Ode to Husband

Some of my favorite writers have sadly lost their spouses, and as writers, part of their grieving process involves writing a memoir of losing their spouse. I have nothing against this whatsoever, and actually love these memoirs. I love histories of marriages (of good marriages I should stipulate having seen enough bad ones in my life). So I generally pick these stories up - Joyce Carol Oates's recent piece in The New Yorker on becoming a widow and the last week of her marriage, to Calvin Trillion's About Alice or Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. Must You Go? by Antonia Fraser is the next one on my list (I hear it's one of those books that you don't want to end) as Fraser tells the story of her life with Harold Pinter.
      With the death of one of my uncles and my step-dad within the space of a year, and then the death of another favorite uncle a month ago, I've been thinking about the stories that get created and told within marriages, the kind of stories that end up as family legends and myths, as well as the stories that don't get told - or not until both respective parties are dead in some cases. After reading Oates's piece in the New Yorker, followed by the article in the New York Times on civil unions replacing marriage in France, I started wondering who cares what we call it? Whatever it is, it's sharing a life with someone, and whether it's marriage, being civilly united, or sinful as some conservative consider it (not that it's any of their business), it is significant. I decided it's significant enough that I might not wait for my husband to die before I started commemorating my life with him. I might start celebrating those moments I share with him, when I fall in more love with him, when he surprises me, when he makes me laugh, even when he flips out in asshole mode, storms out of the room slamming the door behind him only to walk back in two seconds later with an apology (well, I don't know if I have to share all those...).
      When I met my husband, he wasn't funny and I considered it too bad. While we were dating, I'd have those moments when I think, we get along great, I love being with him, but he's not funny. Then somewhere along the way, he got funny. He even got funny in that way that sometimes can be inappropriate, in that way that points out a truth that people know or do, but don't necessarily admit.

       We went out yesterday, while the snow was still pretty and ignoring all blizzard warnings about how we should stay inside, or rather, we were heeding the warnings as we were going out to stock up on groceries while we still had the use of a car. Then we decided to drive around a neighborhood or two to help our brainstorm about where we want to live, we stumbled past Grimaldi's Pizza which is notorious for its line down the block and there was no line. We weren't that hungry, but we stopped and ate anyway simply because there was no wait. Then as we drove home (or where we're staying for now) we saw the decreasing visibility, and the beginning of the blizzard. On the radio, we listened to the news, which interrupted the weather warnings to share the story of the Pope's Christmas message and how he condemned the Christmas Day violence in Nigeria and the Philippines. The Pope called the violence "absurd." I asked, is there a kind of violence that is not absurd?
      The Pope then called for an end to senseless violence and declared that today, Christians are the most persecuted group on the planet. Somewhere along the line, my husband picked up a dry sense of sarcastic humor.
     "Well, you know, what goes around..." He said. "You notice he didn't mention the Spanish Inquisition. Or that they KILLED SOUTH AMERICA."

My husband didn't used to say things like this.  But now that he does, I love it. It cracks me up.

       

To Give or Not to Give

Christmas hovers at the end of the week. While this year my husband and I are rather impressed with ourselves for having gifts bought for all of our extended family members and shipped enough in advance that we didn’t have to worry about shipping the boxes priority – in the same week we got ourselves packed to move across the country no less - we haven’t bought a thing for our two-year old son. We’ve barely bought anything for each other.

Every year at Christmas, we have the same conversation regarding gift giving with slight variations depending on our circumstances. Mainly, that we don’t want to give gifts merely because we think we have to, or it’s expected of us, or because the calendar says it’s what we do on this day. We revisit the rules we have for each other when it comes to gift giving occasions: we don’t buy crap or just anything for each other so there’s something to open under the tree, and, if we don’t like what we have given each other, we have to say so, not lie and shove the item into the back of the closet until the next move when we can quietly slide the item into the donation pile.

We have reasons for these rules. One is we have both been the victims of bad gifts, not so much from each other (because we honor the second rule of telling the truth) but from well meaning friends or family members, who do not have our rules, but other rules. Mainly, no matter how bad the gift is you lie and say thank you, and that you absolutely love it. If you tell the truth – so we have learned – the giver accuses you of being ungrateful and rude. Usually a big display of pouting, offence taken and hurt feelings follows after telling the giver in the nicest way possible that their gift, while well meant, was just not your taste or style.

We have a couple of instances that fall into our family Hall of Fame for bad gifts from people who prefer you to lie as you express your gratitude. One year for Christmas, we had friends give us an item for our home, the kind of thing they would expect to see prominently displayed when they came over for a visit. They loved their gift to us, they gazed at it, delighted in it, were awed by it. At one point, after we had done our duty and put it on display, the wife said, “Oh, we so love the traditional styles.”

            “Oh, interesting.” I said. “We’re more mid-century modern people.”

            “The back of it is really nice.” My husband said, “Mind if I turn it around?”

After the couple left, we talked about what we should do. The gift was one of those items that the couple said over and over we would be able to enjoy for years, it could become a fixture in our home, something our children would remember being present in their childhoods. We considered our fate of displaying somebody else’s tastes in our home. My husband and I then did what anyone else would do in our position; we put all of our things into storage, and left the country. Our hope of course is that when we have a home again and our friends visit, they will have forgotten what they gave us or that we can easily claim it got lost or broken in the move.

            We have a few other of instances in our Hall of Fame that generally go along the same lines. Every time after we say our obligatory thank you and we hang up the phone, I turn to my husband and say, “Don’t you ever – and I mean EVER – lie to me the way we just lied to them.”

            Sometimes my husband defends the lying and the fake gratitude. “We have to say thank you and say we like it. It’s a gift. They don’t have to give us anything.”

            Honestly, I’d rather receive nothing.

            There’s disappointment in a bad gift, not just the let down of not receiving something you like, or that someone took time and effort to shop or even make your gift, only to have you not like it, but also the disappointing realization that the person who gave you the gift doesn’t really know you, and because they get offended when you try to convey your preferences, they aren’t really interested in getting to know you. Rather, they prefer their version of you, the person they think you are and the image of you they see in their minds when they think of you. They don’t like it when you try to swap the person they think you are for the real one.

            Alas, my husband and I now bear the task of raising our son in the sticky dance of gift giving and thank-you-saying and even I-know-I said-it’s-wrong-and disrespectful-to-lie-but-this-distant-relative/friend-honestly-prefers-it or this person is okay with you telling the truth and here are a couple of ways to say that you appreciate their effort, but it wasn’t in your style.

            I actually really love giving good gifts, and while the art of receiving bad gifts is kind of one I routinely fail at, I do love spending the time and energy to give a good gift.

This art is one I look forward to raising my son in, because like so many things in parenting, it comes down to compassion and the ability to put one’s self into some one else’s shoes. Giving a good gift means you don’t buy things you like for yourself, but with the other person in mind. I can easily say to my son, “Yes, we now live in Brooklyn and we love it, but that doesn’t mean we should buy Grand Dad that Yankees baseball cap. Grand Dad actually hates the Yankees and is obsessed with the Boston Red Sox. No, we shouldn’t buy that cap for Auntie. While she has lived in Brooklyn for eight years, she rarely watches baseball and has never in her life worn a baseball cap or any article of clothing with a logo.”

            Still, Christmas is just a few days away. While my son has boxes of gifts from grandparents, aunts and uncles, my husband and I have decided to wait on his big gift. Last night, we went to the Brooklyn Holiday Flea Market and bought stocking stuffers for all of us, and engaged in the yearly habit of shopping with the person you’re buying for - waiting until the other had turned their back, realizing we didn’t actually have cash on hand, having to borrow the spouse’s wallet to buy the spouse’s gift and laughing about it all the while. Afterward, with Auntie, we planned our Christmas all day menu, so we can squeeze in all our favorite traditional foods and favorite activities (mainly the Christmas afternoon nap). With less gifts – but good gifts – bought, we’ll have plenty of time and space to enjoy the time with each other.

Home is Where We Are

My two-year old son has the most amazing and endearing trait of honoring his body’s internal clock, so daily around 11:30 am and around 7:30 pm, he tells me that he’s tired and ready to go to bed. Except on this particular night, as my husband loads our suitcases into the car, when my son tells me he wants to go to bed, I have to say no. For mothers, telling your child that he can’t go to sleep is completely counterintuitive. But on this night, we are taking the Jet Blue red eye from Portland, Oregon, to Brooklyn, New York. We are moving. Again.

            Three and a half years ago, my husband and I stood in our kitchen in Denver, Colorado sharing an afternoon coffee press of coffee and talked about what we wanted. We didn’t want to live our lives by default; we wanted to live our lives intentionally, lives that we created. We wanted a child; we wanted to live abroad and travel; we wanted careers we loved.

            “Alright” my husband said. “Let’s go live abroad.”

            And with that, we began our nomadic phase. My husband found work on a project in Singapore. I got pregnant. We moved to Los Angeles for the Research and Development phases of the Singapore project. Our son was born. When our son was 11 months old we moved to Singapore. When the project ended six months later, we moved to Bali. Five months later, we went back to LA, and then up to Portland for an eight-week stay with my family. My husband found a series of projects to work on in New York City beginning in December. We packed our bags once again, having traded our summer Bali clothes in our storage unit for our winter sweaters, boots, and coats.

            So when my son asked to go to bed, and I saw the puzzled look on his face when I told him that we’re not going to bed, I instead asked him if he wanted to go on a plane.

            “Yeah!” He hollered and ran for his coat.

On the plane, he sat excitedly in his seat, buckled in and announcing to all his fellow passengers that we were all on a plane and that we were going to go up up up. As soon as the plane took off and the seat belt light turned off, my son turned to me and said, “I want to go home and I want to go to bed.”

            This began a refrain that echoes over our first week in Brooklyn. As I put him to sleep the first couple of nights in Brooklyn, he said again, “ I want to go home.”

            It is one of those moments that as a parent, I don’t know what to say. I loved our time abroad, the people we met, the experiences we had, and the things we learned – about ourselves, and the world in general. I loved our time in Portland and with my family, but I too want to go home. I want a home; I want our home.

            I try to explain that it will be awhile yet, that we are subletting then we’ll be house sitting for friends, then subletting, then house sitting again, and subletting again. After that we will find a place to live that will be outs.  It turns out this isn’t the thing to say.

            “Home.” He said again, starting to cry.

            “I know,” I said. “This is home for now. Mommy is here, daddy is here, and you’re here, so we’re home. Home is where we are.”  I think of the joke that my husband and I have, that home is where our luggage is.

            But I start to tell my son the things we do to create home where ever we are - that at night, we have a bath, a book and bed. In the morning we’ll have breakfast and play, and before nap time we’ll go to the park or library or children’s museum. I tell him we will play trains and when we go for a walk, we will count the trains, buses and dogs we see just like we did in Portland. I tell him that after nap we will have snacks and teatime.            

            This recitation of our routines becomes the lullaby that ends up lulling both of us to sleep, and I realize too before nodding off, that while I miss my things, my coffee mugs, my books, and the ability to have a magazine subscription, that home is where we are, and the routines and rituals we create with each other.

 

Dancing*

Outside it was raining. Because we live in Portland, it had been raining for weeks. Rain is just what winter looks like in the Northwest. Consequently, chidren in the Northwest don’t spent as much time making snow angels as they do splashing in puddles. Which is what I had planned for the day, that my two-year old son and I would get some much needed exercise, don raincoats and galoshes, take the dog to the park and indulge in the very old Oregon tradition of walking in the rain, jumping in the rain, and getting soaked.

            Yet by 11am, I had gotten distracted. My son and I were still in our pajamas; he played trains on the living room floor while I attempted to catch up on the laundry and clean up the state of general disarray that the house had fallen into. But I was beginning to get stir-crazy. I told myself that I would do as much as I could in ten minutes and then we could go.

            My son had other ideas. He pushed his trains aside and stood up.

            “Dance.” He demanded.

            “But we need to fold the laundry, so we can go.” I said. “I want to get out of the house.”

            “Dance.” He demanded again.

            I looked at him doing his in-place-skip-hop-prance-dance-move-thing as he pointed to the stereo.

            “Okay,” I said. “Laundry can wait.”

            I turned on the stereo, and we danced. Some of our favorites songs came on the Pandora station we were listening to. Songs that I sang to him when he was in my belly, songs my husband put into the mix of music that played in the background when I gave birth at home, songs that my son was born to: The Flaming Lips, Do you Realize, Coldplay’s Strawberry Swing, The Beatles, Here Comes the Sun. As we dance around the living room, I sing to him again.

            He is right, I think. We should dance. Someday, he will be at school and not with me during the day. Someday, he will go racing out the front door to play with friends and not with me. Someday, there will be a second child that requires my attention. Someday, his schedule will be more full than mine. Sometimes, I look forward to these somedays. The someday when I can work and write during the day and not at 4am when my family is sleeping. The someday when I can sleep in and spend the day in bed with a book. The someday when I can take a shower and not have to tell anyone because I am no longer responsible for all of their needs.

            But now, in this moment, as he literally dances circles around me, I am glad those somedays have not arrived yet. I am glad we have chosen to dance.

            Half an hour later, my mom calls to tell me that my uncle has died. He was sixty. The news hits me hard, not just because he was one of my favorite uncles and a person whom I admired, or that with my aunt, he had a marriage that inspired me when the marriages of my parents crumbled and I saw other couples constantly bickering, but because he was sixty. And someday I will be forty, and sixty is not much older than forty. Life just got much shorter and much more urgent.  

            It occurs to me then that the songs I sing to my son are about just this, about how fast life goes, that you never have forever. But I don’t sing then. Instead, I look at my son, and quote Mary Oliver: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

            

*This article got picked up another website, the The #life Daily! Yay for me!

After My Piece on Education

One of the things I love about writing in general and writing a weekly article for a website is the discussions or exchange of ideas that come after or in response to what I wrote. I was a bit nervous writing about education, because while it is something I have grown passionate about, I have no formal schooling on the topic. I got my Master's in 19th Century British Literature. I got my Master's partly because I wanted to teach college (at the time I thought I'd go straight for the Ph.d), but mostly because I wanted to spend my weekends in bed in my pajamas reading books that only people in academe cared about. I took one class in pedagogy and sadly, it was rather a waste of time and largely based on the notion that if we just had students free write enough, they would learn how to write coherent paragraphs and papers and so on and so forth. I can't say my experience proved this theory.
        After my son was born, I started researching and reading up on education for his sake. Somewhere along the line I got as concerned about the bigger picture as I was about his education. I started talking to other parents, learned we're all worried about our children's future in the education system, no matter where we're living in the world. I also realized that having received a good education in the public school system as well as college and having taught, that I have high standards. After my education post, a friend of mine who works in education pointed out that the education and curriculum I hope my son to have doesn't exist anywhere in the world. Sadly, she is right.
       Singapore has high scores and is often referred to as having a top education system, but having lived there, I wouldn't put my son in Singapore's schools either. They're heavily focused on math and reading. The notion of the arts is one that is very young in the culture - all the museums are only ten years old. Granted, the country is only forty, but as a result, they are still creating their cultural identity. What they come by naturally follows most Asian cultures- math, competition, pushing children really hard, teach them to mind. Beginning in pre-school, children get an hour of Chinese a day. They place a lot of emphasis on teaching "real life skills"  which sounds like the toddlers learn to balance check books. Really, they learn animals, number, shapes, letters, but on a strict schedule. If at two, your child cannot identify an animal that starts with the letter A, expect a parent-teacher conference.  In many of the public schools, children are not allowed to ask questions. If a child asks a question, their parents are called because their child is being disruptive. Culturally, their strength is and what they bump their heads on, is doing things by the book, not cutting corners, following the rules.
        Western parents often scoff at the notion that Singapore children are not encouraged to ask questions. "How are they supposed to learn?" they protest and rightfully so. What I've come to appreciate about Singapore's system is that at least they are straightforward about this, so if your child is an inquisitive sort, they recommend private education. What I've noticed about Western parents - and schools - is that we say one thing and do another. One mother was so appalled when I told her about the no question thing, she threw a fit. Ten minutes later, she offered me a glass of water and got up to get me one from the kitchen. My son started to squirm in my lap because he was hungry and I started to nurse him. My friend's daughter asked, "What are you doing? Why is doing that?" (Illustrating nicely the lack of breastfeeding around the world but that's another rant), I started to answer when my friend poked her head out of the kitchen and snapped, "Did I just hear you be rude?"
      Alas, it is a sad truth about many parents and schools. We say we want our children to be curious, creative, and know that it's okay to express their emotions, but what we don't say is that most days, whether at home or in the classroom, it'd make our lives easier if kids didn't think for themselves, sat still, behaved, and kept themselves quiet. Ken Robinson asserts that schools educate creativity out of our children. I think he's right and I'd add that I think they also educate curiosity out of them as well.
        Anyway, my husband haven't decided exactly what we're doing for our son's education, except that we're considering all the alternatives before the public schools. In the meantime, I've enjoyed the conversations that have come out of my piece and discussing what we really want for kids. And Cathie Black's fate is in the hands of an Albany judge who's hearing 3 different lawsuits charging that state education Commission Steiner was wrong to grant Black her waiver - you know, the one that said while we require our education Chancellors to have Master's in Education, somehow we'll skip that part because of your publishing history (???).

Public School Heartbreak

The last week of October, the New Yorker featured  a cartoon of two moms sitting, with a child in each of their laps, as they sat on a park bench. One was saying to the other, “We believe in the concept of public education.”  Like all cartoons, it is meant to be funny while revealing something honest, something most of us aren’t willing to admit even though it is completely obvious by our actions that we do indeed feel that way.

                However, I didn’t find the cartoon funny because it captures exactly how I feel. I believe in the concept of public education. I want to believe in it; I want public schools to work. Public education is a cornerstone of democracy; to create well educated citizens and voters, we need good viable public schools. Free good public schools, like good health care, good nutrition, and stable shelter, I believe, is a human right.

                Yet with public education in its current state, I can’t help but want to keep my son as far away as possible from it. In a February 2009 New York Times Op-Ed, Nicholas Kristof called our public education our greatest national shame.  I think he’s right. The emphasis in reading and math simply to meet No Child Left Behind testing demands, and the lack of emphasis on the arts, music, science, and individual creativity is just the least of it. I shudder at the competitive nature, that to get into the desired schools requires either an IQ test taken by a four year old or luck in a lottery, or, as my brother did in Portland, moving to the desired school’s neighborhood when his son failed to win the lottery. I hate that when one child gets into a good school, it displaces another student, potentially into a school that can’t afford to meet his/her needs. I hate that as parents we cannot take for granted that our children will get the education that will nurture their intellectual and creative selves at the public school down the street.

                I have taught University Composition and Literature classes. I know first-hand how ill prepared our students are for college. I used to ask my Freshman writing classes to write a one page free write response to the editorial in the morning’s paper; in response I got blank stares and dilated pupils as anxiety attacks kicked in, even as I remember my eighth grade English teacher Mrs. Larkin asking the same thing of me. I taught Developmental (aka remedial) English classes where I asked students to identify the noun, verb and adjective in the sentence – a skill that is generally taught in the third grade – and was appalled (but sadly, not that surprised) that my students had no idea what I was talking about.No doubt about it: the public schools are failing in a myriad of ways.

                My frustration and concern with our public education was exacerbated In November by New York City’s Mayor Bloomberg’s choice of Chancellor Cathleen Black.  I heard the news on NPR as I drove my two year old son home from the park.  I walked in the house holding my son’s hand but fuming and ranting. My husband suggested I take a deep breath, that maybe I was knee-jerk reacting.

                I can’t say this comment went over well with me.

                My husband generally tries to see the positive in things. He suggests, that maybe I haven’t considered this from all angles.

                I can’t say this comment went over well with me either.

                I explain that Cathleen Black is the chairwoman of Hearst magazines. She hasn’t been anywhere near the public schools not just recently but ever. My husband suggests that in such positions, much like the President, sometimes the skill isn’t so much in having the actual knowledge of what you are supposed to be the expert of, but the ability to have the best and most knowledgeable consultants and experts to advise you on what you need to know. He suggests that those who come from business know this.

                Just then, the story comes on the NPR evening news playing in the house. My husband calmly walks over to the stereo and turns up the volume. Cathleen Black is asking parents and teachers for patience and compassion as she gets up to speed on the issues facing public education.

                “I’m sorry,” I hollered at my husband, “but that comment doesn’t exactly boost my confidence in the woman!”

                “I have to agree you with there.” He said.

                That night I went to bed and thought of how when I was younger I wanted to teach college because of how much I loved my college classes. I thought of how when I was pregnant and found out I was having a boy, I immediately started planning his high school and Liberal Arts college education, that I wanted him to have art classes, world history classes, Women’s Studies classes. I wanted him to have classes that challenged him and taught him how to think. I thought of how while traveling abroad we met other parents from other countries and talked a lot about what we wanted for our children’s education. I realized then that the US is not the only one struggling with finding a system that works and that can possibly meet the needs of all its students.  I realized that my heartbreak over the public schools and Bloomberg’s choice comes from the American belief I was raised with: we are the wealthiest nation on the planet; we can have it all, but we have a responsibility to set an example because people look up to us. With the current emphasis on scores in education, this may be what influenced Bloomberg’s choice. He wanted someone to manage the schools like a business; raise scores, cut losses, make the schools look good on paper and in charts.

                But the public education I want – and the parents I talk to want - prioritizes students. It sees our children as what they are: children. Not a potential score that influences funding. 

Catching Up

And adding in my recent parenting related posts...

Other People's Houses -Brooklyn

When we were looking for a place to live in Bali, we easily looked at twenty different places to live. When I walked into the house that had an oven, I said we'd take it. It was the first oven I had seen in any of the houses we had looked at; indeed, it was one of two ovens on the entire island I heard of. I was thankful for my choice over the next few months as I baked loaves of pumpkin bread, zucchini bread, muffins, and roasted vegetables. Though the house did have its drawbacks: when we took our son to the healer for his chronic constipation that had not responded to ridiculous amounts of fiber, water, prune juice, or rounds and rounds of nasty ass-ed smelling Chinese herbs or homeopathic treatments (though the homeopathics did improve things a little), we learned that his constipation was due to a lack of phosphorus and salt. Oh, and thanks to the house, he had disturbed sleep. Our house was full of wayward spirits. And she didn't mean the rats I caught scurrying in the kitchen. Consequently, part of our bedtime routine became to walk through out the house shouting: "DISPERSE YOU WAYWARD SPIRITS!"

It is baffling for all the ceremonies and offerings purely for the purpose of appeasing and pacifying spirits, that indeed the waywards found their way into our house.

The house we're currently subletting in Brooklyn has no wayward spirits near as I can tell. I suspect this is because the house has its original windows complete with drafts and the waywards have been frozen out. So we're not haunted. The price we pay for this little luxury is the gusts of air that blow past our heads as we sleep.

Yet, this apartment has been meticulously restored. The crown moldings, the chandeliers, the hard wood floors, the porcelain bathtub that is the perfect width and length - Edith Wharton or any of her characters could have lived here. I have realized I grew up spoiled in that I grew up in old turn of the century houses, but the first thing my parents did was update the windows for the sake of their heating bill. In this apartment, you have to stand back from the window, otherwise you get the chill. You shudder, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and well, the house might as well be full of wayward spirits skittering about.

This apartment does have an oven, but I don't think it's ever been used. For the life of me I can't figure out how to turn it on. I'm not even sure it's hooked up to the gas line.  Not that it matters because there's no pans for baking or roasting anything. At our culinary fingertips, we have a crock pot, a saute pan and a soup pot. I looked up recipes for the crock pot and came up with little more than recipes for pot roast and chili. For some reason, I thought crock pots were making a come back, but I was wrong about this. It seems outside of the Midwest, people don't really use them or devise new recipes for them.

So I face a new challenge when it comes to meal planning. But if Anthony Bourdain can make risotto  in a hotel room with nothing more than an electric tea kettle, well, then, I probably have enough kitchen accouterments to whip up a Christmas Eve feast. Except by then, we'll be staying somewhere else.

Other People's Houses, But Closer to Home

Or a home.

Like millions of immigrants before us, we have arrived in New York, but via JFK Airport, not Ellis Island.

We flew in on the red eye with five bags for the three of us (JetBlue thankfully did not charge us a dime for the extra bags. They were phenomenal.) and showed up at our sublet for a hot bath and sleep.

Yep. A sublet. We're not home yet. But I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel to this year and a half of living out of suitcases. We're about six, maybe eight, God forbid twelve weeks away from finding our own home, and having our things actually move there with us.

However, we are subletting a beautifully restored brownstone from a very nice fellow who happens to have a very monkish ascetic aesthetic. There's very little furniture, yet what there is is good quality mid-century modern. He has two twin beds - one in his bedroom for him to sleep on and one as a day bed in the living room. He said, "Two people can snuggle in and be comfortable in a twin bed, but I can bring in a full size if necessary."

Yes, please.

My sister Briana's response was very similar to mine: Yes, but if you're not twenty years old and in your first serious relationship, who would want to? And even at twenty years old in your first serious relationship, sleeping with two of your skinny selves snuggled into a twin bed yielded neck cramps and sore backs.

The other details of the monkish ascetic aesthetic? Communist sand papery one ply toilet paper, thin covers, scratchy towels. I am eternally grateful for this sublet and the beauty of the space, yet my instant reaction this morning while tired, cold, and craving a hot bath and down comforter the way alcoholics crave gin was, "It's beautiful, but it's not home."

As always, it takes a bit to settle into a place, for it to sink in that we're actually here to live, and not just visiting one more place, even if we are literally living out of suitcases (no dressers in this apartment).

As always, I travel with my favorite things, so I can pull them out and place them on shelves and feel a little familiarity in my new surroundings. I lost my truffle salt somewhere along the way (This is kind of tragic given that salt is my drug of choice and I have yet to find a salt shaker in this place, but I learned that the Portland based salt store The Meadow opened a Manhattan store a month ago! How lucky am I?) but of course have my creepy yet cool hands that I love. I pulled them out and placed them on the mantel. After my delicious hot bath and five hour nap. It's home for now.