I’m having a hard time focusing on my memoir and I can’t blame 92 degrees at 7PM. Actually that I can–weather like this makes me hyper. It’s good for house projects. Don’t ask. And don’t ask about my need to drink seltzer with ginger powder. That was an integral part of a post I threw out and means absolutely nothing in this one. Oh the vanity of the long time blogger.

No I have been going through a crisis of “my birthday’s in a month and a few weeks and I haven’t accomplished anything important with my life.” It’s a pivotal birthday. One that makes 50 look like a walk in the park.

I fear that I’m becoming old and my experiences aren’t relevant anymore. That the gist of the stories buried within these pages are sooo yesterday.

I understand why I’m going through this and a lot of it has to do with being burnt. I thought it was almost four years ago that I found out about non verbal learning disorder (nld) but it’s only been going on three years. The same year I decided it was time to get out of Dodge, renovated to sell, sold, bought a house, renovated, lost a lot of my resources, and well….It finally hit me this past month….

I no longer live in Manhattan. As crazy as it made me it was my identity. If I accomplished nothing with my life I was a great New Yorker. Yesterday I saw an ad for menupages and almost began to cry. I consulted it as if it were the bible. With menupages you didn’t need to have ten restaurants on speed dial though of course I did.

It’s different here. I couldn’t really serve my Anna Nicole Smith Trailer Park Dinner, that later became the Anna Nicole Smith Memorial Trailer Park Dinner. I no longer eat hamburgers, wouldn’t serve on the styrofoam containers, and people here are a bit more politically correct in someways or at least more material in very strange ways. The Anna Nicole Smith Memorial Trailer Park Dinner wouldn’t be funny.

OK honestly only Rafe found it funny. Lucia was aghast that I would serve company on styrofoam, but I would use company napkins. Made of paper yet pretty.

Now I use real plates, and cloth napkins and it’s better for the environment but I’m beginning to feel that we’re doomed anyway so why….

I didn’t use these things often in New York as I owned neither a dishwasher nor a washer/dryer. I don’t miss that part. No not at all. Though I’ve been trying to find a clothes line and can’t find one at Wal Mart. I might have to go online. It will be so nice to have clothes dried outdoors.

I like it here. I certainly like being able to walk to the beach when I want or not walk to the beach and read in one of my decks. I like the friends I have made and the friends who are coming.

But Pia doesn’t live in New York anymore, has done absolutely nothing of worth with her life, and was already an adult when her parents, who had children late for then, were her age.

For somebody who has done nothing of worth with my life I’ve done a lot in the past three years and am so mentally fatigued I can’t tell when I’m writing something good or not. This is a half pity party. Half just the truth. I don’t use “so,” on my own. I use “just.” I’m going to stop that. Just as soon as I find what’s left of my mind.

I want to write fiction as I love it but feel a memoir has a much better chance of being published. I’m just so over myself

New York has never been about museums, theater, even restaurants to me but family, friends, the best museum in the world–the streets of New York, and OK I love restaurants in the city and Long Island more than any other place.

I stayed with my sister on the Island for a couple of nights and then went to my spiritual home, the Upper West Side. My best friend Lucia and her daughter Lucianame live in the best of all buildings. It’s non-doorman, just seven floors, built around the turn of the last century, one of the first elevator buildings in New York and half the building has been living there for thirty years or more. They all know me and treat me as just another building resident which is way cool.

I didn’t watch Seinfeld when it was on originally but instinctively knew that only the best friend could say “it’s me when ringing the door. And after your mother your best friend gets the coveted O or 1 spot on speed dial. Yes we all check.

One night Lucia and I went to a coffee shop across the street from her building. The food’s exceptional, the staff is wonderful and you never know who you’re going to run into but chances are you’ll run into Eleanor and end up eating with her.

Eleanor’s 83 and has been living in the building longer than I’ve been alive. She moved in as a young bride. Her husband died a few years ago and her son finally found himself a few years ago.

Eleanor’s the only Upper West Side Jewish Republican I know. Now we all voted for Rudy the first time, and Bloomberg the first time as we’re pragmatic and only tough Democrats when we have to be. Eleanor’s amazing–a group of us are Eleanor groupies. She would run for office because she knew the candidate would lose and she didn’t want the nice young person to suffer politically.

Eleanor worked on Wall Street until the 87 recession when she moved over to the city where she still works full and very long days today.

The city is honoring Eleanor with a ceremony and a party today. Lucia collected money from people in the building and bought her some jewelry. I so wish I could be there. Eleanor’s like the mother I miss and thinks I’m beautiful so I would love her just for that. .

Saturday night Lucia, Lucianame and I went to the cafe at the 70th Street pier for burgers, salad and sangria. Lucianame found it too funny that I needed “roughage.” Well it had been a week of heavy eating and for some reason…why am I defending my use of the word “roughage” rather than “fiber.” OK so we got back to the building and bought ice cream from the truck at the corner. As we were eating our ice cream, Miles came in.

Miles has AIDS. He was supposed to die ten years ago. For a number of years I would see Miles with an aide. He shakes but he has cheated death so long and through so many attacks. I almost cried seeing Miles alone with a dog. Miles is an artist. He specializes in buildings and when he and his lover lived in San Diego he began a movement to preserve some buildings. Recently he went to San Diego as the city was honoring him. PBS is doing a special about him.

The people in Lucia’s building gave him pricey flowers and he was so touched he painted a picture of them. He took us in to see the painting and the long foyer, living room and one bedroom that were filled with his art. I was stunned both by the almost plain lined buildings that came alive, and the floral art that while still in his style was lavish and lush.

These are just two of the people who live in one smallish building on the Upper West Side. I heart the Upper West Side, this building and its residents so very much.

I also adore Cooper who went to NYU so…this is one of the many reasons why

I couldn’t stop loving Bill Clinton even when I detested his wife who I now admire. I’m glad that I have a reason to love him!!!!!!!!!!! Can I just say, he’s so darn cute?

Just as she finished pouring the phone rang. Her cousin Madison didn’t even say hello but began screaming about AIG and Warren Buffet. Madison was walking down West End Avenue and couldn’t care less who heard. She hung up and realized Maya hadn’t said a word. Not even “how are you?” Ill mannered her mother had always called that branch of her family.

Madison saw her pot dealer Frankie who kissed her and began talking about how his brother was walking away from a 300K condo loft deposit. When Frankie and Madison parted ways at 97th Street, Frankie saw his clfriend (client friend) Henry. Damn if Henry wasn’t screaming to himself. Nah, he had a bluetooth on.

Henry, an intellectual property lawyer, was on the phone with his clfriend, Neil, who had just had the last of his margin called. He didn’t know how he was going to tell his wife. Henry tried to sound encouraging as he tried even harder to get off the phone so he could buy some weed from Frankie.

Neil bought a bunch of tulips from a Korean grocery and almost fell on the slushy icing up snow, and walked up the 12 flights of stairs. By the time he arrived in the apartment he thought of something to tell his wife but Maya was sprawled on the couch face down, a drink knocked over and an unlit joint in her hand.

She wanted to leave when she was 40 in 91 but her father died suddenly and her mother was needy.

Her office on Jerome Avenue in The Bron_ had graffiti all over the windows No matter how often it was taken off it would be back the ne_t day. The strange thing was she found The Bron_ a relief from Manhattan. She knew chop shops were all over Jerome, and she was never more than a few minutes from crack and drive by shootings, but her office was a DMZ. When she would walk the streets, men would come out of the buildings “Ms. Savage, that’s Ms. Savage. She cool.”

Generally she hated that type of attention. The roar of the construction worker, whistle of the Con Ed worker, but there was something almost innocent, something refreshing, in these boys.

She trusted them to keep her out of death’s door. She wouldn’t trust them for anything else and they knew it. Though she smiled and laughed more easily than the other white women she worked with, there was a certain coolness about her. A sort of “don’t fuck with me, mother fuckers,” resonated from her cream turned gold in summer skin

Though she lived in what was then the richest zip code in the city, probably the country, she would count the Olde English malt liquor bottles strewn on the sidewalks as she practically tripped over homeless people sleeping and would make her e-cuses.

That spring or summer a subway motorman went postal and killed a number of people Service on the East Side IRT was disrupted for months. The normal 20 minute ride took two hours.

She was the last legal tenant on her floor. On one side of her apartment the new landlord put $10 ho’s; on he other side small time drug dealers. She had five floods the landlords refused to do anything about and soon she had cockroaches coming from the ceiling. It was vile. It was gross. Call the city to complain and give her address, yeah really. She would hear ten minutes of laughter before they hung up. For years the city had ignored the lack of heat complaints also.

She could take not having heat. But cockroaches, mice and rats that ran from the fireplace once the new 63rd Street subway had opened, that was intolerable.

She could have waited to be bought out but she would probably be dead from something. She was only 40; the best dressed white woman at the Jerome Ave Social Security office where all the other Jews her age acted as if they were going to be eligible for SSI tomorrow.

Her laughter was infectious but half the time she felt it was the hysterical laughter of the soon to be legally insane. When her best friend would come to the office to meet her for lunch at the Paradise Coffee Shop, beloved by generations of native Bron_ites, all work would stop. All the guys wanted to meet her. Only later would they notice the wedding ring.

Claimants would ask for the “pretty well dressed” white girl. “Well dressed” she laughingly told her friends meant that if she were to wear plaid, and she wouldn’t, it would clash as a fashion statement. She was always shocked at how often “well dressed” was applied to her. She was just another city girl.

She moved to Riverdale, The Bron and the high point of her day was walking down the hills of Riverdale, over The Major Deegan and up the hills of Kingsbridge Heights and around The Reservoir that stunk of mold most days.

She wore silk short suits and would put on her pantyhose once she got to the office no later than 7:30 AM so she could do “undertime” or OT in the morning. Not because she wanted the money but otherwise the work would just pile up. She hated that job and didn’t yet realize if she was to remain in New York it was Manhattan she needed.

When the crack/drive by shooting years were safely over she moved back but never loved it as much as she had before the days of the $10 ho’s.

As others dreamed of the city she dreamed of escaping. It wasn’t Final Payments She didn’t live with her mother. Her mother didn’t stop her from doing things, but she couldn’t leave as long as her mother was living on her own. And her mother had no intention of ever giving into age and fraility.

Her mother died a month after 9/11 and it was so hard. She felt wounded and alone. First she couldn’t leave because of estate and patriotism reasons. Then there was another reason and still another.

Si_ years after her mother’s death she began to get her apartment ready. The closing is scheduled for midway between 9/11 and her mother’s death.

Every New Yorker has their 9/11 story. Hers isn’t that fascinating. She didn’t know anybody who died in the attacks but many who lived.

On Wednesday or Thursday she will walk down to the old Trade Center, walk further to the water ta_i to the new Ikea in Red Hook, Brooklyn and come back at night to look at the twin beacons of lights emenating from the site. Her best friend, daughter and some other friends went yesterday but she couldn’t go. They mainly talked about the ride and the food in the after event phone call. The beacons of light will always be meaningful

It’s been seven years. A missing person can be declared dead after seven years. Bankruptcies e_punged, debts cleared. Crimes e_cept for murder and rape are usually no longer prosecuted. Seven is the age of reason. Seven means so many many things, but most of all it means letting go.

She’s made up with the friends she fought with seven years ago, and hasn’t spoken to the false friends.

Her new future awaits not where she thought it would seventeen or even three years ago in Santa Monica or San Diego but in South Carolina.

She’s tired. Oh so tired. It took forever to sell her apartment and sometimes she think hers was the last one bedroom in Manhattan to sell for a half decent price. The doormen saga–she doesn’t want to go there.

She’s tired of people with their hands out. She’s tired of living in a city that’s so pricey and so crowded and people are defeated as living here is hard. Her neighbors are jealous–but there’s no longer a market for their apartments

She thought she suffered from a terminal case of bad timing but it turned out to be pretty darn good.

You can read about it in the book. it makes me laugh as I know there was nothing sinister or sick about my love for 9–it has the “n” sound which is still my favorite. I think they were trying desperately to find bad neurosis in me as I did have problems and they couldn’t accept that my inability to learn many things despite my IQ and my clumsiness etc DIDN’T have to have a neurotic basis, OK psychotic, as they couldn’t find a physical base.

I’m exhausted. So much has happened since the beginning of July. I’m proud of my LIP article. It was a coming out of sorts as I sent it to every living relative. My relatives were always great to me–well my one year older boy cousin and I had a sibling rivalry–according to our Aunt A–but when we grew up we liked each other. We really like each other. Not that we’re close

My friends are my family and my sister and her family of course and my b-i-l’s family–this is getting even more exhausting.

But my family of friends are taking over my move which is happening exactly when I thought it would. (Note to self: rethink The Secret,no don’t–it was a combination of market forces, pressure on the realtors to deliver, and much else.)

I will celebrate when it’s all over. I’m overwhelmed by everything and overwhelmed by gratitude to my friends and that includes blogging friends–Alphabet Girl Who Is A Woman Now you occupy a special place in my heart–for keeping the faith and much more.

OK. I’m a bad blogger. Last Friday night my blog disappeared and while I got it back I still haven’t reinstalled the links and much else. Too much is happening in my life. Most bloggers do respect that. I find it amazing the bloggers that will de-link you immediately, not even caring about karma and really showing that they couldn’t care less about blogging as a community.

I stopped caring about links over a year and my lack of them shows that. The blogroll will be back up shortly. I apologize about that.

I plan on enjoying the next two weeks as I have to go back to New York on 8/25 to finish getting ready to move. Lucia has taken over responsibility for getting the built in wall unit down, rebuilding the wall, and painting the living room.

My sister thinks I should move to a college town, me being a great mind in need of constant stimulation and all that but I’m beginning to build myself a nice life here. I’m confused. I think I can start a book club or writing group through the library, and a writing group on the Internet.

I was going to write a post or hopefully article on what I would have done differently when I bought my apartment. Then I realized two things. Eleven years ago the info on the Internet today wasn’t around, and I didn’t buy my apartment as an investment but as a place to love and live in. Guess what? I’m going to buy my patio house as a place to love and live in also.

Me thinks I’m beginning one of those great periods of life that used to happen to me every other year for three to five years—then once a decade if I was lucky. I can’t decide if the time when Courting was hotter than hot was a great period of life or was an interesting anomaly. I don’t exactly tell people when I meet them for the first time that I have a blog and once it was taught in at least two universities and I’m a side note in blogging history.

I don’t explain why I don’t drive. Since I have been moving during the oil crisis I have been using that to my advantage and saying that I’m experimenting with living in a town with zilch public transportation without a car or valid license. Myrtle Beach actually has Greyhound buses that go everywhere, and there’s a new bus company that goes many places much cheaper and is very luxe.

I didn’t reinvent myself through my blog. I was honest but it did help me see that a person can reinvent herself, shake up her life, and become the person she was in her 20′s and 30′s before life became so complicated but without the baggage and torrid self examination

When women talk about the 40′s and early 50′s being a wondrous time, and how being over 30 brought peace and contentment I wonder about them. Did they just stop living? Were they really that together and I was missing a lot? Did they have elderly parents who were becoming more dependent and thought that was a picnic?

Life doesn’t have to be as hard as it was for me. Now that more people have aging parents, it’s not a verboten subject. My best friends found ourselves moving away from each other during our 40′s for many reasons. We have found our way back to each other, and this is a subject I might explore in my blog because if there was a mistake to be made I made it. Fortunately they love me anyway.

I’m weighing the pros and cons about blogging about the sale process.
It’s hard for me to believe that people will care about emptying the
storage cage. Which has the world’s largest quarter collection–just
in case dollar bills someday became extinct–in a bowling bag. A vintage very nice one. Next to the bag from Viet Nam.

Boxes of perfectly cleaned clothes–from 10 to 25 years old–all sizes in
plexiglass containers. Boxes of moldy books I have to throw out–the basement
had a flood. Bags filled with papers I didn’t need but didn’t want to
throw out. I will bring them up and shred them.

Boxes of things I never put in my apartment. Obviously I don’t need those things. Especially the ten boxes of plaster brackets but I have had some stuff since I was a teenager. Did shred all the report cards etc. Have to be merciless in discarding things.

Then I have to get them to get rid of the mold that has cropped up around the shower, paint all the surfaces
that were skim coated after various floods–so many I gave up
repainting and have a distinct tied died theme that only I notice. The floods were a good thing as the steam risers were replaced and trap doors, not noticeable, put in places where pipes tend to burst. This is a pre-war building. Floods are a given. I have had the worst, probably that the apartment can have. Our super is amazing with floods. He can talk about floods forever. The only time I have seen him excited was when he was pointing out pipes–on my bedroom floor. They’re all in a schematic now.
Have to get the small fire damaged area in the kitchen sanded and
painted–and have them do something about the area around the
sink–can’t think of what it’s called–the outer layer is peeling. Oh
yes, I found out the pipe in the kitchen sink is plastic and illegal

When I was working the window screens–specially ordered–each window
in the building is a different size–were measured and put in. I came
home to one screen each in the living room and the bedroom and screens
in the bathroom windows which I didn’t want. The original shades have
been falling apart

Oh the bathtub which I have use about four times a year–separate
shower needs to be reglazed though it’s been cleaned like fine silk.
The marble in the bathroom needs sealing as does the granite in the
kitchen/foyer. The new bedroom floor is already warping and there’s an area they couldn’t fit the wood exactly. I had them leave the concrete and was going to pour concrete over it but that couldn’t happen for some reason I forget. It’s the entry foyer to the bedroom. There used to be a soaking tub but it was taken out and I have the world’s smallest bedroom half bath. But it’s all white with subway tile and absolutely lovely. The bedroom is like a jewel case. It looked tiny when I first saw it, but I decorated it so that people think it’s large. I have a good eye. I’m a glass, steel, some wood person

It sounds truly gross but it’s adorable. Everybody loves it. Has
much curb appeal even in this condition. It’s actually in good condition. I see through magnified eyes.

I’m the only person who sees every deficiency but if I were going to
be paying that much for an apartment I would make sure that everything
is perfect even if I’m planning to renovate totally on general
principle. I want max money

Putting an apartment up for a sale is a very judgmental experience for
anybody. For me it reminds me of all my perceived weaknesses. Though
my family loves it, I can hear the voice of my father telling me how
imperfect I am. He never saw the apartment but I know he would have much to say. Maybe it would be good. Everybody else has only good to see, but I’m so used to looking at the horrible.

Maybe I should write about it but it feels the most personal of all
personal things.