A Girl...

Moving On

It appears I have nothing to talk about besides the house. If you try to change the subject, I will ask if talking about our new neighbors counts as a different subject (yesterday we met Bud, who has lived next door since 1969 and has a swingset in his backyard for his eighty (or was it eighteen?) great-grandchildren and wears a hat that says "I'm retired. Don't ask me to do a damn thing"; I think he's the cutest). You will say no, talking about the neighbors isn't not a new subject, and then you will ask me what I think of the Gonzalez inquisition or the current immigration bill or, hell, even Lindsay Lohan, and I will have to smile politely and blink my eyes and hope you don't notice that I have absolutely nothing to say on those matters.

As anxious as I am to get into the new place (and harvest the summer veggies before they wither during the current heatwave), I'm trying to enjoy our final weeks in the apartment. I have to say, it's kind of hard what with the bathroom electrical outlet blowing up a few days ago (loud bang, ball of flame shooting out of the blowdrier as I held it four inches from my face) and the last day of school filling the streets with urchins fond of screaming contests. Now that the light at the end of the tunnel is illuminating a shiny new dishwasher, we've talked seriously about just packing up the dirty dishes instead of first handwashing them one last time before we pack them in newspaper and cardboard. Same with the laundry and the piles of unshelved books and the mountain of uncloseted shoes; it's bedlam, albeit temporary. Part of me wants to clean the place up so we can somewhat enjoy the next two to three weeks instead of curse them to high heaven, but part of me is content to just close my eyes to it all and think of better things (built-in cabinets, skylights, onsite washer and dryer), hoping I don't trip on the discarded socks and underwear on the bathroom floor.

Life continues to move forward, however, and between inspections with electricians and plumbers and structural engineers and meetings with brokers and realtors and passionate rendezvouses with the paint chips at Home Despot, we have band practices and gigs and freelance projects and extra office hours and resumés and grocery shopping and litterbox clearning and letters that need to be written and mailed off to grandma to thank her for the birthday card and twenty-dollar bill she sent nearly two months ago.

Yet all the while, my thoughts fixate on the future, and it's a greater task to be present in this time and place than it was when I moved apartments just eight months ago--partly because I was leaving behind things I'd clung to because they defined me, whereas this time I'm taking everything along and am also more open to being redefined. As I anticipate the changes to come, I'm taking time to reflect on the things that will soon enough be slices of a past life: Simon accompanying on drums while I play the piano (they'll be on separate floors in the new place), Eve smacking her kitty lips at the cooing pigeons (the new place has hummingbirds and sparrows, but nothing larger than a robin), hearing the landlord sing Chinese opera while he vacuums his upstairs apartment at 11 p.m. (much more charming than it sounds), leaving our rent check in his slippers at the bottom of the stairs (instead of putting our blood-signed mortgage check in the mail), throwing champagne glasses into a real fireplace (the new house has a schmancy gas insert fireplace), and playing the game "What's that Smell?"

In addition to the smells and the mess and the noise and the clutter, the current place--which we're already calling the "old" place--is full of love and good memories too. Luckily, we're taking those things with us, and they'll be the lightest load we carry.