Moving back to Manhattan is a lot like being let out of middle school into a downpour: you know it will be hell getting home, but it's way better than where you have just been.
My stuff has finally been wrestled back from the movers who were apparently taking it on a greatest hits tour across the country--skipping only those states where they couldn't find anyone wanting to move across town. After applying a torrent of expletives didn't work to get a delivery date sometime before the next administration, I turned to emotional blackmail, creating a recently-deceased husband my daughter and I named Jonathan after getting a Brooks Brothers catalog for him with my mail. It turns out that grown men do cry, even when they have a prodigious amount of body odor and ear hair, but only when faced with a new widow sleeping on the floor without even her memories to keep her warm.
So, I have my things about me, as the Irish say. And, as New Yorkers say, I have too much shit.
I am convinced my apartment was replaced with an architect's model during the time between my renting it and the couch arriving. The floor plan that seemed like a prairie while I was moving my paper furniture around on its perfect blue-squared paper has turned into an elevator with a silverware drawer--a drawer which, it turns out, can also accommodate two pairs of workout socks and a tube of mascara. I didn't know this about a silverware drawer until I went on the urban version of a big-game safari to bag the most elusive of city game: space.
Conclusion: it's still worth it, just to be here, even if it is raining. And there's always the Container Store, where they actually give you a gun. Alright, it's a scanner. But if you add your own "chhh, chhh" sound effects people give you space AND containers. Who ever said the city was a cruel place?
That's My Amy !!!!!
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