All Must Go: Added Pictures

* Scroll down to see pictures of all of the furniture we sold. I uploaded them with their appropriate post.

All Must Go: Chapter 4

We sold our Ikea dining room table, four matching chairs, and two Ikea Poang chairs to two men who arrived in a rented minivan. The men were in their late 30s and had just become roommates through Craigslist, which is also how they found us.

Craigslist really has a magical way of bringing all sorts of people together.

The men inspected the furniture they planned to buy and then took inventory of anything else in our apartment that they might possibly want, like our wine racks or George Forman grill.

One of the men smoked a lot of cigarettes and wasn't in the best of health. So, Ben, myself, and our two new friends relaxed a bit in the AC in our living room on the Ikea Poang chairs they had just purchased. We took a breather and engaged in some small talk before tackling the elevator and stairs again in the July heat.

We loaded the furniture in their van and shook hands.

Ben and I sadly waved goodbye and watched a little more of the past five years fade and disappear into the distance.

Our New York life was leaving us, piece by piece.

One of our Ikea Poang chairs.

Our Ikea dining room table that...

easily expanded to fit more people! 

Thumbs up, Ikea, for a great design.

All Must Go: Chapter 3

We next sold our couch. We handed that over to three college students with big grins on our faces. Huge grins, actually.

We smiled because we got the couch for free and then sold it for $75. Cha-ching! Their student loans turned into cold hard cash in our pockets.

We found the couch four and half years ago on the sidewalk. Yes, the sidewalk (against my better judgment). A guy moved out of his apartment and set his furniture on the street. People flocked from all directions to snatch the furniture. Bookshelves, lamps, and chairs bobbed amongst pedestrians on Broadway and West End Avenue.

Ben asked the doorman about the cleanliness of the furniture. More pointedly, did the guy have bedbugs? The doorman alleviated all fears by saying the owner had never had bedbugs and was simply moving to a bigger place that needed new furniture.

We then carried the free and clean couch home.

Now, young collegiate minds determined the best way to maneuver our couch into a tiny elevator. Ben and I admired their tenacity and happily waved goodbye as they descended the front steps of building. Adios, couch! Adios, old friend.

Our couch.

All Must Go: Chapter 2

The next piece of furniture sold on Craigslist was an Expedit IKEA bookshelf with baskets. Everyone wanted the Expedit! It was our biggest hit.

We sold it to a college student, a girl fresh off the plane from Washington. Literally, fresh off the plane. She and her mother arrived in New York the day before they showed up at my apartment.

Luckily, I donned appropriate moving/athletic attire when they arrived, just in case they needed extra help moving the bookshelf. That thought ended up being the understatement of the century.

They walked into our apartment and inspected the bookshelf. They handed me cash and then nonchalantly asked, "What's the best way to get this home?" They dropped that bombshell with a straight face.

I hid my shock. Rookies! I had two New York City Craigslist amateurs on my hands.

"Well... we could try a cab." I said with a shrug, doubting that the bookshelf would ever fit in one, though I hoped the new cabs might, might, have enough space.

The girl and I carried the bookshelf down our hallway, onto the elevator, and a block up the street to the corner. Her mother carried the 6 large baskets in trash bags.

We hailed one cab, who pulled over and then sped away once he saw the bookshelf. Other cabs just blew by us without ever hitting the brakes. Where was their adventurous spirit?

I hailed an SUV, thinking the bookshelf might slide over the backseat. The cabdriver, very unhappy about the situation, let us try to load the bookshelf. It didn't work.

He floored it before we even slammed the trunk door.

We hailed one of the new cabs. The cab parked slightly in the middle of the crosswalk, blocking one lane. Not the best place to park and load furniture, but whatever. I didn't want the cabbie second guessing any decision he was making at the moment.

We started to load the bookshelf and the cabdriver immediately began cussing. He cussed at us. He cussed at the bookshelf. And, then, he cussed about the Yankees losing their last game. His stress level only elevated mine.

After a few minutes of pushing and pulling the bookshelf inside the cab, the cabbie yelled for us to get the bookshelf out of his taxi before it ripped the upholstery.  I cannot write his exact words because this blog would instantly go from a PG to an R rating.

I calmly explained that the picture on the backseat showed how it folded down so that wheelchairs (and bookshelves) could fit. But, unfortunately, by this point, the cabbie was ballistic and I could not reason with him. We pulled the bookshelf out of the cab and sat it down on the sidewalk.

Did I mention it was about 98 degrees in July?

The girl, her mother, and I contemplated our next move (because that bookshelf was not going back in my apartment) until an elderly woman walked over to us to share this advice...

"You three are really stupid. Really, really stupid! What idiots load furniture in the middle of a crosswalk? Where am I supposed to walk? You. Are. Really. Stupid."

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I prayed, probably harder than I had ever prayed in my life, to remain calm. Jail would definitely ruin any future employment opportunities and I'd probably not survive.

I opened my eyes. The old woman still stood in front of me. Staring. My southern roots took hold and I sweetly replied, "Why, thank you so much for your help. We really appreciate it." I then turned away, and glanced back only once to see her walk away until...

I felt a hard poke on my back. I turned around and stared at the same old woman.

Round two.

"I just wanted you to know what idiots you people are! Complete idiots! I could have died crossing the street," she proclaimed.

Right then, I wished she had.

I couldn't hold back any longer. I blame the heat. I blame the cab's bad design. I blame New York.

I pointed back and snapped, "Lady! We got it. WE GOT IT!"

I then wheeled around to face my partners in crime. The mother looked shocked. But, the girl smiled and said, "Wow! People are pretty intense here."

Ya think?

I no longer cared about the bookshelf. I didn't care if we left it on the street or bashed it to pieces. I would have voted for the latter if given a choice.

I wiped the sweat from the brow, ready to admit defeat, when a man driving a U-Haul van pulled over beside us. I turned to the girl and said, "Ask him if he'll take the bookshelf for $20. Now."

She did.

He said, "yes."

The guy singlehandedly restored my faith in people.

In less than five minutes, we loaded the bookshelf and I waved goodbye to one of the most difficult moving fiascos I had ever encountered.

Or, almost ever encountered.

The Expedit in all of its glory.

All Must Go: Chapter 1

Like R. Kelly, I'm going to break down the big story of selling our furniture into smaller stories because each one is unique and, as expected, very New York. When I say "very New York" that sometimes means "not easy and probably stressful." You'll get the gist soon enough and, if not, then refer to past stories.

Ben and I decided to sell all of our furniture on Craigslist. We did not have nice or expensive furniture. Rather, we collected our furniture like many New Yorkers - Craigslist, neighbors moving, and sidewalks (before the bed bug scare of 2010). It was time to return our things to Craigslist and complete our furniture's cycle of life.

We took pictures of everything and uploaded them to Craigslist. Ben immediately got tons of emails. Some emailers seemed legit, so he responded. Some emailers seemed sketchy and possibly murderous, so he trashed those. I really appreciated that since I, alone, would be passing on our furniture.

The first piece of furniture to go was our pressed wood nightstand. It went to a young guy attending Columbia University, who recently moved from California. I called him to sort through the details because, let's face it, West Coast people are very laid back and have no idea of how the East Coast operates.

The guy said he planned to carry the nightstand 10 blocks and one avenue to his apartment, almost one mile.

I rolled my eyes and nodded. He confirmed my previously held notion about West Coasters.

I said, "You will need something to transport the nightstand because it's an awkward size and it will get too heavy."

I actually worried that he would only make it halfway down the block before giving up and bringing it back for a full refund.

The line went silent for a few seconds and then he replied, "I've got a skateboard."

I said, "Perfect. See you in 20."

I got off the phone and dusted the nightstand. I patted the top and gave it a pep talk. I prepared it for its new home and the destruction it would probably face in an apartment full of college boys.

The guy arrived in 40 minutes (West Coasters) and we loaded it onto his skateboard. He wheeled it down the hallway and into our elevator. I closed the door and then ran to the living room window to watch him wheel it down the street until out of view.

That is how you do it in New York.


* I really do love West Coasters.

The nightstand.

How It Began

Ben said that the moment we learned that we would be moving from New York, everything would happen quickly. He was right. Like (almost) always.

On the last Friday in June, Ben learned that his company would allow him to work from Kentucky. On Saturday, the news sort-of sank in and we sat around the apartment in shock. On Sunday, we sort-of recovered from shock and told our families. On Monday, the second to last day of school, I told the administration of my departure. On Tuesday, we told friends.

In only 96 hours, we announced the biggest decision of our married lives to the world. 

We planned to and did move on July 31st. We had one month. One month to pack our apartment, sell our furniture, say goodbye to friends, visit last minute places, and drive 645.5 miles to Kentucky in a rented U-Haul. 

We did not dilly dally. 

We, as they like to say in Kentucky, "got-r-done."

The Big Decision

Ben and I made a decision.  A big decision.  A very, very big decision at the end of July.

We moved.

We. Moved.

Mooooooooooooved!

Not down the street. Not to another part of the city.  Not to another borough. Not to Long Island or New Jersey or even Connecticut.

Nope.

We moved... home!  Kentucky, we came.

I said it was a big decision.

Obviously, we love New York. We love the city. We love our friends. We loved our life.

But, there's always a but, it was time to go home.

We missed our families. It was hard to be far away all of the time. The 11 hour drive was too much for weekend trips, and the two hour direct flight kept getting more and more expensive. The Chinatown bus worked, but only when we had several days to recuperate and several years of life to lose. We no longer wanted to miss our nephew's ballet recitals or dinners with our parents or weekends with Aunt Dorothy.

We wanted to be present for all of those little moments in our loved ones' lives. Participate and not just watch from afar. Facebook updates, random text messages, and twice a year visits weren't enough anymore.

We started to think that owning a house might be fun one day, especially after writing enormous rent checks month after month. A place of our own to host friends sounded exciting. A place with a locked mortgage that wouldn't raise every year nearly drove us to delirium.

We mulled over the decision to move for about six months. We tossed around the idea, but then the idea became more. It grew and turned into a dream, which morphed into a tangible reality. By the end of June, the opportunity to move arose and we took it.  We said "yes" with 99.9% assurance and .1% trepidation (because every big change is scary).

Now, we live in Kentucky.

We are home, finally home... and I mean that literally. We moved in with my parents until further notice. That situation alone will lend itself to many future posts.

But between leaving New York in July and living in Kentucky now, I still have many New York stories to tell. So, the blog will stay "Itty Bitty in New York City," and I will still write about New York life. Except, now, a little more Kentucky-ness will seep into the stories. Eventually, the blog will probably be more about Kentucky than New York, but that'll be awhile.

Ben repeatedly asked why I hadn't mentioned our move yet. I didn't really have a solid answer, but this morning I realized why. I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to completely let go of the idea of us no longer living in a crazy city surrounded by eight million people, some of whom we call friends. I hadn't fully grasped such a dramatic change. But, now, for reasons even unbeknownst to me, I am ready to announce it.

Moving was the right and best decision for us. But, it does not mean that it was easy. Like I said before, every change is hard, even when it's a good one.

I wipe tears from my cheeks as I write this, and my heart pounds for the five years of extraordinary experiences and people I encountered. My connection to New York remains strong. My love for New York never waivers. I am forever changed and forever thankful to the greatest city in the world, New York.

Sneak Peek

I visited my girlfriend who recently moved to New Jersey. I took the express bus to her new place and caught a pretty nice view of the city. Enjoy!

Our Stop

Everyday, Ben and I take the subway to go... everywhere. To get to work, Ben takes the 2/3 line south to Penn Station where he gets on the Long Island Railroad (LIRR). I take the 2/3 north to 116th Street where I hop on a crosstown bus.

New Yorkers know how lucky we are to live one block from public transportation. One block! It takes minutes to walk to the subway.

Some people live a 10, 15, or even 20 minute walk from public transportation. A 20 minute walk twice a day in 100 degree heat, rain, or snow can exhaust even the toughest commuter. Trust me.

I definitely couldn't hike 20 minutes in heels on a Friday night, and that's a fact. I tried several times. Those attempts usually ended with me hobbling or sitting on the sidewalk, in pain, complaining about my feet while Ben begrudgingly hailed a cab.

Not a perfect ending to a fun night on the town.

Below is a picture of me at "our stop." Our ole, faithful 96th Street and Broadway stop on the 2/3 line. How I love thee.

* FYI tourists... never stop to take a picture immediately after walking through a subway turnstile. New Yorkers will scowl, curse, or bulldoze right over you. Ben took this picture only after we surveyed the area and waited for a break in the flow of commuter traffic. I sprinted as soon as the camera clicked.

Fast Food

We're starving. We don't (I mean "Ben doesn't") know what to cook for dinner. We want some grub immediately.

What do we do?

Eat from a food truck.

Our favorite is the Super Tacos food truck at 96th Street between Broadway and West End Avenue.

Definitely try the burritos.

They're the best.

Getting Around

In the last post, I wrote about how much everyday items cost in New York. Today, I write about how much it costs to get around the city. I'm talking about common forms of transportation like subways and buses and taxis, not rickshaws or trams or ferries. Look here if you're interested in that.

To ride the buses and subways...
A single ride costs $2.50.
A 7 day Metrocard with unlimited rides costs $29.
And, a 30 day Metrocard with unlimited rides costs $104.

I buy the 30 day Metrocard because I use it four to five times a day. Visitors often like the 7 day Metrocard if they plan to use public transportation a lot. If you don't know what to do then just put some money on a Metrocard and use it until it runs out and needs to be refilled.

Subways and buses are fixed fares no matter how far you go, so that's the cheapest way to get around the city. Unless, you're a tourist and want to see all of the sights.  Then, do one of the 48 hour "hop on, hop off" buses. Trust me. I know.

Ben and I usually take taxis when splitting the cost with other riders, it's late, we're exhausted, or I wore high heels that left me immobile by the end of the night. Sometimes, I slip in a few extra cab rides when my Carrie Bradshaw side surfaces and I have some extra cash. Consider it a guilty pleasure.

The interesting thing about taxis is how the costs really add up if taking them a lot.

If we hop into a taxi and go from our apartment in the Upper West Side to our friends' apartment in Queens exactly 11.6 miles away, then we will pay between a $24 and $30 (depending on traffic) cab fare.

If we jump into a taxi and go from our apartment in the Upper West Side to meet friends for brunch at The Stanton Social (which I highly recommend) in the Lower Side Side exactly 6.77 miles away, then we will pay a $25 cab fare.

If I slide into a taxi after happy hour with my colleagues on Fridays at the East End on the Upper East Side exactly 2.35 miles away, then I will pay a $10 cab fare.

I told you... it gets pricey. Still not sure? Then, check out the mother-of-all comparisons.

If Ben and I ride a bus from Chinatown in NYC to Cincinnati, Ohio exactly 637 or 724 miles away (depending on the route), then we only pay $30 for a one way ticket.

For the same price, we can go 7 miles to the Lower East Side or 637 miles to the Buckeye State.  Interesting. And, little mind boggling.

Now, you know what to do. When in the city and perhaps in doubt, depending on how fat your wallet is... you can flag down a taxi or navigate through the subways or... just foot it home (which is ultimately the cheapest form of transportation).

Money Tree

Non-New Yorkers often ask how much stuff costs in the city. And, I have to admit, it's one of my favorite questions to answer. Partly, because it's interesting, but mainly because I need their sympathetic stares to remind me that the rest of America isn't as pricey.

Is the city really that much more expensive than your average American town? For most things, yes, it is.

Unless, of course, you want fresh flowers. Those are only a few bucks at the corner bodega. Carnations? Three dollars. Half a dozen roses? Five bucks. Lilies or some other exotic flower? No more than ten bones.

Manicures and pedicures also seem to be a little cheaper in the city. Nail salons sit on every block, and they usually charge around twenty dollars for a mani/pedi combo. We, northerners, apparently make good nail beds and painted toes a top priority.

But, you don't need fresh flowers and nice nails to live. Those aren't necessities. No, the stuff you really need is where they get you.

A small box of Honey Nut Cheerios? $5.99. Oil of Olay face wash? $6.99. Movie tickets? $13 each. Domestic beers? $6.00 a bottle. Scratchy toilet paper? $5.99 for 4 rolls.

I can't help but want some pity. I feel validated when non-New Yorkers agree that we pay too much. It's a good reality check. And, we, Manhattanites, need that every once in a while.

Out With The Old and In With The New

This year, we got new windows. New windows. NEW windows!

They upgraded our apartment and we didn't pay for it (yet). That never happens in New York. Never.

Our old windows were fine. Intact, not broken or cracked. They were probably 100 years old and repeatedly painted over with lead-based paint, but they technically worked. So, you can imagine my surprise when our building superintendent told me that we were getting new windows.

I didn't question it. I didn't ask for more information. I just said "awesome" and then fist pumped the air Jersey style.

After they installed the new windows, magical things began to happen. Incessant car honking stopped. Pedestrian voices deafened. I slept better. The windows actually opened and allowed fresh (as fresh as fresh gets in the city) air to enter. We could actually access the fire escape in case of an emergency.

The new windows took on a much greater meaning. They represented a well rested, quiet life with a potential escape route if necessary. They represented good housing karma. They, obviously, meant a lot to me.

Thank you, Housing Gods! Thank you very, very much.

New Ads

I recently noticed how the ads on Itty Bitty have changed over the past five years. In the beginning, ads for Foot Fetishes Anonymous and unregulated Chinatown bus companies and under-the-table Craigslist jobs flooded the site. Not always the most high brow organizations or opportunities.

Now, I see ads for Ann Taylor Loft, Upper East Side Manhattan apartments, and chiropractors.

When did Itty Bitty become mainstream? When did Itty Bitty get so classy?

I don't know, and I guess that I don't care. I'm really just happy that the ads are slightly more legit and a little less unscrupulous.

Cooking Woes

I have issues with my cooking. Ben clearly has issues with my cooking. And, now, even my friends have issues with my cooking. I am no Giada De Laurentiis.

I am part of a book club in NYC. Its members include about a dozen different young, intellectual ladies - obviously myself, coworkers, friends, and friends-of-friends. We meet once a month at someone's apartment to discuss a chosen book and any other topics of interest.

Whoever chooses the book of the month also chooses the theme of the meeting, like what food to make. For example, when we read "The Night Circus" by Erin Morgenstern, everybody brought a dish they might find at a circus. People brought chicken fingers, carmel apples, finger foods, mini corn dogs, etc. It's fun when you befriend yourself with top-rate, first-class cooks.

Several months ago, Anna hosted a book club and the food theme centered around peanut butter. Everybody cooked a dish that somehow incorporated peanut butter. Yum, right?

Unfortunately, Ben was in Washington DC for business, so he couldn't act as my personal chef and make my dish like he usually did. I had to make it.  No bueno.

I scoured the internet for a good peanut butter dish. I landed on the Jif peanut butter website. Of course, Jif would recommend a peanut butter good recipe! It was like I went straight to the source, straight to the guru of all peanut butter infused entree creations.

I settled on making "Zesty Peanut Butter Salsa." A dish rated four out of five stars by Jif users and, most importantly, used only four ingredients with a prep time of 10 minutes.

I bought all of the ingredients at Whole Foods grocery store. Only the best ingredients for my fellow book clubbers! I read the list of ingredients over the phone to my mom as I walked home - peanut butter, salsa, cilantro, and apricot preserves. My mom said nothing for a minute and then cautiously asked, "You couldn't find any other recipes?" F-o-r-e-s-h-a-d-o-w-i-n-g.

I got home. Washed my hands like a good chef. Read and reread the directions several times to ensure 100% deliciousness.

I painstakingly measured the ingredients. Poured them into a bowl. Mixed them together.

While cooking, I ignored the weird shade of salmon my creation turned. I overlooked the chunks of cilantro and apricot that stuck together. I pretended not to smell the vomit stench that wafted from the bowl.

I assumed that my PB salsa just needed to marinate. It simply needed time. So, I snapped on the Tupperware lid and put it in the fridge, as instructed. I knew it would turn out okay in the morning.

Or not.

The next morning, I woke up late. Grabbed my PB salsa. Rushed to the subway. Finally, when seated on the subway, I peeled back the corner of the Tupperware lid to see my masterpiece.

Uh oh. The PB salsa still looked and smelled like vomit. Apparently, other commuters thought so too because I got some sour looks from the people beside me.

When I got to work, I frantically showed the girls, who agreed. My PB salsa masterpiece appeared to be a complete failure. But, (this is the part that tells you what good teachers they are) they still said "I tried my best" and "we'll eat it anyways because we know how hard you worked on it." One girl said to let it continue to marinate for the next 10 hours in the mini-fridge at school. Sadly, that still did not do the trick.

That night, at book club, no one ate my PB salsa. Instead, we threw it 10 floors down Anna's trash chute. It landed at the bottom with a loud thud. Anna prayed that the bag didn't bust and splatter on the chute walls. Her lease probably didn't cover pouring putrid substances down the trash chute.

So, for future reference, if it sounds iffy, it will probably taste iffy - not Jiffy.

* Actual photo of Zesty Peanut Butter Salsa from the Jif website. 

Do not be fooled by the attractive photo.