Dear J,

We moved. On the day, I started off sitting on the toilet (lid down) in the master bath of our old apartment while a four person crew did all the hard work. Paul went ahead to the new place with a lightly tranquilized Miss Penny and introduced her to the empty new digs, which she seemed to dig, thank you Gabapentin! I smiled at the photos Paul sent of the cat while the sounds of torn packing tape and cheerful Spanish echoed off the emptying apartment’s walls.

Moving day winds me up tight these days. I woke up with the sun. I couldn’t rest until we slalomed through a long series of checkpoints, ending with: wave goodybe to the movers. Then I shut my eyes for 30 minutes before springing up from the mattress on the floor, anxious to unpack boxes and open up rooms.

There’s much more still to do. But we’ve reached the point where every room in the place is in a first draft state.

And I can’t move anymore.

Love,

C/

Dear J,

Will our movers show up on Friday? They’re classed as an essential service, so it’s legal. I wouldn’t blame them for delaying, though we’d be stuck squatting in our current place until the end of the emergency. I somehow don’t feel any urge to complain. Compared to most folks, we’re in a good spot.

The virus is in our neighborhood. The sellers left behind a bike they wanted a friend to pick up; the friend, Tim, was supposed to meet us this Sunday. He canceled. Four people in his building are in self-quarantine; Tim’s scared he’s got the thing.

I cleaned the new place today. Our original plan was to hire a professional crew, but that didn’t feel cricket, quite, with the shelter in place order imminent. I used disinfectant to clean every inch of the kitchen countertops, cabinet doors and hardware, and of course the appliances. Ditto for light switches. I mopped the hardwood floors; I brushed dust off the leaves of the ficus tree we inherited. Lemon oil was fighting with the smell of fresh paint (but losing) when I locked up the place for the day.

The painters took down all the window treatments; they did not put them back up. That’s a project that’ll require both Paul and I; my right arm is still wonky, and particularly bad at reaching up. Normal times, I might ask my doc to investigate my shoulder more thoroughly; for now, I’m content with a heating pad, Advil and the mild muscle relaxant he already prescribed. Window treatments can wait.

There’s a retirement home near our rented apartment; usually bustling. Quiet today. Just a hand full of residents out, half in masks.

Did I tell you the painters got my direction wrong? In the rush to get it done, they used the peach I intended for the guest bedroom in the dining room; the guest bed they did in ivory. The funny thing is, I like the way it came out. There’s a logic to using the same ivory color for the common/public areas (halls and kitchen) and the guest bedroom. And the peach in the dining room looks sweet next to the naval blue in the living room.

Again, different times, I might have insisted that the crew stick around long enough to make the paint job match my original vision. But I felt like I was quitting while I was ahead. The work they did restoring the crown molding is remarkable; the paint lines aren’t perfect, but they’re sharper than their predecessors’ work.

I actually felt good handing over the last installment of payment to my lead contractor. Five guys worked on our place; five guys will have a little bit of cash to weather the drought ahead.

Let’s hope we get through this thing soon.

Love!

C/

Dear J,

I think its messed up that some men will only respect you if you behave like a silverback gorilla, pounding your chest and roaring with your teeth bared.

That’s what happened with my contractors this morning, though. I tore apart the owner last night, over the phone and via email, and today the mood in the place was suddenly… cheerful and professional. I glared, and everywhere I looked people sprang into action. Let me rewind a bit.

On Friday, the contractors left a piece of the marble countertop we removed propped up precariously by my neighbor’s back door. Nice couple, unique in the complex in that they have kids. Small kids. At the age when poking at shiny stuff like… a marble countertop is a tempting prospect.

I called my contractor the moment I saw it, late Friday afternoon.

“It’ll be gone before the end of the day, I promise, Christopher.”

Sunday, noon, when next I stopped by the place, there the marble sat. Still hanging on to the chain link fence by a piece of wire. I felt physically ill. So many timelines, one of those kids got hurt.

“What? No! I am so sorry, Christopher, someone will be there in an hour!”

Fast forward TWO and a half hours later on Sunday; my contractor’s guy breezed in. He started to make an obviously insincere apology. I instinctively batted my arm in the air, as if I was knocking words out of the sky.

“Get this DONE!” I roared. And they did! When I got home Sunday afternoon, I wrote up an addendum to my deal with my contractor, stipulating that his men keep the back staircase clear enough that they’d let their own kids play there, that trash goes into a dumpster, and, oh yeah, everything gets done a day before move in day. I offered to hand over the second third of his payment if he agreed to those terms.

“Thank you, Christopher. Of course, Christopher. I promise, no more stressing you out. I promise!”

Why do I have to glare, stomp and shout to get these guys to behave and not, e.g., leave marble slabs where children could be injured? It’s primal. Literally uncivilized!

The cast of characters in our new building is colorful. One middle-aged owner likes to circle the building during her free time, picking up trash and checking the dumpsters to be sure the lids are snugly closed. (‘Because the building could be fined if they aren’t!’ she told us. Um. Okay, thanks for your service!) The lady in the unit next to ours is a day drinker, the kind who doesn’t bother with mints to hide the smell of booze on her breath. Older than you; she looked disappointed when I told her we were quiet, and didn’t throw parties.

Our strategy moving forward vis a vis all these melodrama-hungry souls is benign neglect; if they ignore us, we’ll cheerfully do the same.

To get moved into the place in a timely fashion, we’ve decided to (at least for now) forego in-unit laundry. The pipes weren’t designed to handle the units theni old owners had, and for all but the smallest washer/dryer units we would need to add an electrical subpanel. Which could impact other residents!

Lesson #1 from this condo renovation: Everything that potentially impacts other residents requires approval from Kane management company. The guy in charge of our complex is a Mr. NAME OBSCURED. He’s not dumb, exactly, just extremely averse to doing anything that resembles work. He says incorrect stuff with conviction, never concedes error and behaves as if he’s paying me, rather than the reverse.

Working with him is a powerful incentive to avoid any future renovation efforts. Some progress has been made, though.

The contrast between the very faint green on the walls and the gunmetal tile we picked out for the office bathroom tickles me, despite the walled off dead zone, longing for a washer and dryer. That’s the only room with dry paint. I can’t wait to see the other colors go up. But we have an Internet connection in the new place! Also power and gas. A queen sized mattress and adjustable bedframe, in boxes and shrink wrap, are waiting in the master bedroom. Paul’s new office chair, shrouded in plastic, sits in the middle of the guest bedroom.

I think it’s going to be lovely. But I also feel keenly the urge to hunker down. I think this COVID19 thing could be with us until June. God, I hope not! But after all the passion of the design phase for the condo I’m suddenly more concerned with pragmatic stuff than getting the place camera ready. (Besides, two pieces – our imitation Eames chair and a steamer trunk made by the Amish – won’t be in place for months.)

I’m proud of our siblings for shutting the family store down in the wake of COVID19. Relieved that Mom is seeing it clearly for the threat it is. If I didn’t have to keep going over to the new place (tomorrow it’s accepting a grout delivery and the barn door for Paul’s office) I’d stay cemented at home. 

Love!

C/

Dear J,

Today, everyone in the house has anxiety medication available in case of emergency. I took Penny in for a routine vet visit yesterday; my sweet friend pretended to be feral. She made a long string of awful noises towards our vet; after an unsuccessful attempt on her part to chomp on poor Dr. Hudson’s hand, he asked was it okay if maybe we (meaning Paul and I) clipped her claws at home? And maybe next time we brought her in we could slip her some anti-anxiety meds a couple hours before the visit?

A day later, and I don’t think Penny has quite forgiven me yet. Bright Side Department: Moving Day will be easier for Penny if she’s on Kitty Quaaludes.

P and I still need to source two sets of nightstands, a queen sized headboard, and steamer trunk. But that’s pretty much it! I’ve really enjoyed the home design process, and sourcing stuff wasn’t so bad, but actually spending large sums of money (I discovered) makes me mildly queasy. Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t go wild… our Eames chair is a reproduction, about $6K less than the official version, and the Womb Chair cost essentially the same amount.

But still something in me cringes, watching those bank balance numbers shrink.

Still recovering from my fall the other day. I can make a fist with my left hand, which is progress. Not much grip strength, though. No video games for at least another week. My right shoulder is still wonky; I suspect that one is going to take a long time to resolve itself. In my college years, I went on a hiking trip with friends; we wound up going down a mountain in the dark, and in the process I messed my knees. Took years for the pain to go away, and I was a whippersnapper back then.

I can’t complain, though. Despite our family’s history of troubles and woe, I feel like I must be one of the luckiest people to ever walk the planet.

I mean, I have you in my life. Not to mention Penny and P.

Love,

C/