We are under way. At last.
The new house is essentially empty, and the old house is a war zone. But we are
experiencing forward motion.
I am bonding with the house;
it is becoming mine with every visit. I notice things: the red maple that
sprawls astride the patio, the small magnolia that peeps through the red
branches, the pine that lines up nicely to filter the hot western sun in
summer. There is a crape myrtle, too, visible from the living room sofa—when
there IS a sofa there.
I am puzzling out the complicated
geometry of rugs and furniture, and performing the calculus of perceived volume
versus actual, delving deep into my bag of trompe l’oeuil tricks.
I bounce between houses like
a grasshopper on speed, and I schedule workmen as if I were orchestrating
D-Day. Daily, I thank God for the ‘Speaker’ setting on my cell phone that
allows me to multi-task while on hold. Occasionally, I even find myself humming
snatches of elevator music that entertains the weary caller placed on hold.
The old house is naked. Sofa
and chairs have disappeared to be fitted with their new raiment; even the
dining room chairs are being refurbished and sit, seatless, around the table.
Rugs have gone to the cleaners, and the whole house seems echoing and empty,
except for the stacks of boxes and piles of pictures and maps that have
descended from the walls. Jake searches vainly for a soft place to nap,
settling resignedly for an empty Trader Joe’s bag on the coffee table. Moving
is hard on pets, but I can live with his reproach.
I have spent days calling…the
HVAC people, the plumbing contract people, the gas, the water, the sewer, the
electric companies. The city is on my list for parking permits, and personal
property, and change of address. I have suffered through the DMV and voter
registration, and visited the Comcast store. Which was not so bad. My new best
friend, Brian, a schlumpy guy whose picture is found in the dictionary under
“nerd”, managed to set up the account for the new address, maintain the current
account in service till we move, arrange for it to be terminated when we DO,
and schedule an installation technician at the new place on Monday (with me
having rejected tomorrow, Friday, or Sunday as possible appointment days. But
maybe he was kidding about Sunday. It’s hard to tell with these guys..)
I am currently researching
patio doors (I haven’t had an aluminum-track sliding glass door with a charley-bar
since…uh, six houses ago? and gas logs. And in the odd moment, I cruise the
garden center, looking for inspiration for my new tiny patio.
My to-do/ to buy list
includes trashcans, both inside and out, since the city does not collect in our
development. Wood screws to re-attach the seats to the dining room chairs,
cushions for the windowseat, low shelves for the living room that a TV might
perch on—and, oh, a new TV, since ours was written into the sale contract. All
this while deciding what, if anything, requires painting, and what color that
might be. And where do the returning rugs go and should I buy pads for the ones
without?
Suffice it to say that my
brain is buzzing like a hive full of angry bees, each one vying for the
attention of the queen.
I think that’s me.
