Goodbye, Crazy

It’s been a long time since I’ve lived in a stand-alone house.  I’m somewhat used to sharing walls and hallways with strangers of all kinds.  There have been plenty of stories, though none of them seem particularly memorably right now.  But why do so many people play loud techno on Saturday mornings?

Anyway.  The people in the apartment next door don’t get along very well.  I base this judgment on the number of yelling matches I’ve overheard and the volume at which said matches occur.  About a week ago I woke up at 2am to horror-movie-worthy screams in the hallway.  There are door slams and fights that continue into chase scenes down the hall.

And then there’s the weed.  I’m about as laissez-faire as it gets: I couldn’t care less what anyone does in the privacy of their own home.  But when the elevators in my building open on my floor, I can tell by the smell whether my neighbors are entertaining.  Apparently, good hosts provide copious amounts of pot.  Apologies to all of the people who have left my home disappointed by my lack of hospitality.

As I left this morning, I almost tripped over the movers taking the neighbors' boxes out of the apartment.  I have no idea if they will be moving to one location together or going their separate ways.  All I know is that I breathed a great big sigh of relief.

Can’t say I’m gonna miss you.

A Dog’s Life

Walking down my block the other night, I couldn’t help but notice a golden retriever out for a stroll with his human friend.  He caught my attention because of how often he stopped to sniff things, and how long he attempted to linger when he did.  The person on the other end of the leash kept urging him forward, trying not to break her already slow stride.

I arrived home and collected my mail, and then, as I was waiting for the elevator, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “C’mon.  We’re home.”  I looked toward the door and saw that same golden retriever splayed on the sidewalk in front of the building, while the woman tried to talk him into standing up and coming inside.  I’m still wondering if he was lying down in protest, insisting on staying outside because it was such a nice night.  Or, had the day been so long that he simply couldn’t go any farther?  I know that feeling, but what I’ll never know is what that sweet doggy was thinking.

A Minor Moral Defeat

I’ve been doing my taxes by hand since—well, since I’ve had to file taxes.  Granted, in the beginning, it was easier.  Technically, EZ.  But I have taken a certain amount of misguided pride in this yearly ritual.  I grab my number two pencil and the instruction book from the IRS, and hang out with a bad movie on cable.  In recent years I’ve made a small concession to my own fallibility: I check my math with a little red calculator.

I’ve filed in as many as three states in a year, and each year there seems to be another form I need to fill out.  Friends and acquaintances seem shocked when I ignore their suggestions for tax software.  Come on.  I’m a math junky.  This isn’t even hard math.

Last night I breezed through my federal return.  Connecticut didn’t take me much longer.  I made it three quarters of the way through New York when I hit a wall. For three months last year I lived in New York and worked in Connecticut.  Both states expected me to pay taxes on this income.  In the New York instructions, I found a vague reference to credit for taxes paid to another state, but try as I might, I couldn’t find any information on how to actually claim it.  I searched and searched, but kept coming up empty.

And so for the first time ever (when it comes to taxes), I gave up.  I completed everything online in TurboTax.  And that silly little software that I’d avoided using for more than a decade increased my return.  Substantially.  I guess this is one more piece of evidence that I am in fact fallible.

The Bane of My Existence

That would be the backpack. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve employed this handy tool with some frequency at different points in my life. Distributing the load I’m carrying over two shoulders instead of one is better for my back, and assuages my fears of becoming lopsided from carrying everything on my right shoulder all the time. I also love that a backpack leaves my hands free to ward off predators . . . okay really I just want my hands free to gesticulate wildly.

As handy as a backpack can be, I’ve come to loathe them. Or at least the people who where them. Apparently, before one is allowed to purchase a backpack, they are given a spatial awareness test. If they pass, they are forbidden from completing the purchase. How is it possible that no one seems to realize that when they put something on their back (or over their shoulder) it actually protrudes? I dodge these hunchbacks on a daily basis. Usually I’m successful, but the closer they come, the more irritated I become.

So, here’s a little educational info for users of public transit:

• When you put a backpack on your back, it does not magically meld into your torso, allowing you to take up the exact same amount of space as you do naked
• When you put a large bag over your shoulder, it often extends out further than your body
• When you carry a large umbrella horizontally, you are effectively wielding a weapon

What are the odds of the millions of people who need this information actually receiving it and understanding that it applies to them?

That’s what I thought.

Perhaps I’ll invest in body armor.

No Need for Ruby Slippers

In my sophomore year of high school we studied Hemingway. For extra credit, Chelsea Thaxter (such a cool name that I didn’t forget it) gave a presentation on the Home / Not-Home concept. I don’t remember much about it, only that both Home and Not-Home had a distinct mood and feeling, and nothing to do with actual location. Read more here.

Adaptation

I journeyed to the wilds of Connecticut on Saturday to see my friend Monica, her husband, and their newly-purchased house. As we were making plans, she asked me if I needed to do any suburban shopping. I thought and thought, and much to my surprise, the answer was no.

For the first few months I lived in New York, I felt like I was running a small import company (not Vandelay Industries). I would grocery shop over my lunch break and bring things home on the train. I’d shop in Maine and stuff my suitcase. On my last day of work in Connecticut, I went on a Target run that filled both the trunk and backseat of my car.

But now? I think I may have started to get the hang of this whole city thing. I have a couple little markets I frequent. There are a few items I prefer to have delivered, and I’ve found a service I like for that. And, to feed that suburban shopping hunger, I finally made the pilgrimage to the Target in Harlem. And it was amazingly simple to get there and get back home with all my purchases.

It’s like I figured out one more piece of this puzzle.

Full Canine Employment

Yes, it’s been awhile. So you know it must take something important to get me back to the keyboard.

What could be more important than finding a job for a dog? How about funding a therapy dog for a little girl who desperately needs one. One of my favorite bloggers wrote this much better than I did, so I suggest you hop over to this post.

If you have a blog, or any kind of network, please share Evalyn’s story.