03 November 2007

At Least A Hundred Miles

Today my mom drove me to New Jersey to buy paint for my bedroom (a grey called Anonymous), and we stopped by Costco for some mother-daughter charity shopping. I now have enough paper towels to last me through the millennium. And I also have a renewed gratitude for everything in my life conspiring to make me live in a city. Jesus, suburbia is vile. Like, I appreciate 36-packs of toilet paper as much as the next girl, but that monstrous space full of monstrous products, the monstrous carts piled monstrously high, wheeled out into the monstrous parking lot and loaded into monstrous cars... it all just made me grateful to come back to these narrow, crowded sidewalks, to an apartment that I can't even fill, where I know I'm lucky to have a spare closet for my own monstrous package of paper towels. Even in high school, a trip to Costco made me dizzy. My mom says it's overstimulation, but she says the same thing when I take a few moments to hide in my room during big holiday dinner parties. I spend plenty of time in loud places, bright places, crowded places, and I don't get dizzy or filled with existential dread. Costco, though. Eesh. I did get blackberries, though.

If you're wondering why we drove to the Hackensack Home Depot, btw, it wasn't so I could recite for my mother the catalog of local place-names cited in Fountains of Wayne songs. (Though I didn't pass up that opportunity.) I's suggested the Bronx so we wouldn't have to try to park in Chelsea or the UES, but that idea made mom anxious - "I don't know the neighborhoods out there. That might be like driving to Harlem to go to Home Depot." Kate, I hope you're appreciating this from your apartment on 150th Street.

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