Ironic, Illegal, Icy

I am sitting at my desk, which I've situated beneath the 42"-square skylight that attracted me to this apartment, contemplating the irony of my housing choice.

One reason I am renting is to take a breather from the responsibilities - real and imagined - of owning a property, especially after having fixed up and maintained a three family dwelling for more years than I expected. I decided to rent in order to relax, in order to not feel the weight of decisions that come about with ownership, in order to not feel my internal pressure to create a perfectly decorated space, in order to not be in charge of contractors.

I rented this place after taking a very quick look at it to ascertain: Did I like the layout? Does it get enough light? Was it in good condition? Did I like the location? Did I get a good feeling about the landlord? Was the rent appropriate?

Why Yes to all! That's why I am here.

What I failed to notice (in addition to not seeing the paint colors!) was that neither the bedroom, the bathroom nor the kitchen have a heat source. Of course, on a hot day in the middle of August, verifying the existence and whereabouts of radiators was not my top priority when checking out this place. It wouldn't occur to most people that this man - a real estate lawyer, developer and landlord - would even show a place that lacked a heated bedroom. Having rented out apartments before, I know that the lack of radiators in such key places is, shall we say, a bit illegal. I also know that getting heat into converted third floors can be a challenge.

I happen to like this apartment and the owner, so I am not going to raise a huge fuss. At least not yet. But, rather than experiencing a carefree rental I've been sending the owner e-mails with instructions for what his handyman needs to do to begin to resolve the situation. I've asked that he insulate the hot water pipes that run, through my stairwell, to this apartment so that I am not paying for heat to disappear before it's made the arduous climb from the basement to the two radiators that do exist up here (in the living room and in the entry hall). And I've asked that an electrician install a heat lamp in the bathroom. Freezing on the toilet in the morning is an adventure when camping, but inexcusable at home. The landlord has indicated that he'll send someone over to take care of these things. Electrician #1 did not contact me so now I am waiting for someone else.

For now, that should satisfy, although it still leaves me in a position of dealing with contractors, a position I hoped to avoid by renting. And I'd like to take some more time to develop a strategy for addressing the lack of heat in my bedroom. I'm not interested in raising hell over it, but I might be willing to not notify the authorities in exchange for, say, a rent reduction that would cover the cost of keeping an electric space heater. Yes, in this case I would not refuse hush money. At the moment I am leaning towards being pragmatic rather than self-righteously pointing fingers. I will see how I feel (assuming I haven't gone numb) when the outdoor temps get really icy.

Something to contemplate.

Ignorance is Bliss

Last night I attended a meeting in downtown Boston, a place notoriously difficult to find street parking. The gathering was of a group that discusses and practices the "Law of Attraction", which basically says that your thoughts, beliefs and feelings create your experience of life. For example, if you believe that the world is a hostile place, you will likely focus on the hostility you notice and/or behave in a hostile way, thus reinforcing your belief (we all want to be "right"!). If you believe that the world is a kind place, you will probably seek out people and experiences that confirm that belief. Part of it is a question of what you're choosing to focus on, and part of it has to do with the energy you emanate (are you a contented person who generates good vibes? or an angry person who sends off nasty, "get out of my way" vibes?). You get the idea - it is simple to understand and can be complex to implement, especially if one is trapped in negative emotional states. One of the things discussed at this event was ways to shift into more positive states of being.

Anyway, presumably each of the 50+ people who attended this event wanted to attract a street parking spot.

The meeting was at 7pm, and I had planned to leave shortly after 6pm to ensure that I would have enough time to attract a parking space. But extensive wardrobe deliberations (do I wear my red shoes or blue shoes? and what would match them?) delayed me and I didn't get out the door until 6:20 p.m. Traffic was thick as sludge near the turnpike entrance/exit, a sluggish rainsoaked mass of "out of service" buses and cars, and as the clock ticked I feared that I would be late.

But the clogging cleared and I found myself zipping down the Turnpike towards Boston, grateful that I was not heading in the other direction. Within a few minutes I had arrived at my destination. No sweat.

It was now 6:46 p.m.

Now I had to find a parking spot. Cruising down the street, I noticed a grey SUV owner get into his vehicle. I hovered, waiting for him to pull out. Thrilled, and perhaps feeling a little too self-satisfied for my own good, I snagged the metered space and sauntered over to the meeting. Of course I had to tell everyone about my amazing manifestation, that I had found a parking spot on the same street.

At the end of the meeting as I was thanking the host, and sharing with him my parking triumph, he mentioned that, in his part of town, meters require feeding until 8 p.m.

Oops.

That was a detail I had overlooked, assuming that 6p.m. was the cut off time, as it is in many parts of the greater Boston area. I mentally prepared myself to receive a whopper of a parking ticket. But, by this point of the evening I was in a good mood and wasn't going to let mere money ruin the bliss I had experienced at 6:48 p.m. when I had effortlessly pulled into my space.

The fine was $25.

P.S. To end the suspense....I know you are all dying to know..I went with the blue shoes and a turquoise silk shirt. Yes, I also wore pants.

Intoxicating

I hate sitting in traffic. I hate driving in traffic. But each of the 95 minutes I spent crawling up Route 95 on Friday night during "rush" hour was well worth it for the reward that awaited me. I decided to make a pilgrimage to Topsfield to attend an evening of Danskinetics with live African drumming, followed by a wine tasting.

Danskinetics was invented at Kripalu and it is a combination of yoga and dance that, I find, is very transformative and freeing, providing a natural high. I first tried it at Kripalu a few years ago, was amazed by its power to generate blissful feelings in a very short time, and then attended a few classes in the Boston area. Sadly, this instructor moved to Ohio, leaving behind a great void. The next closest teacher is in Wakefield; I receive notifications of her classes, but they are far enough away to be discouraging, especially since she holds them on Friday evenings, normally when I attend synagogue.

But I was intrigued by this event she was hosting, a combination of live drumming by Mamadou and a chance to sample local wines at Alfalfa Farm. And after a week of moving, unpacking, sorting and organizing, my body was begging to shake itself out. Synagogue could wait. Wanting to arrive on time, I gave myself 90 minutes to travel 29 miles, a ride that Mapquest estimates at taking just 41 minutes. As the traffic stalled and the clock ticked, I began to despair of making it by 6:30pm. Somehow, the logjam broke at around 6:20pm, and I sped to my exit, arriving at the farm just a few minutes late but before the dancing had begun.

The drummers started gently as we warmed up but quickly picked up the tempo, enveloping the group (50+ people, with some men even!) with a rousing and mood altering rhythm. Within minutes my formerly aching and tight limbs and torso were jumping, stomping, wriggling and doing things I had no idea they knew how to do, at a speed that surprised me.

Intoxicating.

The gaz guzzling trek to Topsfield was worth that one dance. And that was just the first 15 minutes. As the temperature in the room climbed my tempo cooled a bit, but not my enthusiasm. In each subsequent set, the music began innocuously enough, a gentle drumming to get us swaying, then shifted into high gear. Some of us hooted and screamed as we jumped around, releasing the week's frustrations.

After such a catharsis, the wine seemed less appealing. I did try several varieties (Merlot, Marechal Foch, Blueberry and Aurore), and helped myself to the accompanying cheeses, but their flavors were not nearly as intense and intoxicating as the dancing.

Inconnu

Newtonville, my new 'hood, is similar to my former stomping grounds in a number of ways. They both have a commuter rail station, a UPS Store, a cluster of bakery cafes and a bunch of banks, all within close range of my apartment. They also have a Shaw's Supermarket in common.

But the Newtonville Shaw's, a hulking windowless block of concrete, has always made me anxious because it perches over the Massachusetts Turnpike. If it didn't have a brightly lit orange sign affixed to its side, one could understandably believe it to be a detention center for suspected terrorists. Driving underneath it all these years, I hold my breath and say a quick prayer in the hopes that it won't collapse in the split second that I pass below it.

So far, so good.

But now, if I want to walk just a few blocks to a supermarket, Shaw's is it. I will either have to get over my fear that it might plunge to the turnpike while I am in it, splattering me and its entire juice section onto the pavement, or go to another place (not such a bad idea, since Trader Joe's and Whole Foods are also nearby).

I bravely entered Shaw's the other day, in search of the most basics of basics: toilet paper, laundry detergent and seltzer. Wandering through the aisles, which were differently configured from the Porter Square supermarket, I managed to pick up a few more things. When my carriage appeared to contain about as much as I could reasonably carry back to my place, I went to the checkout counter. The clerk tallied my purchases and I asked for paper bags with handles. This was all quite unremarkable, but quickly I began to feel like an inconnu, a real outsider.

Before I knew what was happening, the bagger had removed my shopping cart, placed half my purchases in a plastic bin and put the bin on a conveyor belt.

"Um, where did my groceries go?" I asked.

At this point he was bagging the rest.

"Can't I just take these with me?" I demanded, pointing to the bags that were still within reach. "I walked here."

But the bagger was on auto pilot and put them in a bin, handing me two numbers that corresponded to the containers.

"Where do I pick these up?" I sighed.

"Go downstairs, to the left and under the building," the clerk said.

Numbers in hand, I scampered after my groceries, entering a tunnel where SUV after SUV lined up to be loaded with goodies by the Shaw's employees. The customers didn't even have to leave their vehicles. My bins trundled toward me, the lone pedestrian shopper, and I scooped up the bags, retreating as quickly as I could from the dark and exhaust filled underbelly of Shaw's.

I am curious about the reaction I'll get when I go next time and ask them to load my groceries into a backpack.

Insomnia, II

One would think that after a week of intense physical work - painting, moving cartons and containers from an attic to a car and then carrying them up another two flights of stairs (repeat 5 times), culminating in today's mattress move - that I would have fallen fast asleep tonight on my reassembled bed.

Alas.

My body is exhausted beyond belief, my fingers and forearms aching from effort, but my mind is going a mile a minute. So, here I am, finding some solace at the keyboard, hoping to fake out my brain a bit and convince it to slow down enough so that it will let me rest. Luckily, there is a wireless network I can hop onto.

My apartment is conveniently located, within walking distance of a post office, a few grocery stores, thrift shops and a small downtown area with a bakery, UPS Store and some restaurants. All this convenience comes with a price - the house in which my apartment is located is on a busy street, and even at 3:42 a.m. there are still cars speeding by. I might need to stock up on earplugs (perhaps buy stock in earplugs?) if I am going to be comfortable here.

One of my insomnia strategies is to change venues, to try to sleep somewhere other than the place where the insomnia climbed into bed with me....I figure, maybe if I quietly go somewhere else, I will leave it behind. I plopped down on my futon couch and covered myself with a colorful throw that my aunt made for me a few years ago. My relaxation was interrupted by unmistakable snores from one of the two guys who live in the apartment below me, despite the fact that my apartment is carpeted (I hate carpeting, but thought - on the bright side - that it might create a sound barrier). It is a bit odd to be hearing such an intimate sound from someone I've met just once. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "noisy neighbor".

Do I bang on the floor so that he'll turn over and possibly stop?

I am going to go back to bed and ponder that question, hopefully falling asleep in the process.

Interiors, II

Tonight is my first official night in my new apartment. I spent an "unofficial" night here on Saturday, sleeping on the futon couch after a friend dropped me off quite late. This evening I will sleep on my bed, albeit unmade, as the mattress cover got rather filthy during its traumatic transition today. Miraculously, a mover and I managed to cajole, squeeze and tug my queen size mattress up two flights of very narrow stairs. Pushing this unwieldy item through the passageway of the staircase, trying to get it to contract enough to make it over just one more step, and then our relief that we actually succeeded in this ludicrous endeavor, brought to mind the birthing process (even though I haven't experienced it personally).

On a lighter note, I present a catalogue of items left in my apartment by the previous tenant, in the order in which I discovered them. Can you figure out which I kept and which I've tossed?

White fan
Ironing board
Iron
Orange vacuum cleaner
Cleaning supplies - many
Comforter, faded and worn
Three frozen chicken entrees (2 Barber Foods, 1 Stouffers)
An extra plastic shower curtain
One stick of salted butter
One bottle of Heinz Ketchup
Clear rectangular glass vase
Starbucks Mug, "Barista" series
Four sheer purple drapes
One sheer white drape
Wooden rolling pin
Red teakettle
Two chenille throw pillows
Toaster oven - working and reasonably clean
Bags of round silver balls from the Christmas Tree Shop
Scented candles
Faux crystal candle holders
1.5 liter bottle of Advanced Listerine, 80% full
Equaline value pack Douche, package of four, three remaining

Inventory

I went to Pier 1 Imports today, armed with a list of items I hoped to purchase for my new apartment: Sheer curtain panels; decorative chair covers; a small bench; a coatrack for a wall. I had seen all of these items for sale at Pier 1 in recent years, spotting them during my many, many visits to this colorful emporium.

The helpful salesman informed me that they no longer carry the sheer cotton curtain panels, nor decorative chair covers, nor coatracks. Savvy retailers that they are, they turn much of their inventory quite frequently. Disappointed but not discouraged, I asked this man where I might find what I was looking for. "Linens n' Things," he suggested.

Moving is a time to clear out my own inventory, deciding which items will make the cut and accompany me to the new place, which items will remain in storage, and which items will be discarded into the ashbin of my personal history. It is first and foremost a psychic sorting, an evaluation identity, values and direction in life that determines the physical objects with which I'll continue to associate. Before leaving for Israel, I did a massive purge of my personal property, unburdening myself of belongings that no longer suited who I thought I was becoming. I relinquished an eight foot couch; it was a beautiful piece of furniture but keeping it in my life would have required finding a large enough apartment or paying to store it, and I didn't want either constraint in my life. With much relief, I put it on a truck to California, where it now resides in my older brother's home. The fellow on the first floor of my former house bought several bookcases and lamps. A toothless man with a van adopted two chests of drawers that I had posted on Craigslist. I schlepped carloads of "stuff", mostly clothes and most of which I cannot even recall, to the local Goodwill.

You'd think that after such an unloading that I'd be done, but I am still finding opportunities to cull my collection of clothing and things. My goal for my new place is to bring only things which I use frequently and/or bring me pleasure. If something is in good condition, but I no longer like it or use it, or if there is no happy memory associated with it, out it goes. I'm no longer carrying things with me "just in case" I might want it in the future. I'm willing to take the risk that one day I might regret having given something away; my days as a packrat are over.

The reward for periodic purges of one's stuff, as exhausting as it can be, both mentally and physically, is that it clears room for the new. The reason I am looking for decorative chair covers is that the woman who used to live in my new apartment left me two wooden chairs....among other things.