Dear J,

P and I have been together since 1999; unbelievably, more than twenty years ago now. When I saw a cute boy dancing on the nightclub stage, wearing a shirt with an attached neon light, I wasn’t thinking long term… and yet here we are.

That’s a happy surprise.

Less happy? Temps dropped down into the 50s this week, and the condo got chilly! We could build a fire, I guess? But I’m okay padding around in slippers and a bathrobe. No radiator heat yet; we’re supposed to see 70s next week. Once the heat goes on, our place will be tropically warm, and I’m happy to postpone that until winter really sets in.

A pub slash bar on a corner near us is closing today. I don’t know if we ever would have gone in, but it’s a queer-owned place, so… maybe? I was sad to see the sign on the door. Shouldn’t have been a surprise; I don’t know how any restaurants with a significant physical space are going to survive. We haven’t ordered in since the pandemic began, and our only time eating out was that stunningly good (and surprisingly expensive!) tasting menu on a windy street corner.

Our gourmet grocery store, meanwhile, has let us down, particularly in the area of pastries and pies. I was shocked when I found an apple pie with its bottom three quarters covered in mold. No more apple pies! Then it was a raspberry danish, different vendor, same mold. On Thursday, after taking an enthusiastic bite of one of my beloved blueberry muffins, my stomach sank. The little patch on top… that could just be crystallized sugar, right? I called Paul in for a consult. Verdict: moldy muffins.

I guess the good news is that I’ll be forced to eat healthier breakfasts?

I’m still playing with the bass for a couple hours each day. Turns out that if you want to progress at something, having good teachers and actually practicing the way they suggest… works?!

::hugs:: and more ::hugs:: and a whole lot of love

C/

Dear J,

Water is raining from our ceiling in the den. Also in our master bathroom. The property manager has been alerted, the people upstairs know (and are suffering more than us, I think) so all I think to do is sit and listen to the drips and hope the plumber gets here soon.

P wanted to get a condo a long while ago. I resisted; I didn’t want him to be the sole bread winner when we were condo hunting, I was afraid going through the mortgage process would be traumatic, and I always enjoyed (when things went sideways in our rented apartments) calling up the landlord and letting them deal with the hassle. I have to laugh, today, or I’d be crying; everything I feared about the home buying process has happened.

The lovely navy paint on the living room walls is puffed out, distorted with bulges full of the same yellow water that’s streaming through the ceiling fan in the master bath. All of our towels are soaked, all our back-up sheets drenched. I’m catching water in buckets and pans. I had to exile P to his office; I am somehow able to laugh, if a bit ruefully, but he is not quite there yet.

Hey! I hear the plumber’s voice, frantic footsteps upstairs, doors slamming. Is the crisis moving on to a new phase?

Next up, in the facing fears department: figuring out who’s going to pay for repairs, our insurance or the guys upstairs.

First, though, looks like I’ve got some cleaning up to do.

Love!

C/ 

Dear J,

We officially exhausted our redecoration budget with the purchase of new window shades. Fourteen in all, due to arrive whenever Amazon decides there isn’t more pressing stuff to deliver. Wood, not vinyl slats. I priced out indoor shutters, a la the sun room in Mom & Dad’s place; turns out I’m perfectly happy with simple wooden slats. We ordered a replica Eames chair and foot rest back in early March, which has yet to arrive. I was determined to buy American, and the chair is made in NY… so who knows when it’ll arrive?

I can’t complain. About anything. Well, okay, my right arm is still messed up. I’m starting to wonder if surgery might be necessary; the mystery won’t be resolved until the plague ends. For now, just a minor chronic owie. And I’m right back to ‘I can’t complain.’

P and I haven’t gotten take out or ordered in once since arriving in our new place; in the before times, we ate out about 75% of the time. I miss Chipotle! We’re starting to stock an emergency supply of nonperishable food items in case we both get ill at the same time.

Meanwhile, P is running an online role playing game for his dad, sister and eight year old nephew. It’s like Dungeons and Dragons, but aimed at a younger audience; the player characters are all dogs. Cute to hear three generations of his family laughing and shouting at each other via teleconferencing. (P does a voice for his rat characters that is a guaranteed crowd pleaser.)

I ventured into the grocery store today, mask and gloves on. Probably three quarters of people (all the employees!) wore masks, mostly improvised. I’m making lasagna this week, for the first time in decades. Waffles are also on the menu, thanks to a new waffle maker!

I can’t read about our federal government (or the Dem mayor of NYC) without feeling my spirits sink or, alternately, ignite spontaneously from anger. The economic storm could destroy the family store. This virus could kill Mom, you, me, anyone in the family. We aren’t getting back to safe (the old ‘normal’ is gone) without a smart, well-funded, well-executed plan. Step one of my plan would be to put Jared Kushner in public stocks and let people throw rotten fruit at him. I’m not a monster; I’d make sure everyone stayed ten feet away and only lobbed produce, not loogies.

Oooh, P just emerged from his office; he’s helping me hang art prints today. Probably better for me to focus on stuff I can actually influence…

Much love! 

C/