Of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax...
Jun. 1st, 2009 06:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shoebox_dwI am moved.
Not so much in the emotional sense, although the sight of the Ikea dresser still to be put together on my new bedroom floor certainly isn't helping. And the huge blowout fight with Shoesis on the actual day...erm, yeah, we've got past that and everything. She's too busy planning out our new 'French country' living room, anyway.
Then there are the cats. Who remain deeply unsure about this strange new joint which contains all the old familiar smells, but...not. I can sympathise with their distress, but that doesn't mean I enjoy being waked up by a fishy little tongue to the nose at 2am to be 'told' about it.
Speaking of being told about it, our new next-door neighbor is an, um, sprightly little elderly lady whose first line of conversation was our respective star signs. Told politely but firmly that we don't believe in that sort of thing, she replied, "Oh, you sure will if you spend much time with me!" Oy.
It's an odd building altogether. Small - only three floors - tucked lengthwise between a massive highrise and elegant row houses. Located on one of the more exclusive streets in the area (one down and around the corner from our ex-address) but seemingly only slowly becoming aware of it, renovating unit-by-unit as the people who've lived here for decades move out - often in coffins - and new faces move in. That is, people who aren't ninety-seven or so, and thus have no walkers to shove under a wobbly bathroom sink (true story from our friend's reno).
There are a decent handful of us modern young things, by now, enough that I can get an open wi-fi signal on the iTouch, but we are by no means in the majority. Especially since the geriatric contingent has all the dogs. Heavens t'Betsey, do they have dogs. Dogs and fussy balconies, those are the hallmarks. The astrology lady has a black poodle with a red scarf round its neck. She exercises it in the parking lot below us.
The whole place has rather the air of a genteel retirement condo, like the ones I saw in Florida. The walls in our hallway are the colour of vending-machine cocoa, the carpet is - probably - original, all dirt-hiding ruffles and swirls, and the whole gives me the feeling of being trapped in an antique chocolate box. Which is OK, there are worse feelings. At least I can walk down it without being overpowered by the smell of pot, which is more than you could say for our previous neighbors. From the timid baffled looks I have been getting whenever we meet, I have a feeling the tenants here still largely think of it as 'Marihuana, Demon Weed From Hell!' or whatever.
The apartment itself is nice. Having been renovated with a vengeance it is largely new, fixture-wise, meaning a blessedly turquoise-tile-free bathroom and - my personal favourite - no hours spent scrubbing Mystery Substance off the fridge crisper. Only people who've once taken over a basement apartment immediately after a couple frat boys can truly appreciate that favour forevermore, I suppose, but let me tell you, when you have, the relief is intense.
We have two bedrooms. At Shoemom's insistence, I have the master-suite. No whirlpool bath - I had halfway cherished hopes that it was standard, for arthritic therapy - but the much-aforementioned walk-in closet is all that I'd hoped it would be. Also what Shoemom hoped it would be, namely, a source of snarky goodness re: my clotheshorse tendencies, up to now shoved into a little hall closet. "Yeah, I can hardly wait to hear it: 'Ooh, I didn't know I had that top! I forgot about that skirt!' Etc, etc..." Moves really bring out Shoemom's latent sarcastic streak. Especially at the end of two days hauling boxes.
Besides the two bedrooms, there is a living room and dining area. This new spatial paradigm is going to take some getting used to. I hadn't realised how accustomed I'd been to someone automatically hearing me every time I spoke, so have been carrying on entire conversations with myself (see note re: Shoemom's sarcasm fodder, above). The concept of 'in another room' has lost all meaning, in five years. I find this both disturbing on reflection and oddly exhilarating in the here-and-now of discovery.
I'm here in my room, and I am alone. No strings attached...well, excepting the Big Box'o'Dresser silently accusing me over there. Ikea, I love you - especially since you invented those little plastic protective thingies so we don't tear our hands up tightening screws - but it's a difficult relationship in the early stages. It will be nice when it's done, though - a tall dresser with a big oval mirror. I am frankly gaga over big oval mirrors generally. They make reflections look more sophisticated, somehow.
Not so much in the emotional sense, although the sight of the Ikea dresser still to be put together on my new bedroom floor certainly isn't helping. And the huge blowout fight with Shoesis on the actual day...erm, yeah, we've got past that and everything. She's too busy planning out our new 'French country' living room, anyway.
Then there are the cats. Who remain deeply unsure about this strange new joint which contains all the old familiar smells, but...not. I can sympathise with their distress, but that doesn't mean I enjoy being waked up by a fishy little tongue to the nose at 2am to be 'told' about it.
Speaking of being told about it, our new next-door neighbor is an, um, sprightly little elderly lady whose first line of conversation was our respective star signs. Told politely but firmly that we don't believe in that sort of thing, she replied, "Oh, you sure will if you spend much time with me!" Oy.
It's an odd building altogether. Small - only three floors - tucked lengthwise between a massive highrise and elegant row houses. Located on one of the more exclusive streets in the area (one down and around the corner from our ex-address) but seemingly only slowly becoming aware of it, renovating unit-by-unit as the people who've lived here for decades move out - often in coffins - and new faces move in. That is, people who aren't ninety-seven or so, and thus have no walkers to shove under a wobbly bathroom sink (true story from our friend's reno).
There are a decent handful of us modern young things, by now, enough that I can get an open wi-fi signal on the iTouch, but we are by no means in the majority. Especially since the geriatric contingent has all the dogs. Heavens t'Betsey, do they have dogs. Dogs and fussy balconies, those are the hallmarks. The astrology lady has a black poodle with a red scarf round its neck. She exercises it in the parking lot below us.
The whole place has rather the air of a genteel retirement condo, like the ones I saw in Florida. The walls in our hallway are the colour of vending-machine cocoa, the carpet is - probably - original, all dirt-hiding ruffles and swirls, and the whole gives me the feeling of being trapped in an antique chocolate box. Which is OK, there are worse feelings. At least I can walk down it without being overpowered by the smell of pot, which is more than you could say for our previous neighbors. From the timid baffled looks I have been getting whenever we meet, I have a feeling the tenants here still largely think of it as 'Marihuana, Demon Weed From Hell!' or whatever.
The apartment itself is nice. Having been renovated with a vengeance it is largely new, fixture-wise, meaning a blessedly turquoise-tile-free bathroom and - my personal favourite - no hours spent scrubbing Mystery Substance off the fridge crisper. Only people who've once taken over a basement apartment immediately after a couple frat boys can truly appreciate that favour forevermore, I suppose, but let me tell you, when you have, the relief is intense.
We have two bedrooms. At Shoemom's insistence, I have the master-suite. No whirlpool bath - I had halfway cherished hopes that it was standard, for arthritic therapy - but the much-aforementioned walk-in closet is all that I'd hoped it would be. Also what Shoemom hoped it would be, namely, a source of snarky goodness re: my clotheshorse tendencies, up to now shoved into a little hall closet. "Yeah, I can hardly wait to hear it: 'Ooh, I didn't know I had that top! I forgot about that skirt!' Etc, etc..." Moves really bring out Shoemom's latent sarcastic streak. Especially at the end of two days hauling boxes.
Besides the two bedrooms, there is a living room and dining area. This new spatial paradigm is going to take some getting used to. I hadn't realised how accustomed I'd been to someone automatically hearing me every time I spoke, so have been carrying on entire conversations with myself (see note re: Shoemom's sarcasm fodder, above). The concept of 'in another room' has lost all meaning, in five years. I find this both disturbing on reflection and oddly exhilarating in the here-and-now of discovery.
I'm here in my room, and I am alone. No strings attached...well, excepting the Big Box'o'Dresser silently accusing me over there. Ikea, I love you - especially since you invented those little plastic protective thingies so we don't tear our hands up tightening screws - but it's a difficult relationship in the early stages. It will be nice when it's done, though - a tall dresser with a big oval mirror. I am frankly gaga over big oval mirrors generally. They make reflections look more sophisticated, somehow.
The only spots on my rosy cloud are the garbage bins immediately below our balcony. I am really surprised they haven't been enclosed by now due to one of the tenants claiming damage to a dog, but no luck. Could be the ownership is in secret, if horribly $#!$$% misguided, sympathy with the local raccoons who look on the bins as their 'personal dinner table', as friends put it.
Below us there is a bush from whence they come - I think the equivalent of a copse in UK usage - and below that there is the massive Mount Pleasant Cemetery. So - come to think if it - maybe preventing the 'coons from looking there for food is a noble public service. I'll see how that notion works on my garbage-phobia and get back to you.
Which will have to be my general motto for now, I guess. Besides the construction, we emptied the locker along with everything else, and Shoemom is now threatening to make me watch every single one of the approx. 2500 VHS tapes we hauled over because 'there might be something good on them, and how can I tellllll [whine moan whinge]...!' I did take the whole week off, though, so who knows, progress reports may not be out of the question.
