Back to AThe story of a girl, a shitzu, and a Manhattan apartment

Part One

Anisha Ahooja

www.BackToA.com

For Harold,Always and forever.

Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I'm

moving from, and what lousy events led up to me moving these massive boxes, and how I

landed up in an empty one bedroom on the Upper East Side in the middle of the night with

a mattress and a shitzu, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like

going into it, if you want to know the truth.  In the first place, that stuff now bores me, and

in the second place, my ex's lawyer and mine would have about two hemorrhages apiece if I

told anything pretty personal.  They're quite touchy about anything like that.  They're nice

and all I'm not saying that, but they're also touchy as hell.  Besides, I'm not going to tell you

my whole goddam autobiography or anything.  I'll just tell you about this madman stuff

that happened to me around last Christmas and how, with a little help from the most

unexpected sources, I decided that my empty apartment and I needed an awakening. 

WWW.BACKTOA.COM

Back to Beginnings. . .

I have always believed that the letter A represents a beginning.  It comes first in the

alphabet, after all.  A is for apple, which is given to teachers on the first day of school

(okay this never happened when I was a teacher, but it's a nice idea if you like fruit,

which I don't, but the intent is still focused on a new beginning.)  Putting your best foot

forward.  Re-inventing yourself, even.  A has possibilities.  Personality.  A can be

anything.

When I hit 30, I went through a period during which I believed I was at Z.  I had done

everything I had set out to do, and at a breathtaking (or manic, depending on how you

look at it) speed.  I was the kid in kindergarten ready to provide a dissertation when

asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up." I was the eldest. The teacher's pet.  

The good child.  Those kind of brats always end up at Z before they know it.

The Meaning of A. . .

Then they freak out for a bit and have a nervous breakdown because nothing has been

planned for the next. . . several decades or so.  So now what?

Back to A.

Some of life's most complicated questions are often discovered in the simplest of

solutions.  Start over.  I'm creating a next time.  Because nobody says you can't, and

there's something exciting and thrilling about starting from scratch and re-discovering

who you are now, and how that person may be very different from the first time she was

at A.

For me, this solution came when I began to make my generic Upper East Side one

bedroom (no fee, thank you very much Google and Streeteasy.com) into a home.  For three

months I lingered - fearfully, resentfully, maybe even lazily - waiting for the morning

when all my stuff would magically appear.  We're talking no furniture, not even forks -

and eating Dominos pizza and other finger foods at every meal.

There was no come to Jesus meeting or any other sort of mind blowing revelation that

made me decide to go back to A.  I just woke up one morning and decided I was tired of

living like a secret bum with very nice shoes.  I wanted to walk into an apartment that

may never make the pages of Architectural Digest, but would make me smile.  My stuff.  

My taste.  My touch.  I realized I didn't even have a theme, or a style. . or a boyfriend or a

husband or a roomate.  I could pretty much do whatever I wanted - carve a completely

fresh path. Entirely on my own.That's what A looks like.  It's awesome.

Here's my journey, and hopefully it will inspire you as much as it continues to inspire me

each day.  If a home decor blog and my 7th grade diary had a baby, this would be it.  It's

messy and immature at times, a lot of paint gets spilled along the way, but we're slowly

coming to life again, this apartment and I.  Together.

It's even better than Tiffany's. . .

Moving Day. . .again

When your movers call you at 10:00 a.m. on

moving day and announce casually "we can't

make it because it's pouring outside" your whole

life tends to flash before your eyes.  Harold was

so outraged he even went down to the lobby to

see if it was really true.  He reported back that

indeed there were no movers. 

My Old Life

One year ago home meant

this. . .

My Rented, Fake Life

And then, for the past year a

furnished pad at 502 Park

Avenue meant this. . .and today

I had neither.

502 Park. . .

And yeah I know furnished places are creepy and meant for business men who need places all over the

world like Hong Kong and Dubai and other business'ish' places where bankers like to go and be

important- not a girl and a shitzu who've lived in Manhattan for over a decade.  But there's something

about not owning anything that allows you to float for awhile and suspend time.  None of it's real, and

sometimes that's exactly the kind of transition you need.  It's a lot of dresses and heels and late nights

and Barney's and Bloomingdales and Bergdorf's (they were my neighbors, not my fault). When you lose

everything and aren't prepared for it, you're not quite ready to acquire anything else of substance.  You

dabble in the superficial - people, places, 'thrill of the moment' purchases. Life is all frosting and no

cupcake.  If you know what I mean.  

Some of you know better than others. . .

That annoying Friar Lawrence did warn Romeo, though, that the sweetest honey is loathsome in its

own deliciousness and some other blah blah blah-ness about doing things moderately.  Betty Crocker

vanilla frosting he knew not.

Dreaming of Revelry

Without divulging too much or

sending my entire family into a

panic attack, let's just say the

Kings of Leon had a very timely

hit that year that kinda said it

all. . .

What a night for a dance,

You know I'm a dancing machine

With the fire in my bones

And the sweet taste of kerosene. . .

I get lost in the night

So high don't wanna come down

To face the loss

Of the good thing

That I have found. . .

In the dark of the night

I hear you callin’ my name

With the hardest of hearts,

I still feel full of pain. . .

So I drink and I smoke

And I ask you if you’re ever around

Even though

It was me who drove us

Right into the ground. . .

See the time we shared it

Was precious to me

But all the while

I was dreamin of revelry. . .

So the movers eventually came,

but it was late and an irate

super let them know the job

had to be done in an hour.  

"Lady, we're going to have to

dump everything in big boxes,"

but they said it kindly and

there was nothing to do but

watch my life go into massive

boxes.

Don't let Harold fool you - I know it

looks traumatic, but if you know him like

I know him, he's just pissed and sulking.

He loves Park Avenue and does not think

Third Avenue is a very good look for a

shitzu who looks as good as he does.

And because the super at the other end

was equally put off and it was getting

increasingly late, I got another "Sorry

Lady, but we're going to have to dump

everything" and once again, there was

nothing to do but acquiesce.

Sometimes you wish you were the size of

a shitzu and could collapse on a round,

leopard bed

One fancy Baker silver chest

(yep, the Barbara Barry

diamond chest), my reading

chair, and everything I had in

the world on a pile on the floor.  

We were Back to A.

"Let's go for a walk," I told Harold, and we stepped over the pile and into the

night like we always do.

It was still raining outside and I'm not going to pull any hokey it-felt-like-a-

baptism crap on you.  We got wet (I'm forever in search of umbrellas and

gloves) and it sucked and we went back upstairs and sulked for a bit, and

decided to deal with it all tomorrow -"I won't think about that now, I'll think

about it tomorrow" - Scarlett O'Hara style.

And in the dark we could have been on any street in any room in any place in

the world.  

That's the thing about night.  It has always been the great leveler.

The Story of a Chair

It was not the iconic opening scene in Breakfast at Tiffany's that made me fall in love.  The black

dress, the upswept hair, the enormous glasses. . . and of course, Tiffany's at dawn. Although I came

very close. New York City's most iconic cinematic seduction did not hold a candle to the rush I felt

watching Holly Golightly's fantasy stroll come to an abrupt end.  A five-floor walk up.  Misplaced

keys.  An infuriated super.  Lipstick stored in the mail box.  Parties with no guest lists, and without an

end in sight.  A phone hidden in a hatbox, a misplaced shoe, a cat with no name. Then to sit on a fire

escape amidst the crowds and sing the loneliest song in the word. . .that was and is the New York City

that has a permanent hold on my heart.  Inexplicable. Frenzied, even, but sparkling with possibility

and feeling - the forgotten pulse that suddenly begins to beat and leaves F. Scott Fitzgerald reverent:  

"New York had all the iridescence of the beginning of the world."  A perfect place for an awakening.

And there in the window of the new Modani store on 19th between Park Avenue South and

Broadway was perhaps the most perfect desk chair in the entire world.I walked in immediately, paid

for the chair, and carried it out of the store much to the bemusement of Roman, the coolest salesman in

New York.

"Are you sure you don't want it delivered?" Delivery? And deny myself the fun of cabbing it uptown

with Holly?

"I got it, thanks." I really did.

The next empty cab that pulled up was one of those big van ones. . . the driver loved the chair and

even helped me bring it from the cab to my building's lobby.  I was in love with this afternoon.  No

desk yet, and not much of anything else, but I look at Holly Golightly every time I enter my apartment

and recall a girl who was once lost, but did eventually get found.

It makes me happy. Rave on, Truman Capote.

“Hey Harold,” I asked,

suddenly overcome with

inspiration.  “Hey do you want

to come with me to Sleepy's and

get a bed?”

Believe me, there were never two

more entertained individuals

than Harold and I at Sleepy's

that afternoon.

One thing was certain. There was not going to be any

awakening if I couldn't sleep to live.  I looked across the

empty apartment and could tell that even Harold had not

had the most comfortable night.  He was looking a little

lost, really.

“Hey Harold,” I asked, suddenly overcome with

inspiration.  “Hey do you want to come with me to

Sleepy's and get a bed?”

In this new life, I was going to play an active role in every decision I made.   I wanted everything that came through the doors to be hand-selected by me. And a story that came with it.  Sometimes the shortcut deprives the pleasure of a possible memory.  Just because you can call something in or order it doesn't mean you should.  Believe me, there were never two more entertained individuals than Harold and I at Sleepy's that afternoon.   We tested everything out. . .

And ultimately settled on the softest one possible.  A metal frame, the box spring and the mattress were delivered later that afternoon and I snapped pictures with all the enthusiasm one would have if one suddenly did not have a bed.  You might, too.  You never know. I had to do a Bed Bath & Beyond run next (plight of the sheet-less. . .with furnished apartments you don't get to leave with linens) but I didn't go there first.  Harold and I strolled over to Central Park instead because it was unseasonably warm and I was in the mood. Follow my whimsy. Pick every item I would own by myself.  I was developing a new set of rules and that realization alone was a monumental discovery.

I think my 20s had me so preoccupied I never sat down long enough to think about how I might be changing and what my likes and dislikes were. . . I was going on some pre-conceived idea that may have been formed in my early teenage years.  Maybe what we refer to as a mid-life crisis is actually a metamorphoses. A necessary shedding. Not a breakup or a separation or a divorce, but a necessary release to begin again, go back to A. Perhaps all goodbyes should be done gracefully and with quiet acceptance. Celebrated, even, for our constantly evolving selves.  

Central Park has just the right amount of cement to grass ratio to please Harold and my

different tastes. . . But I was wearing sneakers and jeans, and decided to sit on the grass

near a blissed out Harold anyways and read for awhile under a tree. 

The grass felt lovely.

Back to Bad Ass

Harold and I went to Gracious Homes - the

one on the other side of the street where the

boys go - and we were not messing around.

We needed weaponry.

I needed a Phillip's screwdriver and a staple

gun.

Yeah, baby.

In my old life there was a fully equipped tool

box that my ex-husband used to store in a

cabinet above the fridge.  I couldn't even reach

it, much less ever thought of doing so.

So it may not seem like a big deal to you, but

these two tools had all the power of mass

weaponry to me.  I bought them because I

needed them, and I was going to ultimately

store them someplace lower where I could

reach them.  

Because I will be reaching for them often.

I had Top Gun’s “Playing With the Boys” on

my ipod and it was my soundtrack of the day.

All your days should have a soundtrack; I

highly recommend it.

 Back to the task.

I found this incredible table off Craig's List for $40

dollars.  You should cyber-by (my word for online

drive-by. Shakespeare made up words all the time and

he wasn't even that famous when he did it) Craig's list

like, five times daily.  Even if you aren't looking for

anything in particular.  I wasn't looking for the Derek

Lam dress I bought this weekend, but when I saw it I

knew I had been looking for it all my life.  Craig's List

is like that.  A Japanese girl was going back to. . . well,

Japan, and she didn't care that this table was lucite

and heavy and gorgeous and worth a few grand.  She

wanted it out, and she wanted it out on a Sunday.  

There was an ad for "Man With A Van" on Craig's List

as well; I called the girl and the man with the van, and

by noon on a Sunday I had this amazing table in my

house.  I told you I meet the best people online.  

Always time for Green Flea, and I went in search of

chairs. They were quite beautiful, and at $200 for all

four quite a bargain.  The nice man at the Green Flea

stall said he would drop them off with my doorman on

his way home, and once procured I popped the seats off

with the phillips screwdriver (it took a very long time,

I'm embarrassed to say - - not because it's hard to get

four screws off, but playing with the boys does not

always equate to boy strength).  Once off, I brought out

my favorite Hollandlac paint, sanded the babies down

for about ten seconds and got bored again, and started

painting - obviously with Pandora playing America

Radio in the background.

It’s okay to spill. . .

Can anyone deal with how painfully beautiful Bertie Higgins' Key Largo is. . . might be

the only song that makes me cry a little bit. Reminds me of me when I'm not feeling

particularly Back to A, which I do sometimes.  It's okay to slip.  It's okay to spill.

Anything that drips can be wiped away.

My place was a war zone.  It made me think of what other people do in their apartments. I might be

alone in the level of activity that occurs in mine. . . but I like it that way. It's a factory of one over here -

sorry Harold, one and a half - and let me tell you, we know how to rip it. As the chairs dried, we went

in search of fabric. Our heart was set on the typical Hollywood Regency pattern Kelly Wearstler uses

so well - and just when we were utterly discouraged, we found a shower curtain at Gracious Home

and wondered. . .why not? It was cheap, we cut it up, placed the cushions on them face down, and took

out the staple gun.  But we could not figure out how to work a staple gun.  I brought the cushion, the

fabric, and the staple gun back to Gracious Home where the awesome man behind the counter showed

me how it worked.  It's really easy - you just have to lean down on it and not treat it like some delicate

stapler.  Push your whole body into it - BAM! Bam! Bam! Bam! The sound is thrilling.

Here’s looking at you, kid. . .

We went back home and went to work on the other three cushion covers - you don't have to be

neat at all - only psycho guests will get on all fours and look under your chairs. And you

probably shouldn't be friends with people like that, anyways.  I tend to decorate in the

evenings (sorry to any neighbors reading this, yes that was me with the bam bams) and I

usually have my best girlfriend in D.C. keeping me company on g-video.  She thinks my

nighttime decorating is fascinating and hilarious. When it was all done I played Key Largo

again. . . but it didn't really make me sad.  I found the lines that made me smile.

I am finding it all, once again. Just like they did in Key Largo.

Back to A Part II Coming Soon. . . Subscribe to www. BacktoA.com for updates