One holiday down, two to go
I can summarize Thanksgiving in one sentence: my mom's friends got drunker than she did, but fortunately we were in a restaurant (a weird place for a "family" holiday, but here in the big city, it's just me and mom), and behaved reasonably.
Post-holiday, I've been getting ready for the painters. I've been in this apartment for nine years, and the time for another coat of Benjamin Moore linen white -- not to mention plaster repair on my ceiling, due to water damage caused by my upstair's neighbor -- has come.
Bunny and I are going to stay chez Mom while the work is done. The painter said three days, but with contractors, it is hard to tell. They are, as one said to me, the ones who never handed in their homework in high school. It's a hard habit to break.
I turned in all my homework on time in high school; in college, I got to the point of telling my teachers when the paper would be ready, and didn't they already have a pile to grade; in grad school, I returned to timeliness.
More than twenty years out, procrastination is my middle name -- viz the nonappearance of the painters in a more timely manner. For the record, the last time my apartment desperately needed a paint job, I moved. But that is no longer an option, and if I think clearing surfaces (hey, I have a desk!) for the painter is a challenge, I can't begin to imagine packing up my entire household and relocating.
More than one friend has moved within her building: here, when you live in a well-run place, you don't tend to want to leave. New Yorkers are funny that way. The average American moves once every seven years; I know plenty of people who have been in their apartments for 40 years or more, and they are not likely to get out alive.
I do count getting out alive as one of my blessings, at least as this calendar year draws to a close. It hasn't been a pretty year. Ending two relationships, both of which began circa 1980, one with Clover's Companion and the other with The Croquet Player has unsettled my landscape. However, neither CC nor TCP had made lifelong commitments to me. But the idea of dating makes me cringe, so I'm putting it off: at this point in my quasi-agoraphobic life, I'd rather talk on the phone or watch TV. I used to be quite literary, but both reading and writing have fallen by the wayside, and I'm not ready to pick them up just yet.
This is the only writing I am doing these days, apart from letters to clients. (To receive income, you must interact with other people, particularly if your ancestors didn't invent something clever, like air or fire or water.) Mine did create a safety net for me, and it wasn't through the lucky sperm club. In my family, for many generations, the women have had the money, and few had children, so their largess is something I greatly value, appreciate, and know I am fortunate to have.
It has saved me from life in an office, which had a ten-year trial run that got nastier every year. And I have never taken a drug test as a condition of employment. What chemicals run through my body are between the shrink, the pharmacist and me. (Yes, the insurance company gets its notice, but I prefer not to think about them.)
Tomorrow, the Christmas buying season officially begins. My mailbox has been full of catalogs, so I'll do my shopping and shipping from the comfort of my own, soon to be white again, home.
Post-holiday, I've been getting ready for the painters. I've been in this apartment for nine years, and the time for another coat of Benjamin Moore linen white -- not to mention plaster repair on my ceiling, due to water damage caused by my upstair's neighbor -- has come.
Bunny and I are going to stay chez Mom while the work is done. The painter said three days, but with contractors, it is hard to tell. They are, as one said to me, the ones who never handed in their homework in high school. It's a hard habit to break.
I turned in all my homework on time in high school; in college, I got to the point of telling my teachers when the paper would be ready, and didn't they already have a pile to grade; in grad school, I returned to timeliness.
More than twenty years out, procrastination is my middle name -- viz the nonappearance of the painters in a more timely manner. For the record, the last time my apartment desperately needed a paint job, I moved. But that is no longer an option, and if I think clearing surfaces (hey, I have a desk!) for the painter is a challenge, I can't begin to imagine packing up my entire household and relocating.
More than one friend has moved within her building: here, when you live in a well-run place, you don't tend to want to leave. New Yorkers are funny that way. The average American moves once every seven years; I know plenty of people who have been in their apartments for 40 years or more, and they are not likely to get out alive.
I do count getting out alive as one of my blessings, at least as this calendar year draws to a close. It hasn't been a pretty year. Ending two relationships, both of which began circa 1980, one with Clover's Companion and the other with The Croquet Player has unsettled my landscape. However, neither CC nor TCP had made lifelong commitments to me. But the idea of dating makes me cringe, so I'm putting it off: at this point in my quasi-agoraphobic life, I'd rather talk on the phone or watch TV. I used to be quite literary, but both reading and writing have fallen by the wayside, and I'm not ready to pick them up just yet.
This is the only writing I am doing these days, apart from letters to clients. (To receive income, you must interact with other people, particularly if your ancestors didn't invent something clever, like air or fire or water.) Mine did create a safety net for me, and it wasn't through the lucky sperm club. In my family, for many generations, the women have had the money, and few had children, so their largess is something I greatly value, appreciate, and know I am fortunate to have.
It has saved me from life in an office, which had a ten-year trial run that got nastier every year. And I have never taken a drug test as a condition of employment. What chemicals run through my body are between the shrink, the pharmacist and me. (Yes, the insurance company gets its notice, but I prefer not to think about them.)
Tomorrow, the Christmas buying season officially begins. My mailbox has been full of catalogs, so I'll do my shopping and shipping from the comfort of my own, soon to be white again, home.
posted by alice, uptown at 1:33 AM
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