Since our insufficiently symbolicmourning dove experience, I've been living vicariously through my friend Deb, whose new friends Habigail and Nanook took up residence on her amazing Long Island City fire escape garden. Habby and Nanook produced two eggs, hatched them, and now spend their days nuzzling their clutch in an excruciatingly cute manner and taunting Deb's cat, Icky. I am so jealous.
It's not that I don't love opening a closet and having an avalanche of debris fall on my head every morning. No, really - it's great. Sharing a little-ish apartment with a husband and two cats has been cozy. Don't get me wrong - we love our place. Leaving aside that it's barely 600 square feet and a fifth floor walk-up, it's perfect. (I will ignore, for the purposes of this post, the hostile postman who balls up our mail and tamps it into the mailbox like he's preparing a musket for battle. I will overlook the fact that I fight a daily urge to tape my origami ConEd bill to the front door with a note that says, "Together we can do better.") If we were more disciplined people - the sort of people who don't leave things lying around for weeks on end or collect odds and ends during their travels (who ARE these people?) - we'd probably be better off in our small space.
But then I think Norman Mailer - who lived in our neighborhood until his death in 2007 - had the right idea. Surround yourself with the things you love. Decorate with books. Comfort is king. Look at those wonderful velvet couches and that fabulous green wall. Observe the dippy, mispatched lamps. I could live there very happily.