My Secret Love of Organization

If you saw my home office right now you would not believe me, but I love organization. There’s such a great feeling of when everything just fits into place. I’m not about that uber-minimal, contemporary approach to organization with the Tokyo pop couches made of foam and low profile furniture with no drawers. No, no, no. But I do love finding my own system to put everything in its right place, and walking into a Container Store is a euphoric experience.

Since moving into the new apartment, I’ve had to rediscover an organization system. I’m still working it out, for sure, but I lined my shelves and drawers with wallpaper from a $1 book of samples and I’ve started seriously looking at my closet. I’ve already dumped a lot of shoes. I’m making modest but valuable progress.

The Times has a great article online about organization and the trend of Professional Organizers. I’m not about to pay $100/hour to have someone sort out my life for me, but some of the tips in the article are helpful and interesting:

• Store shoes toe-heel to save room.

• Get rid of mirrors in the bedroom for good luck. (This one is NOT for me. I need to see what I look like before I so much as step into the hallway. Plus I like reflecting natural light off the mirrors in my room.)

• Use attractive wastebaskets to store wrapping paper.

• Put all the extra cords and crap from electronic items in plastic baggies, then store the baggies in a bin. That way, you’ll never lose those cords you most likely will need just when you don’t know where they are.

What about you—any organization tips to share for this disorganized apartment girl?

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A Mega-Recap

It’s been one week since my brush with the Megabus, and I’m now privy to that world of tiny seating, efficient driving and bizarre road stops that Megabus encapsulates.

After staying up scrubbing the floors in my apartment until 3 AM on Thursday night, I was looking forward to a good minimum four-hour nap on the bus Friday afternoon. J and I rushed over to the random corner in Chicago where Megabus handles pick-ups, where we were met by throngs of the masses, waiting for various bus routes.

“Is this bus going to Minneapolis?” asked one lady.

“No, Indianapolis, then Cincinnati,” responded a random woman, who seemed to be a representative of Megabus and in charge of the pick-ups and drop-offs.

“Then Minneapolis?” asked the lady hopefully.

“Um, no,” said the random woman. Megabus is such a confusing experience that even we proud Americans forget simple geography.

I handed over my printed-out reservation confirmation, and J and I plowed our way through the narrow aisle to snag the last two seats open next to one another.

(We were ten minutes early to our 3:30 bus and it was packed. Later, around 3:35, a girl who I’d like to refer to as “Northwestern Stupid”—ask me to define that for you another time—arrived with her friend. They wandered the aisle, looking surprised that no paired seats were open five minutes AFTER the bus was scheduled to leave and slamming people with their backpacks as they turned and turned.

Finally, they settled their eyes on one 20-something college student who had clearly arrived early, settling in with his laptop, bag and some chem notes arranged neatly over two seats.

“Ummmmm,” said the girl through her nose. “Can you move over there?” she pointed to an open seat next to a woman who clearly had no interest in sharing her space. “My friend and I are traveling together, and there’s an open seat over there.”

Miraculously, this guy moved for these girls. People like this deserve medals...or the seats they originally chose when they arrived on time. Moving on...)

I was disappointed to realize that, despite my pillow, I wouldn’t likely be falling asleep any time soon, and at least not for any long periods of time. I had heard legends of the double-decker Megabus, but we hadn’t been so lucky to land a ride on one of those. The bus was packed tight, and it wasn’t easy to relax, or lean back, or do much else other than ride in a semi-fetal position with my feet resting on my bag and my knees up against my face.

The ride itself was fine, replete with Pride and Prejudice reading, music listening and The Office watching. I might take this opportunity to point out that the albums I listened to (The Beatles, Coldplay, Once) were all UK artists, and I was struck by how much good music that country turns out. It was a British-themed Megabus ride.

When we arrived, John and I to have some extra time downtown in Cincinnati, which could have been really bad if the area was as desolate as it normally is. Instead, a summer music festival was happening in Fountain Square, so we both tried a BL Lime (too lime-y, yet it covered up the tinny taste of Bud Light, soo... kind of a draw) and admired the Square while we waited for my family.

As much as I complained when I lived in Ohio about there not being anything to do there, I have to admit that being in the Square and watching the music was really nice and provided something that busier urban areas don’t have--tranquility. Unlike my experiences in Chicago or New York, where outdoor music and movie nights are jam-packed and the beers are 8 bucks instead of four, this little outdoor concert was relaxing and calm, with space for kids to run freely and people to break out into dance occasionally. It was great.

The rest of the weekend was not so peaceful, with an early Saturday wake-up, a trip to a sketchy warehouse to pick up a Uhaul, and lots and lots of packing. The best part of the weekend was a dip in the pool and a trip with J and family to Dewey’s Pizza. Oh, God—Dewey’s pizza... a miracle upon miracles. MMmmmm Deweeeyyyyss x-pepperonnniiiii pizzzaaaaaaa....

J drove the whole back to Chicago on Sunday, and I cannot thank him enough for it (or all of his other help loading and unloading our truck). We listened to lots of bad music on the Uhaul radio and were forced into conversation (awwkwarrrd!) on the ride back. We also ate Penn Station. Mmmmm... Penn Statioooonnnnnn Clubbbb sandwichhhhhh.

The family stayed a night with me, helping me get stuff together, and slowly, slowly, slowly the apartment comes together. I’ll post pictures, I promise, as soon as I can!

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In which there's nothing to watch...

As I’ve mentioned recently, I moved. I have yet to order Internet and cable (on my list of things to do this afternoon), which means my choices of television have been limited to Wipeout, whatever new incarnation of CSI and Law and Order is on, and PBS. In this field of choices, I’ve naturally turned to the least sucky—PBS—for when I collapse after an evening of painting/cleaning/moving boxes around aimlessly.

And here’s what I’ve learned: PBS is TOTALLY awesome! So far I’ve learned about the bog mummies of Ireland (totally creepy! and not good to watch alone in a big apartment by yourself), all about John Adams (planning on renting the HBO mini-series now), Japan’s neutralized military, how babies are made, and most awesome of all, the life of a navy officer on a US carrier. Carrier is by far my new favorite show, but I have to admit, Aaron Brown’s new hair has me thinking frosty. Mm, Frosties… (The original Silver Fox posted for your consideration.)

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Will the circle be unbroken?

How is it possible that I end up living above an NU grad student and self-important homeowners' association boardman/jerk who thinks that appliances running after 9 pm is an unreasonable amount of noise? Can I not escape NU douches? Will I forever be hounded?

Anyway, the good news is that I found his Facebook page* (really, everyone should make their pages friends-only), and he's actually all of four years my senior, loves fishing and Tom Petty, and likes to point out on his resume that he is a natural-born American citizen. He must also like Lou Dobbs.



At any rate, I've got a serious nasty neighbor problem on my hands. This guy and his fiancee have complained to the condo board, our neighbors, and our landlords about the noise coming from our apartment. ((You know, all that barefooted walking we do at crazy hours, like 10 PM.))

Since they've taken issue with us by contacting everyone BUT us, we're in the strange situation where the following are options, and I'd love some input. How do you handle the nasty neighbor?

1) We ignore their passive-aggressive nastiness. Ridiculous accusations of loudness, launched through unsuspecting third parties, do not warrant a response. If something is really up, knock on our door. You know where we live.


2.) We go downstairs and knock on their door, formally introduce ourselves (we've never seen them before--unless you count the one time I was struggling to open our front door when I was moving in, and I saw someone in that apartment watch me and then shut their door without helping), and then ask politely, and more specifically, what noises have bothered them and when. We have a feeling that they're hearing noise that isn't us, and assuming it is coming from our apartment. So, we'll just talk it out.


3.) We go downstairs and knock on their door, but this time, I wear a fake prosthetic leg and we apologize profusely for whatever harm I've caused them.

Suggestions?


*I would link to it, but it turns out we have some mutual friends. If you're curious in looking over his profile, please let me know and I'll send it your way.

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Andersonville

It may not sound entirely possible, but I'm relatively certain--the sun shines brighter in Andersonville.

Out of the canyon walls of downtown and the towering buildings of the near north, Andersonville's sidewalks radiate sunshine and streets play with their leafy-green shadows. Rosy-faced babies strapped in strollers squint in the light and their parents, clad in the hippest clothing you'll see parents wearing, glance in the storefronts. In our own Swedish farmhouse-turned-apartment, the third floor rises above the neighbors' dark brick buildings and the sun filters through skylights. It's not a dream. It's the North Side.

And while Andersonville is hip, it's no Wicker Park where the need to be counter-culturally cool hangs tangible in the air. There's no need for presumption along this north bend of Clark Street. In fact, it's that effortlessness that makes Andersonville just so cool, like the older kid you secretly admired in high school who was quirky but comfortable with himself no matter what everyone else was doing.

The neighborhood, tucked just south of mostly-Hispanic Edgewater, is rooted in hard work and charm. The streets are dappled with brightly-painted old farmhouses turned apartments. Before they were apartments with dark-paved city streets, they were homes for large Swedish families who worked in the cherry orchards and farms surrounding their northern suburb. Of course, it didn't take long for Chicago to bloat and swell onto the north side, loosening its belt as it devoured its own boundaries. Some Swedes stayed, but Middle Eastern, Hispanic, and Korean families moved in, adding their own tastes to a neighborhood filled already with flavor. Soon afterward, young hipsters moved in and opened their new boutique stores, sweets and coffee shops, but kept the feel of the neighborhood--keeping the dive bars divey, the old Swedish water tower towering, and the cheap produce shops...well, cheap.

My new favorite haunt is undoubtedly Sweet Occassions where I've rediscovered a love for all things Irish Mint. I also have spent a ridiculous number of hours poking around in The Brown Elephant, trying on big derby hats and oversized sunglasses. Andrea and I spent most of Thursday afternoon layering every scarf there about our necks and checking our reflection in the mirror.

John and I have also totally exploited the restaurants in the neighborhood, traveling beyond even the Hopleaf (God bless the Kwak) and trying out pizza places like Ranalli's Anderonsville outpost, Turkish/Middle Eastern Reza's, and of course Hamburger Mary's, which is no independent spot, of course, but I had never eaten there before.

But I have to say that my favorite dinner so far was the only one we've made at home. Try this C&J Fatty Sandwich recipe:

Ingredients: Sourdough bread, bacon, fresh peanut butter, Muenster and Gouda cheeses, Granny Smith apples

-Fry bacon til it's good and crispy.
-Cut up apples into thin slices.
-Slice the loaf of sourdough into medium-thickness slices and toast.
-Slather one side with the peanut butter, another side with butter.
-Layer the apples, sliced cheeses, and bacon onto the sandwich and close the sandwich.
-Fry in pan on medium heat. Try butter in the pan rather than other oils, and enjoy!!

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Another Burrough, Another Time

So here's the deal.

I moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, or more specifically, from Harlem to Windsor Terrace, aka: The Antithesis of Harlem.

Now, don't get me wrong. I liked Harlem, but I looove Windsor Terrace (so far). There's this quirky, half-"old-Jewish-retirees"/half-"young-hipsters" feel about this neighborhood, and I love it.

On the 31st, J and I moved all of our stuff through the Battery Park Tunnel (it took two trips in his sister's Suburu station wagon) and unpacked in the new place. I'm living on the second floor of a two floor building. It's more or less a single-family home and the Staten-Island-raised couple downstairs has rented out the top floor for quite a few years. I was a little worried about feeling like I'm living with some eccentric aunt and uncle, but so far I feel fine. What's more, this apartment is beautiful. Old, original furnishings and built-in cabinets, mirrors and cupboards. Dark, stained wood moldings and a gorgeous slatted, original wood flooring. Amazing. (The TOH intern in me is so excited. So excited that I'm uploading this picture of the apartment.)



J and I spent yesterday sleeping in til around 11 (we rarely get to do that anymore), whipped up some eggs with Tabasco sauce and then ventured into Windsor Terrace, bundled up in zip-up sweaters and our jeans for the bizarre weather. (I haven't seen sun for a week.) We discovered that little Windsor Terrace, a neighborhood that saddles up beside Propsect Park and hugs the edge of trendy-expensive Park Slope, has a little bit of everything. A corner coffee shop that faces the park, a $3 falafel place (woooohooo! totally had lunch there already), a tacquiera, a Greek-owned diner, a dodgy bar (Farrel's, with lots of old men in it at 1:30 pm on a Saturday watching horse racing. Legend has it that no women were served until Shirley MacLaine barged in with bf Pete Hamill in 1972 and demanded service. Legend also has it that this place has been around since, well during Prohibition.), Middle Eastern food, pizza, and, oh my, a Hallmark. I live a corner away from a grocery store, and two blocks from a laundromat. I also went running in Prospect Park, which is two blocks away from me, this morning. At night, we can hear concerts drifting over the trees and rooftops and into our open window--and oh wait, did you hear that, I said...TREES. THERE ARE TREES. Oh my goodness. I basically am thrilled.


The problem with living in Harlem is that there really is nowhere to go. Of course, you can hop on the subway and go a few stops somewhere to the UWS, but you can't just wander Harlem. Not that I ever felt unsafe. The drug trafficking at 116th and Manhattan Ave. where I was living has become a one-gang deal. The neighborhood's peaceful and the leader of these guys takes care of everyone in the neighborhood, particularly the elderly. Still, there were just the two bodegas and two barbershops on my block, and that was about it for entertainment.


I'm facing the inevitable disappointment of J leaving for Northwestern in exactly two weeks. It's hard not to be upset about it, but we both agree that we'll be fine, try to visit one another at least once and, really, I'll be so busy with working and LSAT classes and he'll be so busy with classes and another documentary, that this is the best quarter we could be apart.

Okay, time to venture back to Manhattan to visit J, who has been up since 5:15 am and working in a bakery. :(

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The New York City Super

I have discovered another breed of being--The New York City Super.

The NYCS is not concerned with his job or the welfare of those he might otherwise save from jammed doors, frozen heaters or malfunctioning ovens. When his phone rings, he scans calls, recognizes tenants' numbers and silences the call. When he schedules appointments, he arrives no earlier than 45 minutes late, if at all. Upon his much-sought-after arrival, he wields WD-40 like Arthur's sword, leaving your apartment in a filmy layer of grease.

The NYCS is a force to be reckoned with.

This is my latest New York discovery. Last Sunday, after a relaxing afternoon in the Central Park sun, I returned home to discover our door no longer responded to my key. I twisted, pushed, pulled and yanked until I slumped against the wall in defeat, surreptitiously removed my bikini top from underneath my T-shirt and resigned to finally starting The Kite Runner, which had sat in my bag for over a week basically untouched.

When I could no longer take the saccharine Sunni and Shi'a allegorical friendship of Amir and Hassan, I stood up once more, gave the door one more try and, somehow, got into the apartment. J was already on his way home from work, having asked to leave early to help me get in or find a locksmith. While I waited for his return, dreading that he would be frustrated that I had already gotten through the door, I hopped in the shower which I had been dreaming of since I had left the park nearly an hour and a half before.

Now, really, as NYCS horror stories go, that's not all that bad. J and I figured a way to switch the automatic lock off and used the deadbolt to enter and exit our apartment with no incident--until yesterday.

As we gathered our stuff to go sailing in Larchmont, NY with J's cousin, Nick, we left the apartment, somehow switching the automatic lock back on as we exited. We realized this mistake almost immediately after it happened and started making the appropriate calls. First, Megan, from who we are subletting. Then, Curtis, our NYCS. Finally, Julie, J's sister, to see if "worst came to worst" we could somehow find our way to her Brooklyn apartment for a night's rest.

Fortunately, as our day wore on, we scheduled an appointment with Curtis (with Megan's help) at 11 pm, right about the time we expected to return from Larchmont. Despite all the wine we had drank and the lengthy trainride down to Grand Central (as opposed to the 125th and East River stop which J wanted so badly to get off at), we made it back to our apartment by 11:05. With no Curtis in sight, we tried the door and discovered he had been by earlier in the day to force the door open with the master key. Shocking. It didn't make much sense for Curtis to be coming back by, to maybe prove he had done his job or spray the WD-40 once more for good measure. But we decided to wait for him, pushing back our bedtime for the sup'. J called him twice while we waited, once when he was fifteen minutes late, again when he was a half hour tardy. Finally, at 11:45, I called from my line, which I figured he would not recognize and thus ignore, and demanded he come right away. He, it turned out, was downstairs, on his way in the building.

Curtis looked about what I had imagined Curtis Jackson would look like. Gruff, with acne scars and a patchy beard, his hair picked out to a small 'fro and shoved under a baseball hat. He wore what looked like a standard super uniform, mess pants and a button down shirt of a uniform blue that suggested prison or military service. He showed us what we already knew about the automatic lock and then went on to spray the lock box with his precious WD-40. The lock, he guessed, was probably not broken, probably just sticky. Thanks to my recently-gleaned This Old House skills, I knew he was wrong. The box had already come out of the door once, and I had screwed it back in. That spring inside the lock box had definitely come off its track or broken somehow else. Regardless, the lock box doesn't need a greasing-down; it needs to be replaced.

Curtis seemed a little surprised that a tenant would be talking at all about the anatomy of the door, let alone that it would be the chick who'd pipe up and tell him how she'd already fixed the door once. I blessed This Old House as he left us alone, promising to tell them that it did need replacing and it would be done Monday.

We let him know we'd give him a call on Monday, given that we'll probably not hear from him.

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Catch-up

I've been bad about really letting you know what's going on in New York, so let me actually tell you. Let's start fresh, shall we?


I'm in New York! I've never been here before, and based on first impressions, don't know if I'll ever come back. But I'll give this city some time. I have yet to do so many things, I have no right to judge yet...

...and here we are in August. I'm still in New York. The furthest away from the city I've gotten was 44th St. and 4th Ave. in Brooklyn. I'm being patient with New York, but I'm not impressed yet. Granted, I'm a self-confessed cynic and Chicago-snob, so New York is playing to the tough crowd in me.

To catch y'all up on what these first six weeks have been like for me, I'll ramble a bit and then copy-and-paste the short updates I've been keeping--those are a little more concrete.

I work Monday through Thursday. T and everybody else thinks I'm babysitting on Fridays, but I'm not. Generally, I'm sleeping late and eating lunch and watching the Tony Danza Show. Not really, I hate the Tony Danza Show.

On the days when I work, I get up around 8:30 and shower, primp and shove some Cheerios in my mouth before I dash down the one flight of stairs of my Harlem apartment. On Monday and Tuesday J doesn't work and it gives me something sweet to kiss back in bed before I leave.

As I walk to the subway, I focus my energy on that particular New York attitude of mild non-chalance, or more likely, aggressive indifference. I often get comments from the Harlem Old Timers who sit on their stoops or their lawn chairs that they drag onto the sidewalk--"That's my babygirl!" or, "You lookin' fine today, Mizz!" or, "That's FBI right there!" and sometimes just a "good morning." I've gotten really good at missing the subway in the morning. I have lived my life in New York by the unused white Coffeemate on our kitchen counter. 9:37 used to mean "on time" for the B-Train, but not anymore. These days, 9:37 on the Coffeemate seems to mean "oh, you just barely missed the train again!" In the last ten days, I've caught the B-Train only once or twice. No matter--nobody arrives at work til 10:10 anyway.

The morning commute is tame. I'm usually half-asleep with either a magazine, book or my iPod keeping me conscious. However absorbed I appear in said object, I am spending half my time watching my reflection in the darkened windows of the subway car. Am I, sometimes I wonder, the only person who does this? I like to watch my crossed leg bob up and down with the sway of the subway--that's something you never get to see, just like you never get to watch yourself eat.

My building is connected to the Rockefeller Center stop. I scale the stairs and escalator and prepare myself for an awkward encounter in the elevator. The Brazilian consolate is on the 21st floor of the Bank of America Building. (TOH is on the 27th.) I usually get to hear lots of Portugese which I don't understand or watch some confused traveler try to jump onto the elevator to go down when it's still going up. By the end of the ride, I'm usually with one or two other T employees who I don't know that well and we joke about the Brazilian consolate to pass the last fifteen seconds of the ride.

After a full day at work, which I usually spend in true intern fashion half-checking my mail and half-writing/researching/fact-checking, I jump back onto the B-Train and head to Harlem. J and I have been known to hit the same train while he travels back from downtown, so that's always a treat.

Living with your boyfriend when you're only 21 is interesting. I can't imagine all those kids back home in "Ah'hia" who have gotten married already. I'm still trying to keep J from joking about penises and encouraging him to clean up his video games when he's done with them, so I can't imagine trying to work out taxes and diapers with him. I suppose I feel like I'm young, but it's really fun living with John and I'm enoying it.

When we both get home, we make dinner together. J prides himself on cooking meat, so I don't usually mess with that. We have a few traditional dinners--lemon chicken, "meat mulch" (a family favorite, apparently), pasta with porkchops, pasta with butter, hamburgers, and cheese and crackers with fruit (that's my influence). We sometimes drink wine (Pinot Noir), sometimes drink beer (Sam Adams), but we both like milk (non-fat) the best. We settle in with our dinners to watch some Wheel of Fortune or throw on a Seinfeld or Arrested Development episode. Then, we exploit the rest of our Netflix subscription by watching a movie almost every night.

On the weekends when J doesn't work, we lounge in bed til 11, eat and then lounge some more. Afterward, we'll go to the park. That's a nice lifestyle. On the weekends when he does work, he gets up so early that I sleep in and then I'm sad that we're not eating lunch and lounging.

In conclusion for catching up, here is my Facebook profile's "Week-by-Week Play-by-Play of NYC" as of now:

Week 1: Welcome to New York, or alternatively, Get Shivved in the Subway If You are White and 21 Week!
Week 2: Adjustment, or alternatively, Work Gets Boring.
Week 3: Adjustment, or alternatively, Harlem Gives CC a Lesson in Tattoo Art.
Week 4: Hot-Shot in NYC, or alternatively, Get Shot in NYC
Week 5: It's a Small World Afterall, or alternatively, J's Ex Lives Across the Street From Us.
Week 6: Meeting the Neighbors, or alternatively, Your Boyfriend Leaves the Door Open and the Neighbors Walk In and You're Naked.

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You know that the stress of apartment searching is weighing on you when you have a dream that you have two kids and nowhere to live in New York and you can jump through craigslist and into the real apartment itself. New feature, apparently.

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Sometimes, life at Northwestern can be hard. But at least I've never had to do this.

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