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on the things i've learned since living alone//june to november edition.

in

ON WHAT TO INVEST IN:


a bedskirt. ah, a bedskirt--adulthood made manifest! the very thing to hide those ugly plastic bed risers so necessary to any New Yorker in need of that sacred under-bed-storage-space. 

Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day Dish Soap (geranium scent). it smell delicious. makes dish cleaning fun (well, as fun as dish cleaning can be). and keeping the sink from accumulating a week's worth of dishes is imperative when living in a small space--imperative in any space, really.

a frame for that DEAR SUGAR poster you ordered off the Rumpus website all those months ago. the frame doesn't have to be expensive to look good. and it makes a difference, it really does. nothing like framed photos and posters and lovely words to give shape and meaning and weight to one's own space. 



WHEN BATHING:

when after taking a shower (or a bath) you find you've left your towel in the section of the flat that cannot be called the bathroom, do not go in search of said towel at anything resembling a breakneck speed. the water against the refurbished wood floors creates a veritable slip and slide that will invariably (INVARIABLY) lead to a fall of such force that you'll send up a prayer of thanks for a somewhat limber and resilient body before you even attempt to collect your derriere from off the floor. and from that point on you'll make sure you move about the apartment at a manageable speed--ALWAYS--and you'll eat at a manageable speed--SMALL BITES--because there is no man to save you here. no friend. not even a cat. it is you against the wild of your own small space.

WHEN ATTEMPTING TO FALL ASLEEP BEFORE TEN BECAUSE OF A RIDICULOUSLY BAD COLD: 

do not slather your naked body in vick's vapor rub. because lord knows if you do, the chances that your cute neighbor will bring home a pretty girl (you can tell she's good looking just from her voice) and that they will then climb onto the fire escape while you are stuck in bed, now awake and paralyzed because you're quite sure that the girl is looking into your apartment through the sheer lace curtains (you feel her gaze) and that she then bears witness to the moment you reach for your phone and the small screen lights up is preposterously high. and if this does happen (which it will and it did) that lit screen will signal to them that you're home--and surely they only climbed onto the fire escape because they figured you weren't--and so now they know you're there but you can't turn on a light to get to the bathroom to dress yourself because you would be revealed in all your naked (and slathered vick's vapor rub) glory. and so you'll have to sort of belly-crawl in the dark to clothing and safety and then spend the next few minutes turning on all the lights and opening and closing every imaginable door so that they'll recede into the safety of his small space. and then--then!--insult to injury!--you'll be so awake that sleep isn't an option, but for damn sure the cold is still bad and you want to take your nose right off your face and you are really not feeling pretty which just makes the good looking neighbor and his pretty date all the more of an affront. on. everything. ever.

ON DATING:

don't date anyone who lives--or works--too close to home. impose a strict one-to-two-neighborhoods-over-rule. this will greatly lessen the chance of spur-of-the-moment-meet-me-on-the-corner-requests which will hit the sacred space, violated! bone in your body in an unpleasing way and cause you to then hide behind one of the green pillars in the subway station. this  behavior is not adult or ladylike or becoming, but it is. so do what you can to lessen the chances of this happening. 

and when, on a date, a man says carroll gardens is too quiet for his taste, wish him well and send him on his way. because, for you, this neighborhood is exactly the right amount of quiet, and you'll take it, not him. 

ON HAVING NEIGHBORS: 

smile, be kind, make friends. but know when to turn the music up (cough, shuffle,cough) and know when to extract yourself from a conversation with a zinger-of-a-line.

ON ALWAYS (ALWAYS) HAVING MILK IN THE FRIDGE FOR THE NEXT DAY:

your morning-self will thank you. 

AND WHEN THE LEAVES FALL OF THE TREES:

invest in curtains. (still on the to-do list).