< two fifty: life in a tiny apartment.

Revisiting an old tip and a recurring theme on the coldest day of the year: just don't give a damn.

Things this week are a little topsy-turvy. I'm currently waiting patiently at my apartment for a visit from my mom so that we two can head off together to ogle my brand new nephew, Oliver. He was born on Monday, one month ahead of schedule and the cutest little pink ball of fuzz you ever did see. They'll be lots more to read about that little bundle, but this morning, a few words on bundling adult-sized people.

Please refer to the photo above for a look at the back of our apartment door. I've tried to distract you by focusing in on the little dried thistle, but there's no ignoring the looming black mass. To think I had the nerve to write about dealing with wintertime accessories in October.  It's now nearing the end of January and we've reached new levels of what I've come to refer to as "the great coat takeover." Our coats and mitten and scarves--and if this weather keeps up, then perhaps soon, our BALACLAVAS--are taking up nearly as much square footage in our aparment as our couch. Add to that mess the additional coats of visiting grandparents (otherwise known as Mom and Dad) and the apartment looks more like a sale bin at Burlington Coat Factory than a place for living.

But. Winters in New York are supposed to be cold. This winterphobe needs a sleeping bag* to get through it and that means dealing with the thing on the back of the apartment door. There's nothing to do but grin and bear it and wish they made these and these in adult sizes. Can you get any cuter?

*Psst: I paid almost 3x that price for mine...snatch it.

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make-believe: ice skating.

When I was in 4th grade, one of my friends had her birthday party at Wollman rink in Central Park. It was a big deal. Hermès hosted. In celebration of their 10th anniversary in 1993, Hermès invited every 10 year old born on December 7 to a big ol' birthday bash. A gaggle of us skated, minimal longterm damage was done to our ankles, and we went home donning enormous silk scrunchies and singing Christmas carols.

The only trouble with this birthday party was my disappointment in the limitations of my wintertime wardrobe. Where, oh where was my rabbit fur muff? My smart little cloak and long full skirt? My valise? Instead of being the graceful Victorian ice skater of my fantasies, I was decked out in a fluorescent hand-me-down jacket and mismatched sweater: a vision in neon and roses.

Turns out that as an adult ice skating still gets me fantasizing about upping my sartorial game. Here's the current version of what I'd like to wear. Pockets filled with salted caramels, included, and an adult-sized version of those skates, please.

1. sweater 2. ice skates 3. hat 4. wool leggings 5. fleur de sel caramels 6. fingerless gloves 7. socks 8. scarf

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< two fifty: life in a tiny apartment.

Outerwear. {Part I in a two part series about winter clothes and tiny apartments}.

Let me start by acknowledging that the blog world--and perhaps all the world--appears to be utterly and totally obsessed with the weather and even more so, the changing seasons. From the moment the temperatures take the slightest hike or dive, my twitter feed and blog reader erupt into ecstatic accounts of the joys of a particular season. In late spring, it's all about how much lemonade we're ready to drink and how great it feels to get our feet into green grass. In late summer it's apples and turning leaves. Any day now we'll jump right into rosy cheeks and hot cocoa and scarves. We love this stuff. I love this stuff. The sensory descriptions are irresistible and changing seasons make such good use of onomatopoeia. In my world today there'd be pitter patter, crunch, crinkle, creak. You? 

I'm not sure precisely the reason for the obsession, but the best answer I could muster would have to do with human nature and habit and, if we got really into it, survival. Doesn't everything roll back around to that one? For this tiny apartment dweller, the most recent shift in seasons means at least a bit of a change in expectations of sparseness. Here's why:

For six months of the year, the back of our apartment door is host to a bag full of canvas totes, and depending on our laziness and/or frequency of biking, our bike helmets. It's not glorious, it's not terrible. But come October, that fearsome month when the wind whips and whistles through increasingly bare trees (see? seasons are fun), the back of the door starts to accumulate a pile of coats. In early October, things aren't so bad. James has the Carhartt sweatshirt (kinda like this) he's been wearing since his landscaping days in high school (hot damn), and I have my woolly cloak which James not-so-secretly thinks looks like something out of a witch's closet. I take his opinion as a compliment, I rearrange the coats so that my cloak covers the sweatshirt, things are manageable and mostly neat. 

But then the wind whistles some more and out comes James's peacoat. Then his scarf. Then my huge puffer-of-a-sleeping-bag-coat, then his, and I promise you, the scene is bad. There's not really a great solution. I have a pretty high tolerance for annoying tasks that maintain the peace in our tiny place, but unlocking the padlock that keeps our hall closet safe from intruders and hanging up my winter coat each time I use it, is not among them. In another life, we might have room for a coat rack (how pretty are these?), but for now, the solution is mostly to not give a damn. 

Also this:

If you realize that you haven't worn your Carhartt sweatshirt in two months, 'cause it's way too cold and you're not exactly doing any landscaping anyway, hang it in the hall closet (insert your own out-of-reach place). Same goes for your windbreaker, and your poncho, and that fancy velvety number you wore last week to the ballet and won't wear again until New Years (I wish).

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