Holy crap. I am so so soooooooo not ready to go home. I am not sure how this happens. It is not like I have not known for a month that I am leaving for the Minne. Yet here I am with loads of chores to do and a small amount of hours to get them done. The messy apartment being number one. I don’t like to leave a messy apartment for two reasons. One, I don’t want to come back to a mess. Two, if I don’t come back, because I died, then I don’t want my mother to think her only daughter was a slob. Because I am not. I just need to perform my weekly cleaning ritual asap.
And I am pretty organized and I could be a professional organizer for a job. I have organized closets for five people. So I know not to do as a living because I won’t make any money. I am the type of person who would quote 10 hours to organize a closet and if it took 15, I would invest the time and not charge a client. So if I had 4 clients in a week and went over 20 hours, then I’d be 2 clients behind in revenue. But I am not programmed to do a bad job. And I would love to find a job that allows me to use my organizational, communication and relationship building skills. And I definitely know that I don’t want to do plain old marketing. I need something with a pulse, but a heart rate, with some change and chaos. I suppose the desire from energy for that comes from my architecture days.
Errand number one is the mail. I grab my letters and bills (landlord will want to be paid). I somehow have no stamps and make a mad dash to the post office. It just opened and I want to use the automated postage machines for the lobby opens at 9.00 am and before the entire population of the UES lands up at the post office mailing Chanukah, Christmas and New Year’s Cards.
I get to the post office and it is silent, which is a little creepy, because someone employed by the Post Office has to be there and there is no sight or sound of another person. I post faster than I have ever mailed before and run out of there. I normally don’t get scared, but I feel the way I did the one night the A Train stopped at the 175th Street Station for 20 minutes at 2.30 am. I was six blocks from home but not willing to walk it outside.
Normally I pop my IPod in but I feel a little rattled from the post office so I let my ears drink in the early morning UES sounds. Garbage trucking beeping on the next block. Dogs barking. Taxis moving slowly along the street looking for a patron. It is a little chilly and I decide to treat myself to a Starbucks. I used to have a daily Starbucks treat, but I guess if it was daily, that would make it an addiction. This is back when a latte was $3. I drank and drank and drank them. Until one day Desi Brother looked at me sideways I knew I was toast.
He had this very reflective, look that came across his face, through his eyes. And he said, “So what does that cost you? $3?” I sipped my coffee, thinking the end was coming. Not knowing how – just knowing. “Yes,” I replied. “And what you drink about 5 of them a week?” he asked. I think it was more like seven a week, which he must have seen running through my mind, because he said, “Let’s go with 5 coffees a week, $3 a drink, is $15 a week times 4 weeks is $60 a month by 12 months is ….” He didn’t have to finish. Once he flashed the calculator at me, and I saw the $720, I gasped. “I think you should by an espresso machine and make these at home for yourself,” he, the practical one suggested. Since I was pushing a yearly habit of $1K – I followed his advice.
This is what I am thinking as I am standing in line ordering my drink, looking forward to seeing him. Looking forward to eating Mom’s samosas, puri, aloo, tandoori chicken, mutties, dal. Looking forward to getting away from New York for a few weeks. Looking forward to not thinking of Town and Country when I am his neighborhood. Not thinking about him when I pass a French restaurant whose special for the day is cassoulet. I try to tell myself he was a jerk, and he could by a bit of a jerk – but he was not all bad. He just wasn’t THE ONE.