rao walks across the living room and looks at the couch. “Please feel free to sit on it, and inspect the cushions,” I offer and stand near the doorway. I don’t want to hover and I don’t want to go into another room, not that I have many choices,  there is a bedroom, kitchen and the loo.

He sits on the couch, fluffs through the pillows, looks at the wood legs and frame, and nods. Rama is slim, not petite or anything, just has a lean frame. He is decent looking and seems nice.

“This couch is in great shape. Is it okay if I call my wife? We were looking for couches all weekend and everything we liked was really expensive. But I think she would like this one,” Rama Rao explains. “Uhm, sure you can call your wife,” I reply slowly. I hope she is not at Wall Street and I will have to entertain Rama Rao for the next hour while we wait.