I have decided to go with my gut and decline the apartment that I checked out last weekend. I spent all day yesterday cooking a meal that I donated for my company's recent silent auction and it really confirmed the fact that a kitchen might be the most important part of a dwelling for me. Through cooking I become more centered and in tune with myself and if I don't live in a place that allows me to do nurture this part of myself, in tune I will not be. So, I'm doing a bit of pondering, rethinking, reevaluating in terms of what I can afford and doing a reality check in terms of what I can get for the money that I can spend. C'est la vie. The fact that this place didn't work out simply opens the door for something so much better.

And for the record, I just noticed that one of my blogs notes that it was posted at the obscene hour of 5AM. This is not the case. I may be a bit nutty at times, but not that nutty.

New York Part 2

I left the apartment crestfallen, took the train back to my hotel, grabbed my bags and headed to the airport. By the time I got to my car, I'd been traveling for four hours. I may as well have driven. As I was walking to my car, I anxiously worried about the fact that the gas light in the dash had been winking at me as I pulled into Central Parking the day before. Yet again, I had engaged in the Russian roulette of waiting until my car was belching hungrily for fuel before I refilled. So, I was considering this quandry, hoping that the old girl had enough in her to get me to the local gas station, when I approached my car and noticed that all the doors were unlocked. Thankfully, no one touched my gym bag of sweaty clothes or taken a tour of my trunk that is filled with coats, jackets and shoes, magazines from 2003, as well as the board games and sheets and cookbooks that I brought to Maine when I rented a cottage there last summer.

Triumphant in that discovery, I put my bags in the back seat climbed into the driver's seat and gleefully put my key in the ignition, eagerly anticipating the glass of wine I knew I was going to share with my friend Cindy in a few short minutes. Hmm. One problem-my battery was dead. I opened my cell phone. One bar; no signal. Even if I had a signal, I knew that my Triple A account had just expired, and I wasn't sure how they would approach this type of situation anyway. Would I have to pay their parking fee? Would they even come into the garage? Should I just say screw it, take a cab home and come back the next day? Maybe I should just call a spade a spade and curl up with the velux blanket in my trunk for the night. After saying "Fuck, shit, son of a bitch, God damn it to hell" a few hundred times, I took a deep breath, got out of the car, walked into the middle of the lot and got ready to show some leg. albeit it jean clad, unsexy black wool coat covered leg, but what the hell.

I heard footsteps and then spied an opportunity. "Do you have any jumper cables?" I asked eagerly.

"Uh, I don't think so, but let me check," the twentysomething goatee wearing young buck replied.

Then, I thought to myself, do I have jumper cables? It wouldn't surprise me if, buried beneath the tangled array of clothes, sheets, and cookbooks, a set of jumper cables might be found. It would be my MO to flag down twelve cars in search of a set only to discover that they were in my possession the entire time. Just as I was about to embark on this archealogical dig, a curious MTA shuttle rounded the bend and I ran to flag him down. He inspected me from the height of his 15 person Dodge van, looking slightly terrified at my desperate expression. "Do you have jumper cables?" I begged.

"No, but I'll send a tow-truck to give you a jump. Just pop the hood," he replied, matter of factly...like this happens every day.

Turns out that Central Parking has a set of people who I like to call God's gift to silly, scatter-brained folks such as myself, who are usually so behind schedule and rushing to make their flight that they leave the interior light on and forget to lock the door. Thank God, because neither I nor goatee boy possessed the cables in question.

My friend in the tow truck arrived, jump started my little Corolla, and left me with the parting words "Make sure you let her run for a while, so she doesn't stall out." One problem. If I let her run long enough to get juiced up, I might run out of gas and where would that leave me?

I decided to take a chance, let the car run for about 120 seconds, got out of the lot and chugged to the closest gas station. I pulled up to the pump, deciding to indulge in what was labeled as "Full Serve," which I later learned was an expired sign, turned off my car and called Cindy to tell her I'd be a few more minutes. Then I tried the car just to be safe. Dead Again. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a state trooper pull up to the gas station. I ran inside, probably looking like a raving lunatic.

"Can you jump start me?" I babbled.

He looked at me quizically.

"Do you have jumper cables? Are you even allowed to jump start a civilian's car?" I seriously uttered these words to a state trooper. In retrospect I'm lucky that he didn't subject me to a sobriety check or search my car for drugs. This is how crazy I was by this point.

"No, can't help you, but I can call a tow truck."

I looked at him blankly, not registering.

"You want me to call a tow truck?"

"Won't it take a while?" What the hell was I thinking? Did I have a choice?

"Yes or no?"

"Yes," I replied, made my way back to the car, opened the hood as I'd been instructed, looked through my purse for my gloves, discovered that in my adventures the night before, I'd lost one of them, sat back and l had a good giggle at my own expense.

Needless to say, by the time I arrived at Cindy's house an hour later, the glass of Pinot Noir with which she greeted me was nothing less than ambrosia.

New York Part 1

Times like last night remind me that, in the end, it is most important to ride life's little white caps with an eye toward recognizing the humor inherent in every situation. I had just flown in to Logan Airport from New York, after spending a raucous 24 hours sucking the marrow out of the town...or rather having it sucked out of me. But I digress. The purpose of the whirlwind visit was to check out a 1 bedroom apartment on West 76th that a friend of my father's just happens to be moving out of when I'm moving down.

Before meeting the current tenant, Isabelle, a French lawyer, at 2pm, I took a leisurely stroll from my hotel at 44th Street to the Upper West Side. It was a breezy balmy winter day, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and meandered through Central Park up along Central Park West and then turned right onto what I hoped would be my new street. 76th is the quintessential New York City tree-lined street of Woody Allen and Edward Burns's films, as well everyone's favorite, Three Men and a Baby. As I walked, I deliriously envisioned my life as a New Yorker, walking home with my yoga mat, sipping deli coffee, fresh vegetable filled plastic bags dangling from my elbows. Never mind the fact that I haven't gone to yoga class in about a year...Then I hit Broadway and I knew I'd hit pay dirt with this possibility. Facing me was Barneys, two shoe stores in my direct line of vision, Body Shoppe and Lush. Just one block down to my right was a Filene's Basement. So, I could rationalize the purchase of a $450 gauze dress at Barneys along with various shoes to match by being sure to purchase all else at bargain prices at the Basement.

In my correspondance with Isabelle, she had been sure to tell me that the apartment was fine and liveable, but that the kitchen needed some "work." I couldn't imagine that it could be "that bad." From the outside, the building was a typical pre-war brownstone with some gothic features. I liked it. I liked it. I rang the buzzer and eagerly climbed the five flights of stairs to my new home. Isabelle greeted me at the door, we exchanged the customary French two-cheek kiss and I visually devoured the apartment. Of course, at this point, the kitchen was behind me. What I beheld was a livingroom half the size of my current one; small, but doable. Great light, street facing, high ceilings, radiator whistling. To the right, through a set of French doors was the "bedroom." Again, small but doable and could easily accomodate my bed a nightstand and dresser.

I was ready to bust out the three pay stubs, two tax returns, credit report and letters of reference, but then she showed me the kitchen. Those of you who know me know how important cooking is to my livelihood and that, unlike others, it is possible that my decision might rest on the quality of the cooking space. This is why, now, I am immersed in a skein of confusion. To be blunt, the kitchen sucks-badly. It is the size of my current pantry, which could be okay. I've done enough obsessive research to know that I ain't gonna find something as good as what I've got now, but I expected something at least better than one I'd find in pop up camper. It wasn't. The range type thing on which she was steaming her brocolli had been around since 1955 and sat crookedly on top of a mini refrigerator. Mouse and cockroach traps were nestled between this contraption and the sink. There was no cabinetry or storage space to be had and a tangled web of cords hung from a tentatively hanging electric outlet. My heart sank. She showed me that she didn't even bother to use the oven that was somehow attached to the range type thing. I started to panic, wondering how I'd cook my arugula pizzas or bake my potatoes.

For the next hour, Isabelle and I talked about the renovation possibilities. Basically, if I made the choice that I was going to call this apartment in the best neighborhood on the planet home for a few years, I could renovate it as if I owned it. I could retile the kitchen floor, buy a stove/oven unit and make the place my own. The question is, do I want to do this. I have until tomorrow to decide.

Trapped in my house during the "Great Nor'easter of 2006" I watched three movies, among which was Jim Jarmusch's latest, "Broken Flowers" starring Bill Murray. During the opening montage we watch a typewritten letter placed inside a pink envelope and its subsequent travels until it reaches the intended reader to deliver the news that he is the father of a twenty-year-old son. While watching, I was struck with a thought. It is no secret that civilized customs such as writing an actual letter, putting it in an actual envelope and actually stamping it with a stamp that you went so far as to purchase in person at the actual United States Post Office are past passe. So, why is it that we accept it as believable when such customs are maintained in film? Artistic license, I'm aware, but for some reason it struck me that even in films that offer no hint at magical realism, dark humor or a film noir tone seem to offer reminders of a things that we regard as merely quaint, but offer some sort of comforting nostalgia, even if it used to deliver life-changing informaton.

For all of you who are wondering where I am in the process of my move, here is some information. I am treading water at the moment, stuck in a kind of limbo where I've got the job, got the resources to actually move, but I have no idea to where in Manhattan I am actually moving. I'm moving May 1st, and all my sources tell me that I shouldn't bother looking until mid-March or early-April, because, to paraphrase my new best friend Leon the realtor, that "Cozy, south facing 1BR in a 5th floor walkup that will give me the legs of my dreams" will most likely be gone by then.

So, what do I do in the meantime. Every day I obsessively peruse craigslist. One, I do this as break from the monotony of dissecting state standards and curriculum. At first I felt somewhat guilty, but then I reminded myself that conducting this very important research is in the interests of my job and is also being done to contribute to the strength of the my company's literature product line. Were I not relocating, my company would suffer a crushing blow. Okay, maybe that sort of rationalization is a tad extreme, but it's what I do to get make amends with the fact that I might have a "soft addiction" as Robin Young on NPR's "Here and Now" recently coined it. I know that I will probably not end up in the "Pimpin' hot 2BR in Hell's Kitchen," but reading about it somehow keeps me riding on the wave of the move, so that I don't slow down my thinking about it long enough to question whether it is the right decision.

What else do I do? Sit in my livingroom at night, laptop gaping at me, bookmarked to craigslist, eyes darting around the house making mental lists of all the things that I will sell, get rid of, heave to the curb, and basically just purge from my life as I take the next step. Among the items that will be showcased at my pre-move yard sale are the Putamayo world music collections and Rounder Records blues compilations that I was so fortunate to end up with in my recent split. If I hear "Music From the Coffee Lands" or "Black Top Blues Party" one more time, I might break one of the cd's apart and take it to my wrist.

I had spent the past hour articulating my understanding of the word "karass" a term created by Kurt Vonnegut in "Cat's Cradle." I had many words recorded, detailing the myriad coincidences and serendipitous events that have recently presented themselves in my lfe, the details of which were part of my musings on how many pieces are combining to confirm that my move is the right choice at this, the right time...and then my computer's battery died.

I lost it all.

So, I took a stroll into the kitchen, packed up the veggie mooshu and fried rice that I'd just devoured, and cracked open a fortune cookie.

Lo and behold the fortune:

"You will move to a wonderful new home within the year."

Then, I recalled that, for some reason, I had saved two other fortunes that I'd attained over the past two months, both of which communicated equally meaningful fortunes:

"No man is free who is not master of himself."

I received the above fortune the night before I negotiated for the terms of my relocation, the time during which I full realized the fact that no one will take care of me if I don't take care of myself.

And then this one...

"When love and skill work together, expect a masterpiece."

This the fortune I cracked open the night before I began my memoir writing workshop.