Not Like Carrie Bradshaw: Day Six

As far as I can tell, Carrie Bradshaw never wrote anything besides her column. A weekly newspaper column would probably be a mere 500 words a week.

That’s not that much. 500 words add up to about a single-spaced, typed page.

Now granted, this was immediately going into print, so everything had to be not only tight, but perfect. But frankly, that’s not a whole lot of writing. No wonder Carrie had so much free time.

Today was my day off work. And in my precious little amount of free time, a vast number of errands needed to be accomplished. I’m happy to say, I got pretty much everything done. I even surprised myself. I also managed to find enjoyment in my errands. And almost achieved that Zen-like inner peace as I hauled home close to 100 pounds of goods.

How did I achieve this state of near-bliss?

With the use of this baby right here!
I finally broke down and bought a shopping cart. The best twenty dollars I ever spent.

I resisted for a LONG time. You see, my Grandma had a metal shopping cart. She didn’t know how to drive, so once or twice a week, she’d wheel her silver shopping cart down the street to the market. And, while I loved my Grandma---I wasn’t ready to look like an old lady wheeling her groceries down the street.

My first few years in NYC, I lived in a brownstone on the top floor---a fifth floor walk-up. Carrying the groceries and cat litter home was one thing. Hauling it all up five flights of stairs was another thing entirely. And the laundry. The closest Laundromat was about five blocks away. I felt like all I did for years was constantly haul shit back and forth. Even if I had a shopping cart, it would have been more trouble than it was worth trying to lug it up five flights of stairs.

So, when I went looking for a new apartment last year, one of my main criteria was an elevator building. Well, I got my elevator. And it makes my life SO much easier. There’s even laundry in the basement. All should be well. Or so you would think.

Because it seems that the milk, laundry detergent, soda water, flour and heavy cans of peeled tomatoes always seem to run out at the exact same time. Buying in bulk to save money is out of the question. Not only that, but I’m constantly having to make numerous trips in and out and back and forth.

So today, I eyed this baby in the window at a little home store in my neighborhood. This is not your grandma’s shopping cart. This lady is sleek, stream-lined and in an oh-so-fashionable black that goes with anything.

I proudly wheeled my brand new shopping cart down the street. I passed other shopping cart people. Not old ladies. But young, fresh college students, new Moms, and young hipster guys. Like people with the same cars, we gave a nod as we wheeled past each other.

Tourists to New York City are always perplexed by the logistics of living in a place like this. Where are the grocery stores? Where are the gas stations?

I hear these questions from tourists in the restaurant at least once a week. The answer: Get off the tourist track and you’ll see them. Both grocery stores and gas stations require lots of space. You’re not going to find either on Park Avenue. Skyscrapers are the norm. And who wants to live above a gas station? Tho if someone did manage to find a way to put a one-bedroom over a gas station---it would probably go for about $2500 a month.

The markets tend to be (in Midtown, at least) from 8th Avenue and up to the Hudson River. The gas stations don’t start till about 10th. The center of Manhattan (5th Avenue) is generally the most valuable space. Nothing but high-priced boutiques and maybe a Starbucks or two there. Then, on the East Side---you’re looking at Lexington Ave. till the East River for those practical amenities.

But pretty much anywhere in Manhattan, you can find the delis---or bodegas, as some call them. Little corner stores that primarily sell soda, beer, cigarettes, lottery tickets, snacks and a few household items. Think of a tiny 7-11 without the Slurpies. While these places are tremendously convenient (and generally open 24 hours a day) they’re often hugely over-priced. Most neighborhoods have at least 10 delis within a five minute walking distance. You’d think the preponderance of these places and the high-prices would cause these tiny markets to go out of business within a matter of months.

But these shops not only survive---they thrive. Why? Because New Yorkers don’t drive. I only know a handful of people in the city who actually have cars. Most of them live in New Jersey or Queens. Keeping a car in the city is not only expensive, but…well, kind of useless. It’s much easier to hop on a train to go thirty of forty blocks than to sit in traffic for twenty minutes and then spend another ten minutes looking for an over-priced parking space to go the same distance.

Hence, the shopping cart. The shopping cart, the hand cart, the dolly and the rolling suitcase are all commonly seen wheeling things down the streets of Manhattan. I regularly see people wheeling office chairs, bulky furniture and even whole racks of clothes down 8th Avenue.

So today, after I joined the rank and file of Manhattan with my new shopping cart, I headed to the Mecca for writers. No, not The Strand bookstore. That’s way downtown. And that’s another thing I never saw Carrie Bradshaw do---read. I never saw her read anything other than a fashion magazine or a blurb in The New York Times about an upcoming (and pertinent to the plot) wedding. No. The Mecca I’m talking about is the office supply store.

Down to my last sheet (literally---I had ONE) of 3-prong paper, I had no choice but to make my first stop with my new shopping cart at the nearby Staples.

Unlike many artistic pursuits, writing has historically called for very few instruments. Early on, it simply required paper, ink and a quill. Over the years, the weapons of writers have changed dramatically.

When I first started writing in grade school, all I needed was a blank notebook and a No. 2 pencil. Even our little school essays were handwritten. In high school, we graduated to typewriters. But by college, word processors and computers were the norm.

Today’s writer will benefit by a computer with a high-speed connection, a fast laser printer, and a vast array of accessories like flat screen monitors, digital cameras (for capturing those lovely photos posted on blogs), a cordless mouse, mouse pads and keyboard wrist guards to help prevent carpal tunnel, back-up discs, storage bins for those discs, label makers for those discs, and a whole array of paper clips, binders, staplers, folders and all sizes of envelopes in which to mail our professional-looking submissions.

Office supply stores are a virtual wonderland of writer supplies.

Being a person with a fairly adequate desk set-up (as well as a person on a budget) I kept my puschases to the bare minimum. Mainly, paper. Two reams of three-prong paper. However, I couldn’t resist a package of my favorite pens.
As a waitress, pens come and go in my life like men to Samantha Jones. Sometimes they just seem to appear in my apron pocket. Other times customers seem to think my personal pens used to sign their charges are complimentary.

Okay, a little dining out rule: Unless the pen the waitress hands you is emblazoned with the name of the establishment, DON’T TAKE THE PEN! That’s MY pen. And I need that. Sometimes, it’s one of my favorite pens. That hurts. Everytime you leave with one of my personal pens, I curse you to the rest of the staff. Then, I spend the next few minutes hoping you'll realize your mistake and bring my beloved back. You never do. Pen-napper. Damn you.

But these ballpoint pens from Staples are my favorites. Black ink, a clicker for me to push up and down when I’m having trouble thinking, a soft bit of rubber at the base to grip---and the look is gorgeous. I fell in love with these pens so much that I gave a packet of them to a writer friend of mine as a little gift.

“Really,” he sort of apologized, knowing that I was on a strict budget, “I have so many pens. You shouldn’t have.”

But every time I stopped by his place, the pens were scattered all over the place---one next to the phone, one on the desk, one by the bedside. Trust me, they’re that good. They will quickly become your favorite pens.

I plopped the paper and pens into my shopping cart and headed to the market. No worrying about how much I could carry home today! This was great! And, in New York City, so many people have these carts that the market shopping carts actually have these tiny metal hooks attached to the tail end of every cart. You just fold up your own cart, hang it on the back, and start shopping like normal.

Then, with your groceries all bagged up, you unfold your cart and toss your bags in. So simple. So easy. It has totally changed my life.

I did all my shopping for the week in one trip today. No more getting the smaller container of milk because I’m also buying cantaloupes and the larger milk would be too heavy to carry. Oh no. Today I bought it all.

I will admit something that some people don’t know about me---I don’t know how to drive. Nope. Just never learned. No real reason. Went to Catholic school and they didn’t offer a driver’s ed. College was a small town. And everywhere I’ve lived since college had pretty decent public transportation. So this is the FIRST time in my life that I’ve been able to get all my groceries for the week home in a single trip. It's possibly the most tremendous, life-altering thing that's ever happened to me!

My mother (who DOES drive) laughed when I told her on the phone tonight how a shopping cart had changed my life.

“I might even give it a name!” I exclaimed in my utter joy. “Like people name their cars.”

“A boy’s name or a girl’s name?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I guess a girl’s name. People always name their cars after girls.”

“You should give it a boy’s name. Because it’s carrying your groceries home.”

Yeah. She’s right. In college, one of my best friends got an old GTO for her first car. It was huge, gas-guzzling, and incredibly old. Vintage, sure. And pretty cool-looking. But could often be unreliable when it came to getting us to the local clubs and back. For some reason, she called it “Dwayne”. Not just “Dwayne” but “Dah-wayne”---like the kid from “What’s Happening?” If the car faltered as she reved up the engine, we would tap on the dashboard and say, “Hay, hay, hay Dah-wayne!”

And he would always start up.

So my new shopping cart is now named Dwayne. And, in one day, he has saved me enough time that I was not only able to write this 2500 word blog (that’s 5 times what Carrie Bradshaw wrote each week), but also another 4 pages of stuff for my latest project.

Maybe Carrie Bradshaw would be too embarrassed to be seen walking down the street with Dwayne, but I’m not.