If I have been strangely silent for four days, it is only because I have been consumed by the task of moving. After much internal debate, I finally decided to move into a place of my own. I have not gone far; in fact I have only moved about 100 feet to a different apartment in the same complex. But, having moved many times in my life, I believe that short distance moves are more difficult. When I move arcoss the country, everything gets packed up into nice, neat boxes. This time, everything was just thrown into open boxes or carried by the armload. Down 19 steps, across the parking lot, and up 17 steps. Over, and over, and over, for the last three days, and still I am not finished. By day two I hurt so bad I could barely move. Yesterday, my calves were so sore I winced every time I went down the stairs.
The place really needed a deep cleaning prior to the furniture being moved, so I moved by day and cleaned by night, well into the wee hours. I concentrated on the areas where the furniture would be placed, washing walls and scrubbing baseboard and wood floors so that I would not have to move furniture once it was in place. The result is that I have three-quarters of the bedroom clean, half of the living room clean, and none of the bathroom done. The kitchen is complete; it was the first thing I tackled. For some reason, a woman just feels better when her kitchen is clean.
The few pieces of furniture that I still own were moved yesterday. Thankfully, I had help for the heavy stuff. The building owner set me up with a couple of homeless guys who do work around the complex and they were a godsend.
During all this, I completely lost my appetite and had to force myself to eat. I can now tell you that moving with temperatures in the mid-nineties, with humidity hovering near 100%, and with hardly anything to eat for three days, is not a prescription for success. I finally got my appetite back last night, thank goodness, although my carbohydrate-laden choice of baked ziti with eggplant parmesan and a garlic roll was probably not the best idea at 9 p.m., just moments away from rolling into bed.
I spent my first night in the new apartment last night. It is amazingly different from the one I was sharing with a friend. This one is tucked into the back of the complex rather than fronting on the street, thus it is much quieter, which suits me just fine. It is located in a complex of four buildings, all of which are historic home that were relocated to the current site and restored. Since the houses were all built between 1917 and 1936, they definitely have their quirks. I discovered yesterday there is no hot water in the kitchen (there is, however, hot water in the bathroom, thank goodness!) The oner, Jon Sheintal, says no one has ever reported that to him before and he’s going to look into it. He’s a pretty handy guy, so I suspect he’ll figure it out. The house in which my apartment is located is so old that the bedroom has no closet. When I pointed that out to Jon he offered to buy a free-standing wardrobe. I went to all of the local antique shops, secondhand stores, and used furniture outlets in search of one, but there were none to be had, so Jon found a really nice used TV/entertainment center and cut out the shelves to turn it into a wardrobe cabinet.
So here I am, sitting in my old velour recliner (I know, I know – it’s old and decrepit and I should get rid of it, but it’s SOOOOO comfortable), writing my very first post from my very own apartment. I feel like I’m 21 years old and just moving into my own place for the very first time. I’m positively giddy. That’ll probably pass, though. I’m guessing that reality will set in the first time a blob of water drops on my head from the condensation that builds up on the overhead air conditioning vents. I told you this was an old building! But with all its quirks and challenges, it’s mine, all mine!!!!!!