Cinderella is not going to the ball. But she's daydreaming about one. Fall, 2002, Manhattan. My shared apartment on East 20th Street was in a corner building, sheltered from taxi packed 1st Avenue by a basketball court and a playground. It was close enough to work, that on the rare occasions exhaustion could pass for illness, I would walk home and observe the schoolchildren at play, untamed beneath my bedroom window. I was far from the wilds of nature, but the shrill sounds of laughing children felt organic enough, and I looked forward to them.
I miss New York City. It's not what you think. I spent the greater part of yesterday kneeling on all fours in my kitchen (I wish this was a racy story - it would be much more enjoyable for all parties involved), with industrial knee pads borrowed from my husband (not for), scrubbing all the "character" out of our terracotta floors. I get the character thing, but when it looks like someone hasn't scrubbed a floor in ten years and it's not even my own dirt, I take matters into my own hands. In fact I scrub - like hell. And I mop, and steam (thank you Mom for the steam cleaner - well kinda). And I scrub again.
It’s been one-month since our movers arrived. Let me rephrase that. It’s been one month since the 18-wheeler that carried our most dear and useless belongings (a closetful of female power suits and countless silk breezy blouses) got stuck on our one-lane dirt road and two burly yet ever so polite movers showed up at the door to our empty new nest asking where the nearest UHaul location might be. That’s right, they needed to rent a smaller rig. The beast made it 3000 miles cross country all the way from New York City but couldn’t make it down our stretch of heaven. Instead, it sat ominously parked by the main road on view for all our new “reduce, reuse, recycle” 4,453 neighbors (that includes summer residents!) while the movers packed load after load into a glorified mini-van to shuttle back and forth.