These are the times when I get really frustrated at New York City, when it is spring time, and Chris and I are getting ready for his parents’ arrival at our apartment, and we amass dust balls the size of our heads under our bed and couch and dresser. This city is like a rodent, roach, and dust ball magnet. There really aren’t enough to go around in this great big metropolis, are there?

We are spending the last night before Chris goes to Chicago for work to make sure everything is clean and tidy for his parents’ arrival on Wednesday. As we are going through bags of clutter and things to toss out, I’m lamenting all the things I have hidden in my old big suitcase I used to move from Boston to New York: a rolling pin, oversized cookie sheets, a real oven rack, pie pans, and lots and lots of picture frames, all of which Ed gave me, that we have zero space for in our tiny Manhattan apartment. It’s either I am getting old, or I am just tiring of New York in general. We have no space where I can comfortably put all my supplies or access them easily. My scrapbooking material is in several boxes being hidden under the bed while Chris’s parents stay with us. I even have Christmas ornaments I have collected over the years all in a bin under the bed, getting no love because we have no Christmas tree of our own to put themon. I feel cooped up and wonder how much longer we will need to keep living like this. I think I just got a wrinkle thinking about it.