488. SAD TO SEE YOU GO

The following day I am on the M4 bus going back to Washington Heights to collect my dry cleaning and clean the old apartment.

I currently have two leases. Yes it is costing me an extra $771 to have two apartments, but I am a pack rat and while I am disciplined, organized and a planner – I don’t like stress so I would rather have 10 days to completely move out and clean. Even it takes me four trips back to the Heights, this is less stress than having to have moved overnight. I know there tons of people all over New York who do this, move overnight. While I find them wildly fascinating, I don’t know how they do it. Do they not have stuff?

I get to the soon-to-be-old apartment building. It strikes me, these are my last few days and hours of my Heights life. It feels a little bittersweet because  it was not SO bad to live here. The neighborhood was quiet and safe. The building was EXTREMELY clean. I rarely saw rats up here. And I definitely never saw them in the building or near the building. Now that I think about, I did not see rats on West 181st Street either.  

I run a mental list of cleaning. Bathroom, kitchen, floors, and I presume I need to spackle the walls from where the “art” used to be and open the apartment door. For some reason the emptiness is surprising. It is not like I don’t remember movers coming and moving all the stuff. And though it happened a few days ago,  I feel like it was a life time ago.

I sigh, set my backpack in a corner and groan at the cleaning work ahead of me. I decide the easier task is to collect 20 pounds of dry cleaning, and pop out of the apartment, run across Fort Washington Avenue and then across 181. As I head towards the river, I realize how much I am going to miss the view and the George Washington Bridge.

I return to my apartment, barely get the dry cleaning in the closet and am startled by a knock on the door. I peer through the peephole and see that it is the Crazy Lady with the three dogs, two cats and a bird. I sigh and open the door.

“Hello,” I say, hoping I seem interested and happy to see her. “Did you move out?” she asks and looks past me and into the empty living space. “Yes, I did,” I reply. “Then what are you doing here?” she asks. “Cleaning,” I say. “Oh. Where did you move?” she asks as the Super comes through the front building door. Ugh. I don’t want him seeing us taking. He warned me several times to stay away from her. Just like she warned me to stay away from him. But you know, I lived here for three years, during which time the Super has been nothing but nice to me. Always helpful.

“I moved to the Upper East Side,” I reply. “Where?” she asks. What? She wants my address? “89th Street and York,” I lie. This is NOT where I went, it is close, but not exact. “Do you have any blankets? If so can I have them for the dogs?” she asks. Actually I do. “Sure, let me look and see what I have left. I mostly moved out. I need to clean now,” I say and shut the door.

I grab the Fantastic from under the kitchen sink and begin spraying the bathtub when the doorbell rings again. Good LORD! I lived here for three years and never had visitors, now that I don’t live here anymore I have had two guests back to back.

I go back to the front door, peer through the peephole and see that it is the Super. Great. I can redeem myself and let him know that the Crazy Lady sought me out. And why I care what he thinks, I don’t know. Oh I do know – the Super has been super the whole time I lived here.

“Hi!” I say warmly after I open the door. “So you moved out,” he says, he seems a little sad. Or maybe I am making it up. “I did. I am here cleaning so you aren’t stuck with a mess,” I reply.  He smiles. “Do you want to come in and give me advice on how get my deposit back?” I ask. He nods and walks around. “Pretty clean,” he says and pops his head into the bathroom, bedroom and then rummages through the kitchen. “You are going to clean the fridge and oven?” he asks. “Yes,” I reply. “Wait here. I will get you some oven cleaner and help you take the stove apart. I’ll be right back,” he says and heads to the door.

“Oh what did she want?” he asks. “Blankets for her dogs,” I reply. “Don’t you dare even give them to her. She is nuts and disgusting. Her apartment is – I can’t even tell you – this is why I am sad to see you go. A nice and clean tenant,” he says, shakes his head and shuts the door.

487. WHY MONOGAMY DOES NOT WORK cont.

While I am debating whether to write back about why I think monogamy works – and I think it works, because I believe in it, he writes back.

Email from Town and Country: What did you think?

Email from Desi Girl: (Because clearly my feelings for him are not in check, I take his comment personally) If you agree that monogamy doesn’t work, then are you going to have casual flings? Or not date at all? And I suppose if that is what you want, you should do it. This is New York – anything is possible and someone is up for anything. If you ask me, I think this is about fear, because we all fear something right? For you, you don’t want to be vulnerable or responsible. For me I want to feel secure finally, I want my insomnia to go away and grow old with someone and laugh at their silly jokes and quirks. I am okay with every day not being perfect so long as try. So I guess I am not okay with sharing.

I hit send and sit back in my chair, taking a long sip of my Grande Skim Latte from ‘bux. Since he does not like to be challenged I am sure he won’t write back. Which is fine, I don’t feel like dealing with this today. I am hiding from unpacking 50 boxes and waiting for the cable man to come.

Email from Town and Country: Men are from mars...what you want is 1/2 the story. Don't forget that.

Now I am pissed. Does he plan on making me agree with his point? Because that is not happening.

Email from Desi Girl:  Like I said -- you should do what you want. If you want to be a swinger you should. But of course, be safe. I understand that what I want maybe 1/2 the story so I seek someone who wants something similar, right, like you do. However, I think the men are from mars is a cop out for two reasons (a) it is divisive it plays women and men against each other and (b) an allowance for action, it is like an excuse for men to have sex with multiple partners.  But to your point, if you want to be polygamous you should be honest, like you are. Just like I am being honest – I don’t want to be polygamous and remember all those names --- a majority of men have no idea what they are doing in bed anyway.

Email from Town and Country: I'm not judging here...just saying that this is tough territory for anyone.

What the? Tough? It’s NORMAL to want companionship. I am tired of desi boys getting on a desi matrimonial site and being surprised that I would want to get married, tomorrow, no, eventually yes – eventually I would like to get married. Yeesh. I think I need to move on; these desi men are driving me nuts.

But what sucks is, I know TOTALLY nice and family oriented Indian men. Dad. Desi Brother. Rohit. My mother’s brother. My cousin. I know there are Indian men out there who want what I want. I just don’t understand why and how I ended up being related to all the good guys who set the bar and standard so high that I cannot find a man of equal caliber.

486. WHY MONOGAMY DOES NOT WORK

I have taken my laptop to Starbucks to check email. I cannot believe how much of a connected to the world freak I am. In the less than 24 hours that I have been living without hook up to the TV, phone and Internet I feel disconnected and wonder what everyone is doing. Good GOD, what we did we do before Facebook and email?!

I log into my email and there is a note.

Town and Country: Came across this. Found it interesting. Take a look.

http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/10/28/monogamy.realistic.today/index.html

Won’t lie – I am totally curious, so I click on the link and read the article. I finish reading and am annoyed. Is this his passive-aggressive way of suggesting we be friends with benefits. That perhaps he can have his cake and eat it too. Which is fine, it’s his choice on how he wants to live and who he wants to date, or more like, who he wants to do. My issue is, let’s say I lose my marbles and agree to a sex-relationship with him. I highly doubt he is offering anything emotionally substantive.

And I highly doubt he is going to be okay with this going both ways. I mean really, is he going to be okay  that I have multiple partners? Given this guy, I REALLY don’t think he would be okay with “sharing”. But I am SURE he thinks I should be okay with sharing – however, and I am a Scorpio – we’re not known for sharing what we lust after.

Email from Desi Girl: So what did you think?

Email from Town and Country: I agreed with the entire thing.

Of course he did.

And now that I finally have internet, is this REALLY how I am going to spend the day? Emailing him about why I think monogamy works while he justifies why he plans to bang everything that moves? I kinda wish I had not ventured out looking for Internet.

485. ROMANTICALLY, I AM SCREWED

When I finally find my phone I see that there are two missed text messages.

Town and Country: How was the move?

Two hours later:

Town and Country: Hello?

He is rather funny sometimes. I mean, he goes days, weeks, MONTHS, without speaking to me and then suddenly, heaven forbid it if I don’t respond immediately.

Desi Girl: Hey! Move was fine, without event. Sorry for the delay I was busy unpacking and forgot about time. When did night fall?

Town and Country:  Night? When did the monsoon start?

Desi Girl: What monsoon?

Town and Country: Look out the window.

I move across the small space and go to the window and notice that it is speckled with rain. I cannot even hear it fall with all the traffic noise off of 1st Avenue.

Desi Girl: Oh wow.

Town and Country: Tell me about it. I am soaked.

Must be honest, the image of him in his clothes clinging to his body is pretty Bollywood movie sexy. But I am trying really had to (a) get over him and (b) be friends like he has told me we will be. And (c) how is it, someone with THAT much money is soaked.

Desi Girl: Umbrella? Don’t you have one of those?

Town and Country: Yes, I have 25 of them. At home.

Desi Girl: Where are you?
Town and Country: Boston.

For some reason, some type of pang shoots through me. I know this is not a good sign. I know he is not my boyfriend. I know he travels for work. I know he does not need to run his travel plans by me. Yet, something hurts knowing he lives a life that has nothing to do with me. I know this is irrational. I know I need to get over this before I get sucked in too deep and never get out from under my irrational feelings for him. This whole push-pull thing we have going on, I know this is what keeps me from moving on and meeting a real potential relationship.

Town and Country: It is wetter in Boston than NYC.

Desi Girl: I only have 2 umbrellas. When mine break I will take yours.

Town and Country: Sure. Have as many as you want. Glad you are in. Talk to you later.

Romantically, because of this man, I am screwed.

484. THERE IS A HOLE IN MY DOOR WHERE THE DEADBOLT SHOULD BE

After I finish setting up the closet – putting my shoes, clothes, coats, vacuum, paper shredder, mittens, kitchen towels away – night has set in. Some of it is surely due to it being October. Some of it is – I have way too much stuff.

I weave between boxes and flop onto the stripped, unmade bed. OMG. Moving is hard work and exhausting – both physically and emotionally. My body aches and my head is spinning from debating what to unpack next. Normally I would avoid dealing with life by watching re-runs of Will and Grace or Frasier. But I have no cable, internet or phone service. So I cannot watch TV, send an email or make a call.

I really should find the bed linens, but I just want to lay still and let sleep take me.  Which has me thinking I should find the alarm clock, coffee pot and wine opener --- hhhmm --- maybe I should have an emergency supply box, where I pack all the “essentials”.

Speaking of, where is my cell phone? I feel out of touch. No one has called me in hours. I pull myself off the bed and root around the apartment for my backpack which has the REALLY important things like my passport, wallet, cell phone, etc. This makes me realize that I don’t know where my keys are. Losing my keys is my Achilles heel. I lose these damn things 5 times a day and how one does that in 312 square feet is amazing.

I stop to think that maybe I left them in the door, so I open the door and notice that the top dead block is missing, like there is a circular hole in my door where the lock should go. But no deadbolt. Hhhmm. Perhaps I should speak to someone about this. But who would that be at 7 pm at night? I kinda miss my live in super right now.