Over the weekend, my husband and I moved from our cramped, rundown, one-bedroom apartment near crowded Times Square in Manhattan, to a spacious, gut-rehabbed, state-of-the-art two-bedroom brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street in Brooklyn. To say I’m happier in the new place would be an understatement. It’s as if I’d eaten McDonald’s hamburgers — not even cheeseburgers or Big Macs or Quarter Pounders, but regular ol’ tiny, boring, junk-food hamburgers — at every meal for the last several years and now I’m suddenly sitting down to delicious, nutritious, home-cooked meals of the finest cuts of meat and freshest veggies whenever I’m hungry. It wasn’t easy getting from one place to another though, both literally and metaphorically. It was a long time coming, and in the weeks leading up to the move — the very first move Drew and I have ever made together — I wondered if we’d even make it to our first wedding anniversary next month. Few things in life challenge a relationship quite like moving does, but I’m happy to report we survived the hurdle. Keep reading »
