Another exhausting day at work. Carrie Bradshaw NEVER worked as hard as I do.Out of all the four main characters on Sex in the City, Carrie Bradshaw is supposed to be the one with which most women identify. She’s the Everyman. Or Everywoman.
At least, she’s supposed to be.
All the elements are there---attractive (but not drop-dead gorgeous), middle-income (at least for NYC), average apartment, average success with men and relationships, and just enough quirks, insecurities and daily mishaps for women to believe their heroine is “Just like me!”
Personally, I’ve often felt more connected with the character of Miranda Hobbes. And while I don’t have a high-paying job at a law firm, nor do I own a huge Pre-War apartment in the 80s on the Upper West Side, I DO have something in common with Ms. Hobbes---Household Chores. And, like her, no time to get them all done.
Of course, On Sex in the City, Miranda easily solves at least part of this problem by hiring a housekeeper---Magda.
And today, as I prepare for my day off tomorrow by making a list of all the Things I Need To Do Tomorrow---I also try to think of ways that I can perhaps start to accomplish my weekly errands in less time and with less effort.
But one thing I know for sure---a housekeeper is out of the question.
Not that I necessarily want one---tho, in NYC, they are actually one of the few great bargains in town.
You see, last year I was between apartments. After losing a great sublease in Midtown, in an act of desperation, I took a place a block away for a mere $800 a month. What do you get in Midtown Manhattan for $800 a month? A shithole. Not only your average shithole. But a shithole literally the size of a walk-in closet. I fondly referred to it as “The Rapist Building”.
I was there for several months while I looked around for something better at a reasonable price. Just to give you an example of how horrible a place you get for $800 a month in Manhattan---a gay hustler down the hall was apparently gang-raped by two guys and was killed by having his head bashed in.
Yeah. The police tape was on the door for months. My cop friends filled me in on the details and told me to hurry up and get the hell out of there.
Luckily, a good friend of mine had a gorgeous, 2-bedroom/2-bath apartment with a penthouse view, and spent a lot of time out of town. So, for a few months, I trudged back and forth between The Rapist Building and a Luxury Hotel.
The de-lux apartment in the sky included another amenity---a housekeeper.
Nellie.
Nellie came in once every two weeks and made everything all better.
Having never dealt with a housekeeper before (outside of the occasional hotel stay)---I really didn’t quite know how to deal with it. First of all, before she came, I would clean up. Yes---I cleaned up for the maid. Because heaven forbid the housekeeper walk into a messy apartment. Occasionally I would even help her clean. Nellie and I spending the afternoon chatting away about her son who was a musician, my inability to find a reasonable apartment in a decent neighborhood, and how our respective holidays were going.
But honestly, it feels weird to just sit there while someone else is cleaning up your mess. It’s not even a class thing. Or a master-and-servant issue. I just felt like I made the mess and I should clean it up---or at least help. Sure, if you have a spouse or a bunch of children---well, you can kind of justify the help in cleaning up THEIR messes. But your own mess? While she was well-paid for her bi-weekly chores, I often found myself slipping her an extra $20 if I’d been extra messy that week. Since the guy who actually lived there was so rarely home, a lot of weeks she’d have it easy by just tossing a few coffee cups into the dishwasher and doing the regular round of dusting and mopping the already clean floors. Not to downplay her role in the house at all---no matter how clean or dirty, she left that place spotless.
And then, in comes me----a person who actually COOKED in the kitchen instead of opening up a container of take-out. A person who took lots of baths that left rings around the tub. And a person who frequently left piles of paperwork and dirty towels all over the place. She always tried to refuse my money and my help---but I always insisted. “I just feel like when I’m here, I make your job harder.”
She was sweet, hard-working, reliable and above reproach. One of those rare gems you could totally trust in your apartment alone.
But until I can afford a Nellie of my own (and can get over my Housekeeper Issues) I have to do all my little errands and housekeeping myself. It’s generally not too bad. I don’t mind cleaning my apartment, doing laundry or buying groceries. In fact, if I had more free time, I would undoubtedly find a Zen-like satisfaction in these mundane tasks.
But usually there’s so little time to get these things all done that the sought-after relaxed yoga state becomes more like an intense, high-powered spinning class.
So, as we speak, I try to come up with ways to slow it all down. Enjoy the cleaning, the laundry, the errands and the cooking. Be in tune with the moment. Not exactly Carpe Diem. More like Carpe Munus. Seize the task.
Speaking of foreign languages: Tonight at work, I bounded back and forth translating, once again. Not only my own tables, but two French tables the other waitress had. She came over begging, “Please! They don’t speak a word of English and I don’t understand a word they’re saying.”
Tonight I translated for French, Spanish and Italian tourists. I also picked up some more Bengali from the busboys from Bangladesh (who always love when I speak Bengali to them). People at work often wonder how I pick up so many languages. Well, I certainly don’t have a photographic memory. In fact, I don’t think I’m naturally adept at languages at all. But I like to talk to people and I like to listen to them. And I’m a writer. It’s just another synonym.
Today, outside of this blog, I wrote nothing. Sometimes you have those days. For me, it’s rare. I tend to write at least something everyday. Even if it’s just working on a blog, returning emails, jotting down some notes, or writing in a Word Pad that has become a sort of disposable journal and way to think things out on paper. I don’t keep a regular journal anymore. I may decide to start one again at some point. But right now, I just don’t feel the need. I’m too busy writing other things. Besides, it would most likely just turn into a long list of errands that constantly needed to get done.
Years ago, I remember reading The Once and Future King. One of the most memorable parts of the book for me was a description of ants walking in a line simply saying over and over, “Done. Not Done. Done. Not Done.”
It’s an apt description of our sometimes mundane lives. Of course, everyone (no matter how well-protected and affluent) has errands. I’d bet that even the Pope has a To-Do List. Or at least a To-Delegate List. After all, Pope Benedict XVI speaks German, Italian, French, Spanish, English, Latin, a bit of Portugese, and can read Ancient Greek and Biblical Hebrew. Synonyms or not, you don’t learn all that without at least a short To-Do List. And a housekeeper. No time to learn Ancient Greek when you’ve got to launder your own vestments.
And, while I’m not exactly seeking a Pope-like Inner Peace---I’m just happy to recently discover that my local pet store will deliver my cat food and litter for free.
And Carrie Bradshaw didn’t have a cat. But Miranda did. And you can bet she had those 25 pound bags of cat litter delivered.
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