Just because you're living in hell
doesn't mean you have to give up on aesthetics and sustenance. Surviving packing requires having one space you can turn to for solace. In my case, it's a pitcher of Casablanca lilies and wild sweet peas. The view outside isn't bad either.
Another requirement in preparing for a move is sustenance. It's imperative to keep up your strength, especially when it's 120 degrees in the attic. My regimen for several days has been starting my morning off with a half of bagel smeared with Neufchatel (it has 1/3 less calories than cream cheese) and sliced, fresh garden tomatoes picked up at the farmer's market. Then I sprinkle a little kosher salt on top and it's a dazzling way to start the day.
If you can find the kitchen in the photos, note the watermelon on the counter. I have single-handedly polished off two previous whole watermelons this summer. For some reason, I've given up coffee. I was a six-cups-a-day gal prior to this. Just didn't want coffee anymore I discovered one morning. Coffee has been replaced by an unquenchable thirst. So ice water and watermelon have become my mainstays. Food, in general, is very important to me; especially the preparation thereof. Have I let this chaos slow down my entertaining? Mais non! Last night I served perfectly grilled filet mignon, a pasta salad dressed in a basil, lemon, yogurt dressing and summer squash and onions steamed in butter. Perhaps forgotten today, but well received last night.
Which brings me to today. I have spent a good deal of it in what my ex and I tenderly referred to as "the hole." We'd both whine, "I don't want to go in the hole, you go in the hole." The hole is where things like Christmas ornaments and out of season clothes are kept. Today, on August 10, I have just taken out my summer clothes and Christmas ornaments I might add. What have I been wearing, you might ask. Good question. I ripped the top off that tupperware tub, found the flimsiest garment possible, peeled off my sticky clothes and put on a skimpy dress.
The hole is more Viet Cong torture tunnel than attic crawl space. When you are in there you believe you'll never get out. You hyperventilate and sweat. You are on all fours and your knees are screaming. Then, in the dark, you have to grab a BIG bucket and drag it out backwards. Once out you believe the media should arrive to take photos of this incredible save, like going down a well and pulling up a two year old who fell in. Alas, no media (grateful for that) but, also, no one here to say, thanks, good job.
The holes (yes, there are two of them), and the upstairs altogther have been the part of the move I've been most fearing. You have a big tub that you need to wrestle around a very tight spiral staircase. You can't see in front of you so you must ever so slowly wend your way down to the main level of the house. By that point, I'm usually shaking and have to sit down and calm myself for a few minutes. The upstairs is also the repository for all things we never wanted to look at but someday might need: paper supplies, craft items, extra bedding, stacks of art, knitting supplies, bags of bags (my problem), cast-aside electronics, jewelry trunk, on and on. Judge for yourself in photo number 4. Okay, if it looks bad it's because it is bad. Really bad. I can barely stand up in the space, I'm trying to separate out my stuff from the ex's stuff and have no where to put it. I need a professional organizer for this job.
I'm promising myself that I will have a giant tag sale after I move. (Condo rules do not permit tag sales here. My new house is the perfect place for a tag sale). But will I? That would require talking to strangers and haggling. I'm an intense introvert and I hate haggling. Maybe I can hire one of those estate companies to come in and unburden me. But will I? Do I want to part with the silverplate antique tea set my mother gave me? Do I want to part with the lovely, soft paste, sprigware tea set that once belonged to Mr. Swift, whom I never met, but whose taste in all things was perfection? I don't think so. I could give up the gaudy dutch cup and saucer, the Limoges cups and saucers with violets on them, the Chinese tea set with the "thousand faces" pattern on it. There are things I can part with. But will I? Well, we'll see.
Another requirement in preparing for a move is sustenance. It's imperative to keep up your strength, especially when it's 120 degrees in the attic. My regimen for several days has been starting my morning off with a half of bagel smeared with Neufchatel (it has 1/3 less calories than cream cheese) and sliced, fresh garden tomatoes picked up at the farmer's market. Then I sprinkle a little kosher salt on top and it's a dazzling way to start the day.
If you can find the kitchen in the photos, note the watermelon on the counter. I have single-handedly polished off two previous whole watermelons this summer. For some reason, I've given up coffee. I was a six-cups-a-day gal prior to this. Just didn't want coffee anymore I discovered one morning. Coffee has been replaced by an unquenchable thirst. So ice water and watermelon have become my mainstays. Food, in general, is very important to me; especially the preparation thereof. Have I let this chaos slow down my entertaining? Mais non! Last night I served perfectly grilled filet mignon, a pasta salad dressed in a basil, lemon, yogurt dressing and summer squash and onions steamed in butter. Perhaps forgotten today, but well received last night.
Which brings me to today. I have spent a good deal of it in what my ex and I tenderly referred to as "the hole." We'd both whine, "I don't want to go in the hole, you go in the hole." The hole is where things like Christmas ornaments and out of season clothes are kept. Today, on August 10, I have just taken out my summer clothes and Christmas ornaments I might add. What have I been wearing, you might ask. Good question. I ripped the top off that tupperware tub, found the flimsiest garment possible, peeled off my sticky clothes and put on a skimpy dress.
The hole is more Viet Cong torture tunnel than attic crawl space. When you are in there you believe you'll never get out. You hyperventilate and sweat. You are on all fours and your knees are screaming. Then, in the dark, you have to grab a BIG bucket and drag it out backwards. Once out you believe the media should arrive to take photos of this incredible save, like going down a well and pulling up a two year old who fell in. Alas, no media (grateful for that) but, also, no one here to say, thanks, good job.
The holes (yes, there are two of them), and the upstairs altogther have been the part of the move I've been most fearing. You have a big tub that you need to wrestle around a very tight spiral staircase. You can't see in front of you so you must ever so slowly wend your way down to the main level of the house. By that point, I'm usually shaking and have to sit down and calm myself for a few minutes. The upstairs is also the repository for all things we never wanted to look at but someday might need: paper supplies, craft items, extra bedding, stacks of art, knitting supplies, bags of bags (my problem), cast-aside electronics, jewelry trunk, on and on. Judge for yourself in photo number 4. Okay, if it looks bad it's because it is bad. Really bad. I can barely stand up in the space, I'm trying to separate out my stuff from the ex's stuff and have no where to put it. I need a professional organizer for this job.
I'm promising myself that I will have a giant tag sale after I move. (Condo rules do not permit tag sales here. My new house is the perfect place for a tag sale). But will I? That would require talking to strangers and haggling. I'm an intense introvert and I hate haggling. Maybe I can hire one of those estate companies to come in and unburden me. But will I? Do I want to part with the silverplate antique tea set my mother gave me? Do I want to part with the lovely, soft paste, sprigware tea set that once belonged to Mr. Swift, whom I never met, but whose taste in all things was perfection? I don't think so. I could give up the gaudy dutch cup and saucer, the Limoges cups and saucers with violets on them, the Chinese tea set with the "thousand faces" pattern on it. There are things I can part with. But will I? Well, we'll see.
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