Stop Junk Mail. Save Trees.

I started prepacking. Using the boxes from Fresh Direct to better understand the damage my shoes will have on my bank account when the time comes to ship them. I also canceled my Netflix subscription. Movies kept arriving in my mailbox dutifully and I kept feeling guilty for not having the time or the interest to watch them. Most often, they went back without even been taken out of their sleeve.

I also discovered Green Dimes. Every time I open my mailbox and find the latest Pottery Barn Kids or Crate & Barrel catalog, I make a mental note to call and cancel the subscription. Somehow that mental note never makes it past the threshold, joining the unwanted pile of junk mail in the recycling bin. By signing up with Green Dimes, I will finally get to save all the trees I've been meaning to save all those years. I marvel at the amazing mind of the ingenious entrepreneur that came up with the concept. "Only in America," I think to myself and feel a pinch of regret for deciding to leave this incredible country.

Then I realize that only in America junk mail would reach such epic proportions that you would need a paid service to stop the madness.

Istanbul Street Style

I'm at work but can't focus. I haven't made one meaningful contribution to this office in the last two hours.

Look what I found though:

Istanbul Street Style Blog

I think I might have to store my Tahari suits and go shopping at Urban Outfitters before I head over.

Only in New York Moments

I just saw a man in a chicken suit. A short and skinny man in an anatomically incorrect chicken suit. I was waiting to order at Starbucks and caught a glimpse of the dusty yellow feathers from the corner of my eye. He was outside the building, lingering on the sidewalk in front of the window, slowly and aimlessly making his way to Times Square, carrying a plastic Western Union bag (why would Western Union have bags?) I'm guessing he could actually see where he was going through the wide open beak. He just didn't seem to be in a hurry to get there. "Only in New York" I thought.

I've had many "Only in New York" moments over the years -- personally witnessed, personally experienced. I don't think I'll miss any of them. Soon, the Naked Cowboy in Times Square, the crazies on the subway, the insanity of rush hour commute (waiting in line to cross the street!), the half-hour wait at Starbucks will all be a distant memory. I won't miss any of it.

I can't sleep at night wondering what my new life will be like.

Shredding My Way to Freedom

It was an uneventful weekend with lazy days spent mostly inside, sheltered from the extreme cold. It's weekends like this one when I really appreciate my best friend, her family, her kids, her humor and the fact that her place is a short elevator ride away. It's people I'll miss when I leave this all behind, not Woodbury Commons or Century 21 as some may expect.

I also went through countless boxes of files, hand-shredding old rent leases, credit card statements, useless immigration documents and hundreds and hundreds of receipts. I guess we ate out a lot over the last ten years and I obviously bought too many handbags. If we ever get audited, I'm telling the tax police that the receipts are somewhere on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, lost during our move overseas. Does that count as Confession #2?

Proceed With Caution: Lack of REM Can Induce a Serious Case of the Blues

Not the kind of REM you're thinking about. This particular lack of rapid eye movement resulted from a long morning devoid of coffee, the newspaper, magazines or Facebook. I'm in training you see. Having committed my daughter and me to a week long experiment on the effects of technology and media, I thought I'd test-drive a Saturday morning without the usual eye chatter to which I subject myself.

It wasn't long before we found refuge at the new Barnes & Noble on Warren Street. Life is a lot more bearable after a triple-shot latte and a helping of Quindlen:

"Nothing important, or meaningful, or beautiful, or interesting, or great ever came out of imitations. The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work on becoming yourself."

Confession #1: I didn't tip the doormen this year.

Pots, Pans and a Pressure Cooker: Wedding Registry or Relocation List?

I can't do anything before researching it first; can't buy anything before shopping around; can't write an article before becoming an expert on the subject; can't pick a lunch plate before I walk the entire cafeteria to see what else is there. I couldn't even have a baby before reading all available pregnancy & childbirth books available at the time (only to realize that I had never read anything about how to take care of a newborn and ended up taking my daughter to the doctor when her bellybutton didn't fall off within a few days.)

Noone expects me to execute a cross-continent move by the seat of my pants. Noone should. Especially if they love me and care about me! They can't expect me to wing this; not this! I should be allowed a little neurosis. I already started bothering friends who've already done it, albeit almost a decade ago: How did you get your stuff over there? What did you bring? How did you deal with customs? What kind of paperwork did you need? What do you wish you had stocked up on? What do you wish you had bought while still in New York?

I expected a drug list: if you like your allergy pills, Motrin and Children's Tylenol you must bring a decent supply with you. Fair enough.

What I didn't expect was a unanimous shout-out to kitchen supplies. Apparently, if one is relocating away from Broadway Panhandler's domain, one must stock up with the latest and greatest cookware, tableware, pepper grinder, cutlery and never look back.

My Nanny Knows What She Wants -- Why Don't I?

I spent the entire morning at work returning phone calls about my nanny. The leads started trickling in on Monday, minutes after I posted for her on Craig's List and Urban Baby. She decided she's not even going to entertain the first two (a stay-at-home mom with three kids and a too-far commute to Queens) and has been patiently waiting for me to screen more calls for her. (Why am I doing this?!)

Here I am thinking I have to give her a two-month notice and be prepared to pay up if she can't find a job by the time we leave. I never imagined she would be so selective, have a clear idea of what she wants from her next job and not even interview for positions that she thinks are not right for her. She knows what she wants: another working mom with a newborn, another family she can grow with, a stable position where she's needed, indispensable, a flexible employer who won't mind her bringing her son in once in a while. She may or may not be worried about being unemployed for too long -- I can't tell. What's so impressive is that she won't let her worries compromise the job she wants to have.

That is exactly what I should have done all along -- chase the life I want to live, not the one I think I should.

I Started Misquoting My Age

I have been telling everyone I'm 32. Somehow, my brain refuses to switch from 32 to 33 even though I grew another year on September 11, 2007. I should have realized that something was amiss when I made the mistake the first time.

I don't know what changed since September but I finally came to the conclusion that life as I know it is not a life at all. I've been married for eight years yet I feel like I've barely spent any quality time with my handsome husband. I have an almost five year old daughter whose baby book is a collection of plastic bags in the walk-in closet I'm afraid to open. We live thousands of miles away from family and special occasions consist for pre-scheduled webcam sessions on my teeny laptop during which my mother breaks then fixes her headset at least twice and my grandmother almost always gets frustratred from not being able to hear anything and goes off to the kitchen to fix some tea.

So I decided to change my ways and made it official this week by telling my full-time nanny that I'm soon quitting my job and moving back where I came from. Somewhere far away, very very far away, from New York City where I live now. She took it well -- almost too well for my taste and is now looking for another job.

I on the other hand am in full-blown nesting mode. Stocking up on necessities, getting rid of frivilous extensions of my life in New York. Deciding to give up a high-powered corporate career in order to move oversees, to stay home with my daughter and to write my first novel requires more planning than you'd think.

This is definitely a midlife crisis. I know it. I think I'm going to enjoy every minute of it!