Lofty Aspirations

Last month, I packed up my ramshackle studio apartment in Brooklyn Heights and moved just a few miles east to Bedford-Stuyvesant in pursuit of more space and cheaper rent. Despite having recently been named New York City’s dirtiest neighborhood, my boyfriend and I have had a great time exploring and speculating about the comings and goings of our local Hasidic population.

In truth, the real environmental disaster is occurring inside the apartment. We were lucky enough to land a loft space and I was lucky enough to land a boyfriend who is handy with a nail gun, so we both had visions of an airy, totally customized – and organized! – paradise. But the thing is, you know how difficult it is get haul your ass to the Laundromat after work, or have something for dinner besides handfuls of Corn Chex ? Well, it turns out that hauling sheetrock and two-by-fours around the apartment isn’t anything to look forward to, either. So as it stands, the art studio is for sawdust storage, my office is the miscellaneous hardware depository, and the kitchen doubles as a cardboard box fort/break dancing floor. But that’s loft living for you: work, play, sleep, and tetanus all under one roof.

Hi, My Name Is ______

One of the best parts of my job is having sole possession of a label maker. Not the kind with the plastic wheel and the lever in the handle, but a little ticker-tape device that looks like a first-generation Blackberry. This morning I took it upon myself to label the office supplies: staples, staple removers, tacks—careful! I’ve never identified, nor have I been identified, as a neat freak, but there’s something incredibly soothing about labeling. It removes all the guesswork, saves a lot of time, and keeps you from plunging your hand into a drawer full of tacks.

I guess it’s the same part of me that really, really enjoys the little aliases they give reality show participants when they’re doing their interviews, like “Candace: Pageant Queen” or “Nate: Lead Singer of a Star Wars Tribute Band” or “Ted: Has Webbed Toes.” It saves me from having to think too much, which is all I really want from a show like “Beauty and the Geek 3,” and life in general, actually.

Maybe some day I’ll take the label maker home with me, and start labeling everything as I go. If all goes well, there will be labels in the hair care aisle at every Duane Reade in New York: “That Shampoo You Liked at That Hotel in Baltimore” and on the guest of every party I attend: “Works at InStyle magazine - Do Not Make Fun of Scientology.” With any luck, I’d never have to think again.