Squeezed out: Life in a typical New York City apartment, also known as a “postage stamp”
Or, as the Young Scientist would describe it, a “tuna can.”
It’s just a typical New York City apartment—too much stuff, not enough apartment. No matter which borough one lives in. (Pick a borough, any borough, any one of the five. No, I’m not going to tell you which one!)
It all started when the Punster retired from his job of 30 years and decided to try to take his private tax and accounting business full-time. First, my recliner went to our synagogue thrift shop. Then, our piano became the proud possession of our shul. I gave both away voluntarily, to make room for two lateral file cabinets in the living room. (You were thinking maybe there was anywhere else to put them?!) It seemed the right thing to do at the time. I wanted to help my husband get his business organized. And, by way of ulterior motives, I was hoping to keep his business papers from taking over the apartment.
To make a long story short, my hopes were in vain. There are piles of papers on the floor along almost the entire length of one wall. Under the chairs. On the couch. In front of the couch, while we’re at it. Sometimes it’s all I can do to find a few clear spots on the dining room table to serve dinner. I’ve given up vaccuuming the living room carpet because there’s scarcely enough bare carpet to run a vaccuum cleaner. When the Punster gets to the vaccuum cleaning, he gets to the vaccuum cleaning. I’m afraid to move anything to do the job myself.
I’ve told him that sometimes I feel that maybe I should just pack up and leave. But it’s my fault, so who I am to talk? If I hadn’t been such a lousy money manager when I was younger, he could have afforded to rent an office years ago. So I have only myself to blame.
Sigh. If he hasn’t kicked me out in 28 years, I guess I can manage to put up with him, too. (Can’t live with him, can’t live without him. :) )
‘Scuse me while I step over a stack of tax returns in progress and some hand-outs for his college students. Just because the living room’s a national disaster area doesn’t mean I have an excuse for not cleaning the bathroom.
And when I’m done, I think I’ll peel off the rubber gloves and give my hubby a hug.
It’s just a typical New York City apartment—too much stuff, not enough apartment. No matter which borough one lives in. (Pick a borough, any borough, any one of the five. No, I’m not going to tell you which one!)
It all started when the Punster retired from his job of 30 years and decided to try to take his private tax and accounting business full-time. First, my recliner went to our synagogue thrift shop. Then, our piano became the proud possession of our shul. I gave both away voluntarily, to make room for two lateral file cabinets in the living room. (You were thinking maybe there was anywhere else to put them?!) It seemed the right thing to do at the time. I wanted to help my husband get his business organized. And, by way of ulterior motives, I was hoping to keep his business papers from taking over the apartment.
To make a long story short, my hopes were in vain. There are piles of papers on the floor along almost the entire length of one wall. Under the chairs. On the couch. In front of the couch, while we’re at it. Sometimes it’s all I can do to find a few clear spots on the dining room table to serve dinner. I’ve given up vaccuuming the living room carpet because there’s scarcely enough bare carpet to run a vaccuum cleaner. When the Punster gets to the vaccuum cleaning, he gets to the vaccuum cleaning. I’m afraid to move anything to do the job myself.
I’ve told him that sometimes I feel that maybe I should just pack up and leave. But it’s my fault, so who I am to talk? If I hadn’t been such a lousy money manager when I was younger, he could have afforded to rent an office years ago. So I have only myself to blame.
Sigh. If he hasn’t kicked me out in 28 years, I guess I can manage to put up with him, too. (Can’t live with him, can’t live without him. :) )
‘Scuse me while I step over a stack of tax returns in progress and some hand-outs for his college students. Just because the living room’s a national disaster area doesn’t mean I have an excuse for not cleaning the bathroom.
And when I’m done, I think I’ll peel off the rubber gloves and give my hubby a hug.
posted by Shira Salamone at 12:49 AM
2 Comments:
Ah, paper...i have a magnetic personallity myself for sheets of paper, be they books, magazines, newspapers, or client files. you have a floor? husband seriously needs a Fujitsu Scanner -- to store all those papers in PDF format. there are reliable vendors selllng used (buy USB connect.) also, David Allen's Getting Things Done. fellow cpa here.
We actually have one of those printer/copier/scanners. I'll mention your suggestions to the Punster. He might appreciate it more if I tell him it's coming from a fellow CPA instead of from me. :)
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