I never saw "Inconvenient Truth," because I knew it would be too distressing for me. This avoidance of the movie doesn't mean I'm not a believer in the dangers of what global warming will mean to our world and for our children. When I lived in LA, the idea of recycling was one I didn't take too seriously. This seems odd since Angelenos are so 'hip' about anything green. Or so they say.
The city's recycling program was a joke, really. Most of my friends, even those who are more left than not, were not committed to recycling. How could they recycle bottles and plastic when their cars guzzled enough gas on an annual basis to fuel a small jet? This strange hyper talk about the importance of the environment was just that: talk. There was little evidence among Angelenos they were really going 'green.' I will say I don't blame the people as much as the lack of incentives offered by the state government. Solar panels, in a city sun-drenched 11 months out of the year, would seem like a no-brainer. But ask me how many people I knew who put solar panels up? Right, somehow those panels didn't take precedence over the satellite dishes on the roof of every house in my neighborhood. Then there is the dependence of everyone on the bottled water. No one ever used filtered water, instead opting for water out of bottles, plastic bottles at that.
I don't know why, but since I've come to New York I've been obsessed with recycling. Our apartment complex has recycling bins in the basement that allows for the sorting of paper, bottle, plastic, and refuse quite as easy as dumping everything into one bag and throwing it down the trash chute. Initially it started with the recycling of the newspaper and empty bottles after a night of drinking. Then I realized how much stuff comes in plastic containers, all of it recyclable. I'm now at the stage where I'm collecting items as I cook to take down to sort into their proper bins. Somehow my obsession has not stopped at the sorting of trash. No, it's now on to light bulbs, replacing all our bulbs with the long lasting kind. I've now forbidden my husband to stop running the dish washer unless absolutely full. If only I could get my hands on a compost bin for the city...
Perhaps it's living in a city where trash, or the sight of trash on sidewalks, makes this awareness an inevitability. Or perhaps it's the extreme weather occurring with greater frequency all over the world that's given me pause. But it seems this new focus on being green is, knowing my obsessive tendency, bound to get worse rather than better as time goes on. I know I'm going to get a compost bin in Martha's Vineyard. It seems the state of Massachusetts offers incentives by selling these bins cheaply to residents willing to compost their garbage. Of course this means I will have to have a vegetable garden since I will be making compost. No worries about me moving up to Vermont to really live among my people. I like urban life much too much to go to such an extreme.
But I do think about how a little effort could make a difference in whether or not we will have such things like wines out of California instead of Vancouver--notice my concerns about the wine making business. I know oil, our dependence on it, is something far worse than whether or not I recycle the plastic container the Chinese delivery came in. But then, isn't it all the same concern? If I disregarded how every little act or negligence adds to an increasing problem, aren't I no better than that Suburban-driving-mom with one child in some suburban town? And despite the conservatives claim that global warming is some hyped up call from the left, isn't it our moral duty to do what we can to preserve our planet? Don't I sound like all those annoying people who drive hybrid cars and are so sanctimonious about being green?
Showing posts with label DeClutter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DeClutter. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Not 8 lbs, but 25 lbs.
I thought that ridiculous bag of flour was 8 lbs. And after baking all evening with still half a bag left, I looked to see how much was inside. 25 lbs. It was at this point that I conceded defeat, and closed up my bake shop. There is no way, even though I am loony enough to try, to get through that entire bag in the remaining days I have left in this house. But as of this writing, I have three cakes and three assorted cookies to distribute.
I do find it fascinating the things that can take over your mind. For instance, I have been putting photos into albums--yes, this is the newest, ridiculous task that has taken hold--and have discovered to my horror that I have no pictures of my son blowing out his birthday cake candles for his 3rd birthday. These missing photos, which I couldn't find on any of the disks, has plagued me to no end. I know, I know, he will survive this tragedy. But still, I've torn apart my already disastrous office to try and locate them. Do I think that these missing photos will be the scar from his childhood to drive him to years on the couch? No, I'm not that insane. But still...it's something that will nag me for days, I'm certain.
I find it fitting that I've spent this time, aside from running around like a lunatic in a panic, taking stock of things: books, music, and our memories, by putting them into some semblance of order. I don't know why this compulsion has taken hold in such a strong manner. But somehow, these things getting organized calms me despite the house resembling more and more of a life coming to an end. This need to not only traverse those things that are as much about my past as this house, but also to place these items into some list, some machine, some book with plastic sleeves has made this transition easier to bear. Yes, the tasks themselves have made me a bit crazy. But again, I'm finding such comfort in all of it.
A neighbor came over yesterday with a gift, homemade, and to share in a glass of wine. These last, unscheduled visits have made me think about the actual day when we will get on that plane for good. And why so much of this is bittersweet.
I do find it fascinating the things that can take over your mind. For instance, I have been putting photos into albums--yes, this is the newest, ridiculous task that has taken hold--and have discovered to my horror that I have no pictures of my son blowing out his birthday cake candles for his 3rd birthday. These missing photos, which I couldn't find on any of the disks, has plagued me to no end. I know, I know, he will survive this tragedy. But still, I've torn apart my already disastrous office to try and locate them. Do I think that these missing photos will be the scar from his childhood to drive him to years on the couch? No, I'm not that insane. But still...it's something that will nag me for days, I'm certain.
I find it fitting that I've spent this time, aside from running around like a lunatic in a panic, taking stock of things: books, music, and our memories, by putting them into some semblance of order. I don't know why this compulsion has taken hold in such a strong manner. But somehow, these things getting organized calms me despite the house resembling more and more of a life coming to an end. This need to not only traverse those things that are as much about my past as this house, but also to place these items into some list, some machine, some book with plastic sleeves has made this transition easier to bear. Yes, the tasks themselves have made me a bit crazy. But again, I'm finding such comfort in all of it.
A neighbor came over yesterday with a gift, homemade, and to share in a glass of wine. These last, unscheduled visits have made me think about the actual day when we will get on that plane for good. And why so much of this is bittersweet.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Home stretch
Today, Tuesday, is exactly a week away from when we will be moving out of our lovely rose cottage. A week, no more, no less. This tree lined street will be the final place we will have lived as Angelenos. Our neighbors will become those names that we address on envelopes once a year during the holiday season. With electronic mail, we may write an email or two during the year that would precede those envelopes arriving in bundles early December. But life being what it is, those cards may be the only reminders we will have about life on this street.
After spending a leisurely weekend, I resumed my frenzy of organizing by day's end. I sat down with all those boxes containing photos of our son, and set to work on putting those pictures into books I had ordered long ago, but never actually filled. Pictures are such an elusive thing, really, if you think about it. As I pored over photos, none dated, so that I couldn't tell if they were pictures from the second year or the third, I couldn't recall why I had snapped that particular shot. The images that we capture--the word capture is apt since that is what we do in essence--becomes representative of time, which is elastic. It's a good marker for time, especially when you see a face mature, or in our age, fall apart, since that is the only way we can record passages. But the image capturing much more beyond that is something the medium can't accomplish. All art forms are limited by the form itself since no one form can fully express or represent the totality of life.
All those pictures of our son made what I had been ruminating and writing about-- the fleeting nature of relationships-- all the more true. There were so many photos of children whose names I couldn't recall. And endless photos of birthday parties, the bane of a parent's existence. The birthday itself is not the problem, but rather what we, the leisure class, have turned the parties into. It is no longer enough to have kids over for a rousing game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey topped off by cake and ice cream. No, now, each party has some theme, in our case, an action hero or two is usually involved. And there has to be entertainment, which I've decided is more for the parents than for the kids since kids being entertained means less for the parents to do. Since we are the leisure class, it involves providing refreshments for the adults. Chardonnay, anyone?
Yes, birthday parties where parents drop the children off are, I'm told, right around the corner. I'm sure that will bring with it another round of problems. Can you picture having to keep 10 or 12 seven year olds' from tearing your entire house apart? Or in our case, tearing apart your condo/coop apartment? And then there will be the one child, whose parents will use this time to full advantage by picking up him or her an hour or two late. Why not linger over that afternoon lunch of braised lamb shanks and a bottle of Cabernet with a skim fat latte since you know Johnny or Sarah is accounted for. Such are the joys.
I am happy, no, ecstatic to report that the book cataloging is now complete. It only took nearly three weeks, but there you have it. I have decided that each new book that I buy will be immediately put into my unsophisticated data base--it's not a database, but just a list, much like a shopping list. And I'm now on to phase two of music downloading or uploading. It all feels exhilarating to be done with these tasks that was the cause of so many sleepless nights. That's not the truth since sleep is something I get so rarely.
During this weekend of reading, I did rent the first season of "Weeds." What a revelation! It was subversive, hilarious, and biting. I wouldn't say that the writers are holding up a mirror up to those gated communities in Southern California, but when I thought about it, how far from the truth was it? Didn't we see such craziness in that show, "The Housewives of Orange County?" Yes, this woman is supporting her posh lifestyle by dealing drugs, but is her moral lapse any different than anything I've seen on reality television? This show did make me revisit my initial scathing comments about Leslie Bennett's newest tome, "Feminine Mistake." She asserts that women, all women, should continue to work after having children because if the ends up alone because of death or divorce,her economic well-being becomes dire. I thought her judgments toward women of a certain class--this question is again about class--was unduly harsh, probably because she is from this class. But when I think about it, there is much to be said about what she asserts. There are many women, who leave the work force, when faced with working again, find it challenging to find something that will provide an income commensurate with their needs. They will, more than likely, not have the necessary skills, so that they are relegated to taking those positions that require not much more than clerical skills. And yet, I know some women, who are my friends, who are quite thrilled by the "freedom" to stay at home. OK. Let me stop. All I can say is that watching, "Weeds," made me rethink Leslie Bennett's book. Maybe she does having something to say about the new trap we, women, are falling prey to in the guise of "freedom." Don't all freedoms come at a cost?
After spending a leisurely weekend, I resumed my frenzy of organizing by day's end. I sat down with all those boxes containing photos of our son, and set to work on putting those pictures into books I had ordered long ago, but never actually filled. Pictures are such an elusive thing, really, if you think about it. As I pored over photos, none dated, so that I couldn't tell if they were pictures from the second year or the third, I couldn't recall why I had snapped that particular shot. The images that we capture--the word capture is apt since that is what we do in essence--becomes representative of time, which is elastic. It's a good marker for time, especially when you see a face mature, or in our age, fall apart, since that is the only way we can record passages. But the image capturing much more beyond that is something the medium can't accomplish. All art forms are limited by the form itself since no one form can fully express or represent the totality of life.
All those pictures of our son made what I had been ruminating and writing about-- the fleeting nature of relationships-- all the more true. There were so many photos of children whose names I couldn't recall. And endless photos of birthday parties, the bane of a parent's existence. The birthday itself is not the problem, but rather what we, the leisure class, have turned the parties into. It is no longer enough to have kids over for a rousing game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey topped off by cake and ice cream. No, now, each party has some theme, in our case, an action hero or two is usually involved. And there has to be entertainment, which I've decided is more for the parents than for the kids since kids being entertained means less for the parents to do. Since we are the leisure class, it involves providing refreshments for the adults. Chardonnay, anyone?
Yes, birthday parties where parents drop the children off are, I'm told, right around the corner. I'm sure that will bring with it another round of problems. Can you picture having to keep 10 or 12 seven year olds' from tearing your entire house apart? Or in our case, tearing apart your condo/coop apartment? And then there will be the one child, whose parents will use this time to full advantage by picking up him or her an hour or two late. Why not linger over that afternoon lunch of braised lamb shanks and a bottle of Cabernet with a skim fat latte since you know Johnny or Sarah is accounted for. Such are the joys.
I am happy, no, ecstatic to report that the book cataloging is now complete. It only took nearly three weeks, but there you have it. I have decided that each new book that I buy will be immediately put into my unsophisticated data base--it's not a database, but just a list, much like a shopping list. And I'm now on to phase two of music downloading or uploading. It all feels exhilarating to be done with these tasks that was the cause of so many sleepless nights. That's not the truth since sleep is something I get so rarely.
During this weekend of reading, I did rent the first season of "Weeds." What a revelation! It was subversive, hilarious, and biting. I wouldn't say that the writers are holding up a mirror up to those gated communities in Southern California, but when I thought about it, how far from the truth was it? Didn't we see such craziness in that show, "The Housewives of Orange County?" Yes, this woman is supporting her posh lifestyle by dealing drugs, but is her moral lapse any different than anything I've seen on reality television? This show did make me revisit my initial scathing comments about Leslie Bennett's newest tome, "Feminine Mistake." She asserts that women, all women, should continue to work after having children because if the ends up alone because of death or divorce,her economic well-being becomes dire. I thought her judgments toward women of a certain class--this question is again about class--was unduly harsh, probably because she is from this class. But when I think about it, there is much to be said about what she asserts. There are many women, who leave the work force, when faced with working again, find it challenging to find something that will provide an income commensurate with their needs. They will, more than likely, not have the necessary skills, so that they are relegated to taking those positions that require not much more than clerical skills. And yet, I know some women, who are my friends, who are quite thrilled by the "freedom" to stay at home. OK. Let me stop. All I can say is that watching, "Weeds," made me rethink Leslie Bennett's book. Maybe she does having something to say about the new trap we, women, are falling prey to in the guise of "freedom." Don't all freedoms come at a cost?
Thursday, May 24, 2007
One's Trash, Another's Treasure
I just watched a woman, who didn't look as if she was someone accustomed to "dumpster diving," drive up to our house in her sedan, stop, and load one of our badly damaged dining room chairs into her passenger seat. I then watched her examine the other items left out for the trash people to pick up, opening up metal file cabinet drawers, looking at the computer desk.
Watching a stranger pick through my trash made me reflect on that old saying about what one views as dispensable, someone else may view with renewed, appreciative eyes. I thought how this applies to not just inanimate objects, but also people. Let's face it, we all go through a lifetime discarding not just objects, but people that we had thought worthy enough to call a friend. And how quickly our opinion of them from affection to disaffection can turn them into a pariah, or worse, simply no longer existing. This is the most apparent in divorced men and women, who become the object of someone else's ardor, their shortcomings, all well documented and commented on by their former spouse, becomes muted, a mirage, making him or her suspect that their former spouse was really deranged. And not the other way around.
So, in this time of downsizing, I'm realizing how few people one needs in life to keep you sane. I don't know if I am intentionally withdrawing or it is as much a mutually agreed upon withdrawal. All I can say is that my email box is not as full and the phone a bit quieter. I think this new quiet is as much my doing. I realize how much easier it is to make my departure without drama or fanfare. Therefore, this new distance, metaphorical and real, will set a new direction for each relationship. And how long that relationship may or may not endure.
After a punishing day of sorting, chucking, and general crankiness--the only break coming when my friend showed up to lend a hand--I fell into bed ready to stop my head from spinning. And like everyone else in the country, I turned on the television to watch the finals of "American Idol." Yes, the young girl who won is lovely, lovely voice, pretty face. Right, right. But the part that got my attention was when the grating host--no man should bleach his hair--announced that 76 million people voted for this finale. 76 million, which is more than President Bush received in the 2004 election. And certainly more than what John Kerry received in that same election. So, if "American Idol" were based on candidates ability to discuss foreign policy initiatives, discuss economic policies and solutions, and other issues that plague our country, we could have a beautiful, 17 year old as Madame President. Or rather, Mademoiselle President. I just found those numbers staggering, really. Who are all these people who actually phone in to vote on a talent show--we know we've hit a new low in cultural legitimacy if we are borrowing shows from the UK and Europe--that is barely a step above the gong show. The one thing this show has done is to display the vastness of our country, in terms of geography, but also tastes and the range of talented people hidden in those small towns where no one ever seems to leave, and if they do, usually for the wrong reasons.
My friend, who came over and helped, also sat with me as we drank a cup of coffee in the middle of the day, which I view as so decadent, in light of my insomnia. We also shared a piece of the coffee cake I had just baked. There was something a bit 1950's housewife-like about us sitting at my kitchen table, drinking coffee out of mugs, and daintily biting into my coffee cake. But for me, it was hugely reassuring to have her there, to share in the details of her life, such a far cry from the disarray evident in every room of my house. After loading up her car with things I no longer needed--again, such a good friend--I didn't watch her drive off, but rushed back into the chaos that is my house. This extended 'adieu' is worse for me than anyone can realize.
Watching a stranger pick through my trash made me reflect on that old saying about what one views as dispensable, someone else may view with renewed, appreciative eyes. I thought how this applies to not just inanimate objects, but also people. Let's face it, we all go through a lifetime discarding not just objects, but people that we had thought worthy enough to call a friend. And how quickly our opinion of them from affection to disaffection can turn them into a pariah, or worse, simply no longer existing. This is the most apparent in divorced men and women, who become the object of someone else's ardor, their shortcomings, all well documented and commented on by their former spouse, becomes muted, a mirage, making him or her suspect that their former spouse was really deranged. And not the other way around.
So, in this time of downsizing, I'm realizing how few people one needs in life to keep you sane. I don't know if I am intentionally withdrawing or it is as much a mutually agreed upon withdrawal. All I can say is that my email box is not as full and the phone a bit quieter. I think this new quiet is as much my doing. I realize how much easier it is to make my departure without drama or fanfare. Therefore, this new distance, metaphorical and real, will set a new direction for each relationship. And how long that relationship may or may not endure.
After a punishing day of sorting, chucking, and general crankiness--the only break coming when my friend showed up to lend a hand--I fell into bed ready to stop my head from spinning. And like everyone else in the country, I turned on the television to watch the finals of "American Idol." Yes, the young girl who won is lovely, lovely voice, pretty face. Right, right. But the part that got my attention was when the grating host--no man should bleach his hair--announced that 76 million people voted for this finale. 76 million, which is more than President Bush received in the 2004 election. And certainly more than what John Kerry received in that same election. So, if "American Idol" were based on candidates ability to discuss foreign policy initiatives, discuss economic policies and solutions, and other issues that plague our country, we could have a beautiful, 17 year old as Madame President. Or rather, Mademoiselle President. I just found those numbers staggering, really. Who are all these people who actually phone in to vote on a talent show--we know we've hit a new low in cultural legitimacy if we are borrowing shows from the UK and Europe--that is barely a step above the gong show. The one thing this show has done is to display the vastness of our country, in terms of geography, but also tastes and the range of talented people hidden in those small towns where no one ever seems to leave, and if they do, usually for the wrong reasons.
My friend, who came over and helped, also sat with me as we drank a cup of coffee in the middle of the day, which I view as so decadent, in light of my insomnia. We also shared a piece of the coffee cake I had just baked. There was something a bit 1950's housewife-like about us sitting at my kitchen table, drinking coffee out of mugs, and daintily biting into my coffee cake. But for me, it was hugely reassuring to have her there, to share in the details of her life, such a far cry from the disarray evident in every room of my house. After loading up her car with things I no longer needed--again, such a good friend--I didn't watch her drive off, but rushed back into the chaos that is my house. This extended 'adieu' is worse for me than anyone can realize.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Dismantling a house, a life...
Our house now bears the look of lives in transition. Pictures are coming down from walls stacked on the floor, furniture being moved into rooms as others get emptied to allow for us to sort our belongings. Everywhere I turn there seems to be another pile of things. I thought a great deal about how all of us spend so much energy and time putting a home together, how important all of this is to the perception that your life is ordered and manageable. But perhaps that was paramount for me to feel settled here since my life in LA has felt much like an exile's in a foreign land, the yearning for the return home the one constant refrain. And like I had said earlier, there is something terribly liberating in shedding all that I had held on to for sentimental reasons. Really, is there any reason why a 40 year old should still be carting around papers written for her AP English class in high school? I am editing my life with a newly discovered ruthlessness, something that will, hopefully, keep our lives in New York from resembling the craziness of "Sanford and Son."
Over the weekend, I took and sold half my cookbook collection. Oh, I did mention my 'thing' for books, right? It also extended to tomes of the culinary variety. And since our house's pantry begged to be filled with a large collection, collect is what I did for the past five years. Now, in all fairness, most of these books were given to me as gifts for birthdays. While at this secondhand bookshop that specializes in cookbooks--it was the epitome of a used bookshop with narrow aisles blanketed on each side by floor to ceiling books--I couldn't pass up two Junior League cookbooks from the South. These books offer a narrative of lives lived in places that sound exceedingly exotic to me. And most of the recipes for their baked goods are always yummy and homey in that old fashioned way we, or rather, I'm always searching. This might have something to do with the fact that my mother didn't own a measuring cup and never baked, so that each and every one of my birthday cakes came from Peter Pan bakery. Of course when my husband saw me entering the house with a wee small bag, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to point out that the purpose of this exercise was to unload not reload. Ha, ha.
I have now baked two or more items each day. I find it incredibly relaxing and reassuring to hear the whir of my stand mixer. I'm scouring old cookbooks for recipes I've never tried. When I'm overwhelmed by the cupboard jam packed with stacks of pictures--let me say I'm not as obsessed with cameras as is the stereotype for "my people"--I just walk into the kitchen and turn the oven on. I don't turn it on to stick my head in to pull a Plath, but rather to bake something that will fill the house with tantalizing aromas. Now, the funny thing about my obsessive baking is that I don't really care for sweets. I'm more of a salt person. But there you have it.
It's a funny thing when each meeting turns into a potential 'good-bye'. I've decided to avoid all 'good-byes' by not ever saying it. It's a good ploy since no one, especially me, is left feeling that sense of loss that this lunch, this coffee, is the last one for a long time.
Over the weekend, I took and sold half my cookbook collection. Oh, I did mention my 'thing' for books, right? It also extended to tomes of the culinary variety. And since our house's pantry begged to be filled with a large collection, collect is what I did for the past five years. Now, in all fairness, most of these books were given to me as gifts for birthdays. While at this secondhand bookshop that specializes in cookbooks--it was the epitome of a used bookshop with narrow aisles blanketed on each side by floor to ceiling books--I couldn't pass up two Junior League cookbooks from the South. These books offer a narrative of lives lived in places that sound exceedingly exotic to me. And most of the recipes for their baked goods are always yummy and homey in that old fashioned way we, or rather, I'm always searching. This might have something to do with the fact that my mother didn't own a measuring cup and never baked, so that each and every one of my birthday cakes came from Peter Pan bakery. Of course when my husband saw me entering the house with a wee small bag, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to point out that the purpose of this exercise was to unload not reload. Ha, ha.
I have now baked two or more items each day. I find it incredibly relaxing and reassuring to hear the whir of my stand mixer. I'm scouring old cookbooks for recipes I've never tried. When I'm overwhelmed by the cupboard jam packed with stacks of pictures--let me say I'm not as obsessed with cameras as is the stereotype for "my people"--I just walk into the kitchen and turn the oven on. I don't turn it on to stick my head in to pull a Plath, but rather to bake something that will fill the house with tantalizing aromas. Now, the funny thing about my obsessive baking is that I don't really care for sweets. I'm more of a salt person. But there you have it.
It's a funny thing when each meeting turns into a potential 'good-bye'. I've decided to avoid all 'good-byes' by not ever saying it. It's a good ploy since no one, especially me, is left feeling that sense of loss that this lunch, this coffee, is the last one for a long time.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Liberation
All of this purging is starting to feel liberating--just a tad since the other thing it has done is to illustrate the ways my obsessiveness took a turn for something beyond healthy. Yes, if my husband found one more box of Christmas ornaments, I think he would have had me committed. See, I like Christmas! And I like, or rather, collect very fancy, expensive Christmas ornaments that I buy the day after Christmas at Neiman's. Yes, I'm one of those insane people standing outside Neiman's at 7:00 in the morning to make sure I get in the doors first, lest I lose out on that brown faced Santa that cost as much as rent for some that may live in places like Nebraska. So, he has put all of my collections in the middle of the basement, hoping, I'm sure, to cure me of this ridiculous behavior. And yes, I was a bit alarmed to see the piles of boxes. And I will have to downsize since I'm sure our place in New York won't be big enough for two trees. Don't ask. But how do I get rid of these beautiful, delicate items that bring me so much happiness, for a couple of weeks in the month of December?
I have had the foresight to get rid of all the Halloween items to our friends, who would appreciate the scarecrow and witches. I know that people will marvel at the excesses of my time in this Suburbanopolis. And I take full responsibility for all of it, no matter how absurd. And believe me when I say that it is beyond absurd.
So, the one dumpster that got filled has been replaced by another, waiting to be filled. And fill it, we will this week as I make my way out of my office into the kitchen. Such are the joys of my days at the moment.
I have allowed myself time to meet with a friend or two. And today was no exception as I allowed myself the mental, physical break of getting out of the house and away from piles of crap. And it was after the pleasant hour that the reality of not having those times with some of my dearest settled into my chest. And with it, an ache.
And no, I have not finished cataloguing my books. But it is on my agenda for tomorrow, if I can get tear away from the paper shredder.
I have had the foresight to get rid of all the Halloween items to our friends, who would appreciate the scarecrow and witches. I know that people will marvel at the excesses of my time in this Suburbanopolis. And I take full responsibility for all of it, no matter how absurd. And believe me when I say that it is beyond absurd.
So, the one dumpster that got filled has been replaced by another, waiting to be filled. And fill it, we will this week as I make my way out of my office into the kitchen. Such are the joys of my days at the moment.
I have allowed myself time to meet with a friend or two. And today was no exception as I allowed myself the mental, physical break of getting out of the house and away from piles of crap. And it was after the pleasant hour that the reality of not having those times with some of my dearest settled into my chest. And with it, an ache.
And no, I have not finished cataloguing my books. But it is on my agenda for tomorrow, if I can get tear away from the paper shredder.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
One dumpster full, another to go
We have managed to fill one dumpster with another to arrive on Monday. This might sound promising, as far as the decluttering goes, but it's actually not since I haven't made it out of my office. We have so many other rooms to go through. In our basement, which I now call the "Land of Waste," I discovered a large box filled to the brim with white plates from Ikea. Filled to the brim with these plates. I couldn't even recall why or how I purchased so many, and for what reason. But there you have it. I've decided to use each plate as a the dish which my baked goods will arrive. The more I bake, the more plates will disappear from below our house.
We did our usual Saturday morning bagel nosh at the "Korea's Noah's Bagels." This week, it was standing room only inside. Again, it was much easier to count the non-Koreans, numbering three and a half today than it was to try and count the Koreans. It seems to be a particular favorite among those Koreans probably doing door to door preaching. I think they're Jehovah's Witnesses, if you ask me. Or maybe they're Mormons, doing their missionary work.
I wonder if life in New York will be full of such busyness. I can, and usually do, spend the better half of a Saturday doing my marketing. I'm hoping and praying that there will be great delivery services for groceries. It is New York where anything and everything can be delivered.
All I can say to that is Hallelujah!
We did our usual Saturday morning bagel nosh at the "Korea's Noah's Bagels." This week, it was standing room only inside. Again, it was much easier to count the non-Koreans, numbering three and a half today than it was to try and count the Koreans. It seems to be a particular favorite among those Koreans probably doing door to door preaching. I think they're Jehovah's Witnesses, if you ask me. Or maybe they're Mormons, doing their missionary work.
I wonder if life in New York will be full of such busyness. I can, and usually do, spend the better half of a Saturday doing my marketing. I'm hoping and praying that there will be great delivery services for groceries. It is New York where anything and everything can be delivered.
All I can say to that is Hallelujah!
Friday, May 18, 2007
Lists, and More Lists
Well, I have one remaining bookshelf to confront. That's not true. I have one shelf of the bookshelf I cataloged yesterday and one entire bookshelf. This is an impossible task, really. Or it is for me. I am forever opening a book, something I'd read years ago, and reading a page or so. That then makes me want to go to another book by the same author, which is in another room. Or worse, it ends up in my growing pile of books to savor this summer or to send to New York. I realize I should have done such a thing years ago. Why, you may ask given my obsessive nature and, newly discovered, ADD. It's clear I would, should never work in a library since I would end up in the same stack for hours on end as I pore over T.S.Eliot's Four Quartets again. Or, I should have worked in a library, but I would have been fired for being so easily distracted and for disappearing endlessly. But given the gentle nature of librarians, they would sit me down to explain why working in a library was not the best job suited for my easily distracted nature.
My husband did ask me why I was obsessed with the need to make this list. I didn't have an answer that would take away that look of concern mixed with alarm on his face. But it's now apparent to me why I've been obsessed about this list. It's the one thing that I feel in control of. Does that make sense to anyone? Everything in my life feels a bit like the haphazard piles, ever growing, that now take up half the floor of my office. And this time spent poring over my books--my mom has threatened to ship the other part of the collection housed at her house all these years--makes those piles fade away. It is the only time when the frenzy inside my head seems to calm down. And so, that is why this task, which should have taken all of one afternoon, has dragged on for a week. It allows me the space to quiet and to reflect on what is ahead, what I'm leaving behind, and what all of it means, will mean to me and my family.
It's no surprise that books have, again, become my refuge and salvation. They have been the one constant in my life. Nothing reassures me more than a pile of books--yes, there is never just one book, but a pile--on the bedside table. The biography of Michel Foucault, which dissects his life in relation to his work and writings, is a book that I have been reading for 7 years. Yes, 7 years. The book is quite dense, as are his works for those who are familiar, so that consuming more than 10 pages at a time is all I can muster. It is now in that pile to be sent to New York. And I have vowed to finish it this upcoming year.
I will end today's post with Eliot.
One of my tutors in London, now quite a well-known literary critic, wrote a critical study about this particular poem. When I was studying with him we were reading Shakespeare. We adored one another as student/teacher, both a bit nutty, obsessive, and in love with language. The best story of our time together is how I made him sit in line overnight with me to purchase tickets to see Daniel Day Lewis perform Hamlet. So, there we were, huddled with others, drinking coffee, making jokes about how insane all of this was. The wait was well worth it since our seats were second row orchestra. The night of the performance, David ran into a mate of his from Cambridge, I believe, who was an actor with the RSC. For some reason, David volunteered his ticket next to me for his friend's seat much farther back. He later explained that he could hear the audible gasps, coming from my seat, hence the reason for the seat change since he knew I would embarrass him in my adolescent idolatry of Day Lewis. I only just recently purchased his book dissecting this poem. I think it ironic that this piece resonates with both of us. And yes, his critical book is on my pile bound for New York.
My husband did ask me why I was obsessed with the need to make this list. I didn't have an answer that would take away that look of concern mixed with alarm on his face. But it's now apparent to me why I've been obsessed about this list. It's the one thing that I feel in control of. Does that make sense to anyone? Everything in my life feels a bit like the haphazard piles, ever growing, that now take up half the floor of my office. And this time spent poring over my books--my mom has threatened to ship the other part of the collection housed at her house all these years--makes those piles fade away. It is the only time when the frenzy inside my head seems to calm down. And so, that is why this task, which should have taken all of one afternoon, has dragged on for a week. It allows me the space to quiet and to reflect on what is ahead, what I'm leaving behind, and what all of it means, will mean to me and my family.
It's no surprise that books have, again, become my refuge and salvation. They have been the one constant in my life. Nothing reassures me more than a pile of books--yes, there is never just one book, but a pile--on the bedside table. The biography of Michel Foucault, which dissects his life in relation to his work and writings, is a book that I have been reading for 7 years. Yes, 7 years. The book is quite dense, as are his works for those who are familiar, so that consuming more than 10 pages at a time is all I can muster. It is now in that pile to be sent to New York. And I have vowed to finish it this upcoming year.
I will end today's post with Eliot.
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation...
One of my tutors in London, now quite a well-known literary critic, wrote a critical study about this particular poem. When I was studying with him we were reading Shakespeare. We adored one another as student/teacher, both a bit nutty, obsessive, and in love with language. The best story of our time together is how I made him sit in line overnight with me to purchase tickets to see Daniel Day Lewis perform Hamlet. So, there we were, huddled with others, drinking coffee, making jokes about how insane all of this was. The wait was well worth it since our seats were second row orchestra. The night of the performance, David ran into a mate of his from Cambridge, I believe, who was an actor with the RSC. For some reason, David volunteered his ticket next to me for his friend's seat much farther back. He later explained that he could hear the audible gasps, coming from my seat, hence the reason for the seat change since he knew I would embarrass him in my adolescent idolatry of Day Lewis. I only just recently purchased his book dissecting this poem. I think it ironic that this piece resonates with both of us. And yes, his critical book is on my pile bound for New York.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Dumpster Heaven
I've spent the first part of the day sitting around being useless as my friend worked on my lap top since that will be the only computer I will use in New York. This friend, now more family, is the older brother that I wish I'd had--yes, he doesn't like to admit that he's older. He never seems to run out of patience with me since I'm always asking him for help with some annoying thing that has me flummoxed. If I were to list all that he's done for me these past seventeen years, well, it would make this blog ridiculously long and tedious. When he left today, we didn't say 'good-bye,' truly an impossible notion for me. How do you leave behind someone who has become part of your foundation, the foundation that provides support unnoticed by the rest of the world? I know there will be no replacing him in my life. How could anyone get so lucky to meet someone as generous and caring as him a second time? I am ecstatic to report that he left our house with a pound cake, one of the two that I baked yesterday. I have two cakes baking today for distribution tomorrow.
My office is now full of piles of stuff, some that will end up in the dumpster due to arrive tomorrow, and others that may get donated. It's becoming clear to me why people move to the suburbs and stay. All that space creates the illusion of need. For instance, I found a large box of envelopes, the kind of box used by companies that actually send out a fair number of correspondences, in the back crevices of the cupboard in my office. Now, why would any normal, non-business person have a need for such a large box of envelopes? If only I could say that was the only large box of a useful item, perhaps not so useful in such a large quantity, that I have discovered in my house. I suppose it's all that Costco living that suburbanites seem to relish. No doubt I fell prey to the lures of that warehouse, full of things that no sane person needs in the ridiculous quantities that we all bring home. Hence, the industrial size bag of flour, the reason for all this frenetic baking.
I'm nearing the end downloading our CD collection. I don't know about any of you, but I'm always creating soundtracks for different periods of my life. Or certain albums become part of the mosaic of my time in a specific place. London is all about 10,000 Maniacs "In My Tribe" album. My summer at Ewha University is all about New Order, Andreas Wollenweider, and Salt and Pepa. My time at Yale University Press is all about Babyface's "Whip Appeal." My sophomore year of high school was UB40's "Labour of Love." My first fall in LA was Seal's first album. It's amazing how certain albums transport you to such specific memories. Or they do for me. My husband would never admit, but I've secretly believed he fell for me because of my music collection, which he found impressive for its expansiveness. Yes, I did have Miles Davis' 'Kind of Blue' among the many others, all of which I still own today.
So, this time of transition, purging, and farewells is all about Prince's cover of Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You," which I'm listening to endlessly as I drive down familiar streets, seeing everything through new eyes. It's a wondrous thing to see something you've driven past a zillion times, truly noticing it as if it were the first time. I'm trying to, like everything else I seem to be cataloging in my life, take note, storing the memories of squat buildings, houses with extraordinary gardens, trying to drown in the images of this town. Yesterday as I drove to pick up a friend, I was teary, again Prince's song played over and over again, as I realized that I will not be driving to her house to pick her up for much longer.
When I'm tucked inside on those snowy days when venturing outside is too uninviting, I will, hopefully, remember the burst of Fuschia colored bougainvilleas in our backyard. Or the hummingbirds that seem to love our rose garden. And if the pictures are too dim, I will simply put on the song from this time and remember the insane baking and stress of trying to move our family 3000 miles away.
My office is now full of piles of stuff, some that will end up in the dumpster due to arrive tomorrow, and others that may get donated. It's becoming clear to me why people move to the suburbs and stay. All that space creates the illusion of need. For instance, I found a large box of envelopes, the kind of box used by companies that actually send out a fair number of correspondences, in the back crevices of the cupboard in my office. Now, why would any normal, non-business person have a need for such a large box of envelopes? If only I could say that was the only large box of a useful item, perhaps not so useful in such a large quantity, that I have discovered in my house. I suppose it's all that Costco living that suburbanites seem to relish. No doubt I fell prey to the lures of that warehouse, full of things that no sane person needs in the ridiculous quantities that we all bring home. Hence, the industrial size bag of flour, the reason for all this frenetic baking.
I'm nearing the end downloading our CD collection. I don't know about any of you, but I'm always creating soundtracks for different periods of my life. Or certain albums become part of the mosaic of my time in a specific place. London is all about 10,000 Maniacs "In My Tribe" album. My summer at Ewha University is all about New Order, Andreas Wollenweider, and Salt and Pepa. My time at Yale University Press is all about Babyface's "Whip Appeal." My sophomore year of high school was UB40's "Labour of Love." My first fall in LA was Seal's first album. It's amazing how certain albums transport you to such specific memories. Or they do for me. My husband would never admit, but I've secretly believed he fell for me because of my music collection, which he found impressive for its expansiveness. Yes, I did have Miles Davis' 'Kind of Blue' among the many others, all of which I still own today.
So, this time of transition, purging, and farewells is all about Prince's cover of Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You," which I'm listening to endlessly as I drive down familiar streets, seeing everything through new eyes. It's a wondrous thing to see something you've driven past a zillion times, truly noticing it as if it were the first time. I'm trying to, like everything else I seem to be cataloging in my life, take note, storing the memories of squat buildings, houses with extraordinary gardens, trying to drown in the images of this town. Yesterday as I drove to pick up a friend, I was teary, again Prince's song played over and over again, as I realized that I will not be driving to her house to pick her up for much longer.
When I'm tucked inside on those snowy days when venturing outside is too uninviting, I will, hopefully, remember the burst of Fuschia colored bougainvilleas in our backyard. Or the hummingbirds that seem to love our rose garden. And if the pictures are too dim, I will simply put on the song from this time and remember the insane baking and stress of trying to move our family 3000 miles away.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Books, Books, and More Books
I've finished throwing out all those pretty cards, enough to have felled a few dozen trees, I'm sure. They are now stuffed, quite unceremoniously, into large shopping bags, which I seem to have in abundance since I collect those as well, and have realized that all of my books will go into storage for this first year in New York. YIKES! Not 'yikes' like I can't live without them, which is partly true, but more 'yikes' like what if I repurchase the same books that I have because I don't know what I have? So, I've come up with the ingenious idea of cataloging all my books, alphabetically by author, and broken up into categories: fiction (by periods), nonfiction, poetry (by periods) and all of my critical theory books. Great idea, right? But you can see how this will quickly turn into something very ugly as I obsess about whether to categorize Raymond Carver as Modern or Postmodern.
I will digress from my purging since I've realized that I need to write about Los Angeles, and less about how much crap I have to sort through before I can leave LA. Last night I attended an interesting cocktail party for women in business--yes, I'm not in business, per se--in downtown LA. Yes, people do go downtown, or at least I do. I'm always amazed I get invited to these types of events since my career is so fractured unlike most of my friends who seem to have such structured days.
I drove the three or so miles to the restaurant, avoiding all freeways, of course, and was quickly stuck in traffic, which snaked down Sunset Boulevard. It's when my car is running, but not moving, when walking would have been quicker, if walking were an acceptable mode of transportation instead of some strange socio-economic statement, that I start my "oh I hate this city," mutterings. Needless to say, there were many expletive filled moments in the car, especially after my navigation device kept insisting on putting me on a freeway, and therefore I got lost since I had to ignore the strange automated voice telling me to turn left when turning left would mean my hands clutching the steering wheel in terror as cars whizzed past me on those five-lane monstrosities called a--FREEWAY. By the time I arrived, I was frazzled and badly in need of a drink.
As I was leaving, waiting for the valet, I gazed up at the two structures reaching skyward. One building was emblazoned with the name of a well-known law firm, the other nameless. I turned around and saw the freeways behind, cars still doing that jerky--race ahead and then stop movement, which is the normal driving pattern on an LA freeway. The heat from earlier in the day had dissipated, the evening turning cool, just the perfect weather for this desert landscape. At that moment, I experienced a sense of loss for all that I was leaving behind. Despite all of my kvetching, this strange landscape has been the place where I became an adult, or so I like to think although most might not agree. And it is here, in this horizontal landscape that meets the Pacific that I met my husband. And since I've vowed to not write about him, but in the most oblique references, I will just say that all those years here were worth it since this is where my heart healed and became fuller than I could have ever imagined.
I will digress from my purging since I've realized that I need to write about Los Angeles, and less about how much crap I have to sort through before I can leave LA. Last night I attended an interesting cocktail party for women in business--yes, I'm not in business, per se--in downtown LA. Yes, people do go downtown, or at least I do. I'm always amazed I get invited to these types of events since my career is so fractured unlike most of my friends who seem to have such structured days.
I drove the three or so miles to the restaurant, avoiding all freeways, of course, and was quickly stuck in traffic, which snaked down Sunset Boulevard. It's when my car is running, but not moving, when walking would have been quicker, if walking were an acceptable mode of transportation instead of some strange socio-economic statement, that I start my "oh I hate this city," mutterings. Needless to say, there were many expletive filled moments in the car, especially after my navigation device kept insisting on putting me on a freeway, and therefore I got lost since I had to ignore the strange automated voice telling me to turn left when turning left would mean my hands clutching the steering wheel in terror as cars whizzed past me on those five-lane monstrosities called a--FREEWAY. By the time I arrived, I was frazzled and badly in need of a drink.
As I was leaving, waiting for the valet, I gazed up at the two structures reaching skyward. One building was emblazoned with the name of a well-known law firm, the other nameless. I turned around and saw the freeways behind, cars still doing that jerky--race ahead and then stop movement, which is the normal driving pattern on an LA freeway. The heat from earlier in the day had dissipated, the evening turning cool, just the perfect weather for this desert landscape. At that moment, I experienced a sense of loss for all that I was leaving behind. Despite all of my kvetching, this strange landscape has been the place where I became an adult, or so I like to think although most might not agree. And it is here, in this horizontal landscape that meets the Pacific that I met my husband. And since I've vowed to not write about him, but in the most oblique references, I will just say that all those years here were worth it since this is where my heart healed and became fuller than I could have ever imagined.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Papers, papers, and more papers
I am in a wistful mood after having sorted through letters from friends from my high school; letters from my friends I met when I was an exchange student; letters from college friends; letters from old boyfriends; countless birthday cards--one can amass quite an impressive pile at my age; postcards sent by friends from places as far flung as Australia; invitations to weddings, baby showers for mothers whose children are now well into their elementary years; and the thank you notes for dinners at our home, or some sundry gift given on someone's special occasion. I have, since high school, collected, quite compulsively I might add, any written correspondence. Yes, since high school. I might add compulsive to my list of quirky--euphemistic words are needed here--qualities. The worst, but funny part of this strange habit is that I have carted around boxes of these correspondences from Philadelphia to Washington D.C. to New Haven, to Los Angeles, and the countless apartments and houses I have lived since moving west. You can also add peripatetic--the definition that doesn't relate to Aristotle, but to the definition for one who walks constantly--to my list of quirks. And were we not moving to New York, those boxes, unopened for so long, would remain closed, but shipped to the new address. Yes, strange, isn't it? I'm certain that no one I know holds on to these correspondences the way I have over the years. So, for my friends, if you've sent me a card, letter, thank you note, believe me when I say I've held on to it and have now reread them during this period of purging.
After sorting through it all, I am feeling nostalgic about friendships that have endured and those that have not. Each card and letter brought back many of the same emotions I had for that individual during that particular period of my life. It was quite remarkable to be transplanted back to my flat in Camden Town, London, sitting around with my flat mates drinking our way through a bottle of cheap, bad wine, talking about books, films, music, so passionately, the way one does when they're at university. The sad reality for me is that so many of my friends from university are overseas, living in Europe. But what I'm really nostalgic about is the fact that receiving a card these days is out of the norm since all of us use Email as a way to stay in touch. Unlike my compulsion to hold on to written correspondences, I am equally as compulsive about purging electronic correspondences. I'm always afraid that my computer will crash because of information overload. And since all of my work is on the hard drive, I am obsessive--there's that word again-- about deleting emails. Quite a contrast to those boxes, if you think about it.
So, this wistfulness is for the changes in communicating with other people. I can attest that the flow of letters from my friends overseas dwindled around 1992 when everyone seemed to be signed on to an AOL account. The piles I've accumulated over these last thirteen years are for special occasions that call for cards: birthdays, announcements, thank you notes, and a few postcards. Even those whimsical cards with images of exotic locales have been replaced by an email with a picture of someone standing next to the Arc de Triomphe.
As I finally get rid of all those correspondences--I have kept a few, particularly letters--I'm feeling nostalgic about all the relationships that will fade away once I leave Los Angeles. It is just the nature of life, isn't it? I suppose I will stay in touch with a few, but many will become just a part of the landscape of memories I've collected during my time here. And now that I have thrown out all of those cards, I won't even have those reminders. There it is again, that wistfulness. But trust me, I'm not complaining.
After sorting through it all, I am feeling nostalgic about friendships that have endured and those that have not. Each card and letter brought back many of the same emotions I had for that individual during that particular period of my life. It was quite remarkable to be transplanted back to my flat in Camden Town, London, sitting around with my flat mates drinking our way through a bottle of cheap, bad wine, talking about books, films, music, so passionately, the way one does when they're at university. The sad reality for me is that so many of my friends from university are overseas, living in Europe. But what I'm really nostalgic about is the fact that receiving a card these days is out of the norm since all of us use Email as a way to stay in touch. Unlike my compulsion to hold on to written correspondences, I am equally as compulsive about purging electronic correspondences. I'm always afraid that my computer will crash because of information overload. And since all of my work is on the hard drive, I am obsessive--there's that word again-- about deleting emails. Quite a contrast to those boxes, if you think about it.
So, this wistfulness is for the changes in communicating with other people. I can attest that the flow of letters from my friends overseas dwindled around 1992 when everyone seemed to be signed on to an AOL account. The piles I've accumulated over these last thirteen years are for special occasions that call for cards: birthdays, announcements, thank you notes, and a few postcards. Even those whimsical cards with images of exotic locales have been replaced by an email with a picture of someone standing next to the Arc de Triomphe.
As I finally get rid of all those correspondences--I have kept a few, particularly letters--I'm feeling nostalgic about all the relationships that will fade away once I leave Los Angeles. It is just the nature of life, isn't it? I suppose I will stay in touch with a few, but many will become just a part of the landscape of memories I've collected during my time here. And now that I have thrown out all of those cards, I won't even have those reminders. There it is again, that wistfulness. But trust me, I'm not complaining.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
DeClutter: Oh Vey!
The first part of my dream is now a reality. I'm trading in a 3000 square foot home (with an additional 1000 square feet of storage space in our basement) for a two bedroom, two bath apartment in Gramercy. Dream?, some of you say, but yes, my dream. No, no, I can't complain about any of this, although the most casual tour of our jam packed house throws me into another panic attack, since I've dreamed, wanted, prayed, yelled, demanded, cajoled, begged on bended knees, sobbed, pleaded, prayed, screamed at God, my husband, and anyone else who would listen to make this fantasy, dream of mine, become a reality. So, how can I start off this new adventure kvetching about decluttering our lives? Right? Right.
But let me say, this task of paring down is like some strange archaeological dig into my obsessions, diversions, and plain craziness. Who, other than a professional baker, needs an industrial size bag of flour? Well, it seems I needed it since it is in our basement. Yes, I bake to relieve stress, although my obsessiveness turns what is supposed to be an enjoyable event into an EVENT. Hence, the very large, very heavy, bag of flour. That bag is just one sad testament to the diversions I've created for myself here to "keep sane," as I would say in my defense to my husband. So, before the movers even arrive, I will be decluttering my life. And in the process, I will be dissecting my time spent in Los Angeles, a city that has been the source of so much of my antipathy, most unfairly, I'm sure.
While I'm sorting through all this crap, I will be baking because that's what a sane person does when they have to move their entire life 3000 miles away. I will be trying to make my way through that bag of flour. Despite all of my ceaseless, annoying complaints about life here, I've been able to amass a wide circle of people who call themselves my friends. Or so they say to me. And at a loss as to how I should say 'good-bye,' I've been struck by such a creative idea: bake each person a goody. I did mention a certain, certifiable lunacy on my part coupled with my obsessiveness, right? Yes, so as I go on endless lunches, dinners, cocktail parties, so many events to say our farewells, I will come armed with a pound cake, or a dozen cookies, or some coconut cupcakes, or a pie, or a Tiramisu, or maybe even an angel food cake. You see the logic here, right? Bake my way through that bag that is used by bakeries, so I don't waste the $8.00 I spent to purchase it. Only if this unusual heat wave would abate, so that my house thermostat doesn't climb into the triple digits after having the Industrial oven on all day. And the fires raging behind our house doesn't threaten the fire department and police department to come to our door to tell me that I have to evacuate. You can picture me, flour all over the kitchen, the Ipod cranked to 10, telling them, "no, I can't leave since I have a cake in the oven."
But let me say, this task of paring down is like some strange archaeological dig into my obsessions, diversions, and plain craziness. Who, other than a professional baker, needs an industrial size bag of flour? Well, it seems I needed it since it is in our basement. Yes, I bake to relieve stress, although my obsessiveness turns what is supposed to be an enjoyable event into an EVENT. Hence, the very large, very heavy, bag of flour. That bag is just one sad testament to the diversions I've created for myself here to "keep sane," as I would say in my defense to my husband. So, before the movers even arrive, I will be decluttering my life. And in the process, I will be dissecting my time spent in Los Angeles, a city that has been the source of so much of my antipathy, most unfairly, I'm sure.
While I'm sorting through all this crap, I will be baking because that's what a sane person does when they have to move their entire life 3000 miles away. I will be trying to make my way through that bag of flour. Despite all of my ceaseless, annoying complaints about life here, I've been able to amass a wide circle of people who call themselves my friends. Or so they say to me. And at a loss as to how I should say 'good-bye,' I've been struck by such a creative idea: bake each person a goody. I did mention a certain, certifiable lunacy on my part coupled with my obsessiveness, right? Yes, so as I go on endless lunches, dinners, cocktail parties, so many events to say our farewells, I will come armed with a pound cake, or a dozen cookies, or some coconut cupcakes, or a pie, or a Tiramisu, or maybe even an angel food cake. You see the logic here, right? Bake my way through that bag that is used by bakeries, so I don't waste the $8.00 I spent to purchase it. Only if this unusual heat wave would abate, so that my house thermostat doesn't climb into the triple digits after having the Industrial oven on all day. And the fires raging behind our house doesn't threaten the fire department and police department to come to our door to tell me that I have to evacuate. You can picture me, flour all over the kitchen, the Ipod cranked to 10, telling them, "no, I can't leave since I have a cake in the oven."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)