493. OFF TO WORK I GO

I hang up with my parents, finish drinking coffee and stare into the closet.

Since Town and Country’s house is under construction, I debate what to wear. This time, the debate is for me and not him. I don’t want to ruin my clothes by getting paint or spackle on them. Or getting a nail stuck in my shoe. So I start with footwear. I have cute, slightly outdated stacked loafers, black with white stitching around the toe. But a stacked loafer never really goes out of style. And on the off chance, my shoes are ruined there. It won’t be TOO upsetting. Oh and I hope the stairs are fixed. Walking on slats of wood is REALLY unsettling.

For a moment I pause and wonder if I will run into the contractor while I am there. Which adds another element to attire, because Town and Country said this guy hated women. So I don’t want to appear girly, I want to dress like a professional.

I decide on my Seven for All Mankind jeans, while casual, they are dressy and again – I don’t be totally upset if they are ruined – true they cost more than any pair of pants I have ever purchased, including my work pants – but whatevs. I also have a really cute Ann Taylor cowl necked sweater in a thick cotton blend. I love this stop because I feel feminine. I almost did not buy because it is borderline low-cut because of the cowls. But it is fitted and slimming.

I put on my makeup, wash my dishes and then grab my bag filled with exciting things like a level, measuring tape, sketch pad and pencil box. Okay –off to work I go.

492. WHEN YOU PUT YOUR MIND TO SOMETHING, YOU JUST DO IT

The next morning I get up, shower, brew coffee and check the time. It is a little after 6 am in Minnesota. I debate calling my parents. They came back from India yesterday, according to Desi Brother, they were quite jet lagged. But I do want to talk to them before I leave for Town and Country’s.

Hhhmm, they did come back yesterday afternoon, and they get up early, so there is a small part of me that thinks they could be up. I grab the phone and dial.

Dad picks up and this throws me off, since he never picks up the phone unless there is something wrong with Mom. “Hello?” he says. “Dad, where is Mom?” I ask in a rush. “She’s here. And fine, you want to talk to her?” he asks. “No, no,” I say relieved. Dad is NOT NOT NOT a personal phone person. He spends all day at work on the phone that he cannot stand talking on the phone after 5 pm. So there are very few scenarios that I can envision where he would answer the phone at home.

“How is your jet lag?” I ask. “Fine, we’re doing fine,” he replies. “Dare I ask how your khandan is doing?”  Khandan I think translates into something like dynasty and Dad’s family sure could have it’s own television show. Reality show more like. “They are fine. The same. Half of these people don’t like those people – sickening actually,” he mutters. It is times like this I am SO SO SO glad that I did not have to grow up in that demented family dynamic.

“Let me get Mom,” he says. Ten seconds later Mom is on the phone, “hello Beta,” she says. Okay, while Dad sounds perfectly rested, Mom’s voice is heavy with exhaustion and sounds like she has a cold. “So, you don’t sound so good,” I say to her. “Just tired…how did your move go? You moved, no?” she asks. I hear Dad in the background rattling off several follow-up questions.  “Yes, I did,” I reply. “Okay, good – how did it go?” she asks. “Fine,” I reply. “Send me the address later,” she says. “Okay, I have a new phone home number, too,” I am saying as Dad comes back on. “You moved? Congratulations!” he says. “How and when did you do that? That is a big job,” he says reflectively.

Ack. Tell me about it.  “Doesn’t surprise me. When you put your mind to something you just do it,” Dad says.

491. LOOKING FORWARD TO THE LIGHT

I wake up from my nap – the next day. The one nice thing about moving is that no one expects you to be handy or available from under the mess and chaos of unpacking your life. So no one expects me to call, email or be working. Working in the office, in a family business was an around the clock endeavor. I didn't vacation much, nor could you take fake sick days. It is rather delicious to rest and lounge instead of scurry and ready for work.

I stretch and flip/flop to the left and to the right and lay on my back. The curtains were never drawn last night so the sun shines down on me.I have to say that I love having a bedroom with south facing light. It is warm and bright. It is such a nice change from that first floor apartment in the back of the building with minimal east light. Light is something you take for granted until you move to New York. With the densely populated buildings, so close together, it is not surprising that we seen our neighbors in the nude. Nor is it surprising that so many apartments are dark, and can be depressing.

I get out of bed and brush my teeth, take a shower and brew some coffee. While my java percolates I check my phone, my only link to the world right now and see messages from Town and Country.

Town and Country: How is unpacking coming?

Town and Country: Just checking to see how you are doing.

Town and Country:  You okay?

I sit cross legged on the bed and text back.

Desi Girl: Yes, fine. Crashed out.

Immediately he writes. Town and Country: How is it going?

There is a huge part of me that wants to whine about how tired I am, and how maddening it was to bring the drycleaning home. My new super has yet to install the deadbolt lock or get me the mailbox key. I also need groceries, more than just the coffee and Diet Coke that have in house. But I am pretty sure he doesn’t care about my stress. And even if he did, there is nothing he can do about it.

Desi Girl: It is coming along.

Town and Country: Great, good to hear. Let me know when you have time to go over some things.

Desi Girl: What works for you?

Town and Country: Tomorrow morning?

Desi Girl: How about 8:30 am?

Town and Country: Perfect. See you then.

There is another part of me that wants him to come see the apartment and then go to a brasserie I stumbled upon the other day. But I stop myself.

490. NAPS ARE NOT JUST FOR KIDS

Okay. Yes, so I didn’t think this out very well. Carrying 20 pounds of clean drycleaning, with metal hangers poking into my skin for a 50 minute commute on two trains and a bus, and then carrying it up four flights of stairs, was a VERY bad idea and an excruciating exercise in frustration mixed with pain.

Ouch. I think I will have little metal imprints in my skin for days. I get into the apartment, relieved to be home, but discouraged by the site of boxes and toss the drycleaning onto the bed. I weave my way to the closet and pull out hangers and re-hang my clothes. I collect all the plastic and paper wrappers and take them down 5 flights of stairs and out them in the garbage.

By the time I get back to my apartment I am EXHAUSTED. It hurts to think. So I flop onto the bed, grab a sheet. I pull the sheet under my chin. My hands are dry from the cleaning products despite wearing gloves. I really should moisturize. But I really want to escape and I close my eyes for a late afternoon nap.

489. SHUT THE FRONT DOOR

God damn this is a messy oven. And toxic, too. My eyes are burning and my nose is running. I yank off the gloves and leave the kitchen. The smell of oven cleaner about near knocks the breath and air out of me.  I go into the empty living room and open the window and inhale the New York air as fast as I can.

I hear a knock on the door and go to peer out the peep hole again. Ugh Crazy Lady. I sigh and open the door. “Hey,” I say. She has her dogs on a leash and they lick their chops and it unsettles me. There is something about these dogs that has always made me uneasy, so I am definitely NOT going to miss these dogs when I am gone. “Did you find the blankets?” she asks. Shoot, need to stall. Need to stall. “What?” I ask. “Blankets. For the animals, you said you’d check…” she says and again she peers into my empty apartment. “Oh I am cleaning the oven. Haven’t had time,” I say.  “You cook?” she asks incredulously.

Surely, in the past three years she must have seen me carry bags of sundries home from the organic market, Gristedes and/or Fresh Direct deliveries. She seems to have observed EVERYTHING else about me. “Yes, and I bake too – hence the messy oven,” I snap and as the Super comes into the building from the front door and gives me a look.

I shut the door and pull the gloves back on and continue cleaning the oven and then move onto the fridge. From there I give the bathroom a good scrub down and sweep the floor. I am ready for the Super to give a once over and then hand in my keys. I yank the gloves off and gather the last bits of trash and then take the garbage to the receptacles alongside the building. I come back into the building and ring the Super’s bell. He opens immediately. “I’m ready for you to inspect the apartment and give back the keys,” I say. OMG. I am starting to get nostalgic. He nods and shuts the door. We take the elevator one floor up and go back into my apartment. I hang out in the living room while he goes from room to room, inspecting. He goes into the kitchen. I can hear him opening the cupboards, fridge and oven.

He comes back, a smile on his face and shakes his head. “That fridge looks brand new on the inside,” he says, clearly impressed. I nod. “So, here the keys,” I say and hand them to him. I open the hall closet and pull on my backpack filled with cleaning supplies and then gather my dry cleaning.

We walk out together and onto the sidewalk. “Well, if you come back this way – say hello,” he says. I nod. He gives me a hug, which is very sweet. And I head to the A train. I feel a rebirth coming and on and I don't plan on coming back.