Category Archives: moving

My Many Lives

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Does her Highness, the Queen of England pick her nose or is she walking around with 80 year old boogers?  These are things that come to me when I am not sleeping.

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It’s San Francisco, where a street car can just be hangin’

You may remember my casually mentioning in the last post that I was supposed to be getting the last of my furniture that they had been using to tart the old pace up.  They being the staging company who was charging me to use my own furniture to decorate my own home.  I have come to believe you need to simply embrace absurdity.  Is there any escape from it?

I had seen the house post staging, I admit, it looked better.  More modern, less shabby and stylish.  My realtor assured me what they were going for was “aspirational.”  I think they succeeded,  I looked at my own house with a vague idea that I wished I lived like that.

Anyway, that was when I noticed that the stager, who had pointed out a few specific pieces he was particularly struck by and asked if he might use them in the project.  I said sure; I was moving, what did I care?  It didn’t occur to me that he was talking about my favorite pieces of home wares and that I would be doing without them until the house sold.

The reality sank in as Super Agent Fred and I were arranging my new digs and I kept announcing “oh no, no. The ‘insert gilded mirror, console, skull and bones couch, whatever really cool item that I loved and which was still at the house, being cool there.’ ”   Consequently, each room has qa bare spot in it, reserved for whatever beauty was going to someday live there.

Well. someday, came today and it was just as chaotic and shrill as the first moving day.  My building management took exception to the moving truck blocking the driveway; another apartment was moving in simultaneously and there were a few polite, but tense exchanges about hogging the elevator; and at the end of the day, my apartment, which had settled into a charming and cozy and pretty little place to hang your head was once again stuffed with boxes and littered packing paper and mirrors and art leaning against the wall just waiting to stub my toe.  Ah me.

I made a half-hearted attempt at pushing things into piles that would possibly be considered, by the more generous minded, to make sense, but then I just said “Fuck it,” fed the cat (who adores the chaos of moving days,) and went out to my favorite restaurant for strawberry shortcake.  Because the big mess here at home will last; strawberries will not.

Tomorrow will be here soon enough.  In fact it’s tomorrow right now.  I have an engagement with “Big Louie” to come take the cedar chest that once belonged to my Great-aunt Lucille and which I have clung to and used with love since 1977 to my favorite niece, Lotus, who of all my brothers’  children is the only one with any sense and with a nice house.  The stager has also agreed with alacrity to take the beautiful, beautiful acrylic and glass coffee table which has to be one of the most gorgeous pieces of furniture I’ve ever had in my greedy clutches.  I have tried to fit it into every nook, cranny, triangle and unlikely position, up to and including the bathroom, but it simply will not fit.  So adieu, oh beloved.  Of course the stager agreed to take it, he got an erection just looking at it.  But so did I.   Oh, well.

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The lovely table, in situ , in New Orleans long ago

So I’m still content, just with a exciting and new project: redecorating the apartment I finished decorating last week.

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I need an assistant, a PERSONAL assistant, to handle all these taxing demands

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As the brilliant Julie Brown once said “Smart guys are nowhere, they make demands
Give me a moron with talented hands”

I want to Break Free

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Having, more or less, survived our brush with garage sale greatness, the fucking garage was still not empty, which had been the actual goal.  The cash was a nice extra, but I was supposed to deliver a cleaned out garage for my snooty real estate company, which wanted to roll out a premier, hmmmmm, oh, you know something like, I don’t know, uhm, TODAY.

So yesterday I put an ad on Craigslist, the Press of the Great Unwashed, that announced “Garage Full of Stuff Free.” the ad itself ran:

“I’m moving out and need get rid of several chairs, a nice square dining table or game table, an old timey tv cabinet, a 6 foot long coffee table, a fancy chinoiserie chest, an antique Asian cabinet and a mahogany sideboard. Also two matching 7 foot tall bookcases, and two matching 30 inch tall bookcases.

I will be at the house from 11:00 to 1:00 and 3:00 to 5:00. The address is 47 Malta Drive off O’Shaughnessy.

Do not email and ask about specific pieces. By the time I reply and you see the answer it could be gone.

Look, I’m giving away free furniture. The least you can do is come look.”

I also stuck in some photos cause that’s what attracts the rubes.

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The star of the show

Naturally everyone emailed me anyway demanding the red chest, although the mahogany sideboard was pretty popular too.  I replied along the lines of “I’m not promising any piece to anyone.  You just have to come see if it’s available. And by the way, I said Don’t. Email. Me.”  That REALLY drove them crazy.

And then, just as I was walking out the door to go over and start the Great Giveaway, Comcast finally called me back and said “I can be there in 15 minutes and give you the internet connection you’ve been whining about.”  Well, hello?  What would you have gone with?  Furthering the dreams of loser hoarders or getting back online.  Of course I said yes, and figured, they can’t start till I get there and unlock the doors.

Beyond any deserved good luck, my realtor’s assistant was at the house and agreed to throw open the gates at the assigned time in my place.  By the time an hour later when I got there, there was nothing left but shattered bits and pieces and possibly blood. Andrew, who is sweet and demure said the scene was quite something.  A line down the block, people bringing huge tucks, snarling old ladies.  When he did let them in, he said it was a mad scramble and every one of them demanding the red Chinese chest, little knowing that Andrew’s girlfriend had already seen it and wanted it too.  Andrew, being a bright lad, knew which side his bread was buttered on, or his dick greased on anyway, stood fast against the hoards and in the end delivered the chest to his lady love.  It’s so romantical.

So all I did was sort of half ass sweep up the fragments and tell late comers to just keep moving.  What amazes me is that of all the things grabbed and yanked, no one took the two large matching book cases.  I know people don’t read anymore, but don’t they put things away?  Apparently not.  Goths at the gates, darlings, goths at the gate.

Anyway, if you want to see the house all tarted up, go here mrpeenee, staged

I still want the video with the aerial drone and they keep promising it to me, but it’s more like trying to calm some tantrum loving snot in the middle of a parking lot shrieking and kicking.

here’s some naked guy, just in case:

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I picked him cause I have painted one wall in my new apartment that same turquoise.   It’s very cheery.

 

I Feel Moved

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So at long last , after a series of crises that would have knocked the shit out of Job, I have triumphed and am not only living in my lovely mew apartment, but have just finished the long anticipated last haul.  Considering I started this process on April 5th (my birthday, sweetly enough.)  I don’t think I have ever been so physically exhausted and at one point during what turned from moving from simple relocation into some kind of  Death March, Super Agent Fred confided to our friend he had never seen me so stressed out.  And this is a friend who saw me through the dark days of R Man’s dying and death.

It was bad and one day I will recount the horrors.  let this stand as a symbol: yesterday (I think it was yesterday, it’s all a blur) I was stuck in very slow bumper to bumper traffic on an of ramp and briefly just dozed off.  I was awakened by the thud of my bumper hitting a very nice young woman who has since texted me and said there was no harm, so don’t worry about it.  I did not reveal to her that as son as I realized I had hit her, all I felt was a mild annoyance.  “Oh christ, not one more thing” was pretty much my whole summation of the event.

So anyway, here’s a picture of my new apartment with me,more or less conscious.

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I’m flying.  You need to imagine it without the cast collection of lampshades.

I’m sorry, I will write more soon, but I am beyond exhaustion. I am running on nothing but frazzled nerves at this point.  Look for scintillating insights and random punctuation soon.  Very soon.

Also, a naked youth

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For Sale

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I assume this is true both philosophically true as well as applying to the massive buttocks pictured below.

Yes, I am selling my house and moving to a smaller place down in the world famous gay neighborhood, the Castro.  Why?  I love my house here, being located in this canyon means it is amazingly quiet and peaceful for being in the very center of San Francisco, but I need the money.  Apparently, since R Man and I bought it 21 years ago, it has become worth a buttload of money.  That is a real estate technical term.  If I were to access that buttload, I would return to my previous status of Wealthy Widow.  I’m not wild about being a widow, but if you have to be one, wealthy is definitely the way to go.
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First, some muscle pussy, cause this is a really long post and you need something to get you through it.

I met with a couple of realtors, the first was Ruth, whom I kept calling Julie and who turned out to be a Mean Girl.  She has been dismissed from our lives.  Let us speak of her no more.  The second, Wendy, was much more to my liking, a lesbian of a certain age, who was much more complimentary to my house and decorating (tip to realtors wooing potential clients: do not diss a gay man’s decor) but the selling point was the first thing.  She came in, we walked up to the dining room so I could show her the garden before it got dark and she said “What a beautiful ceanothus.”  Sold.  The ceanothus is this big shrub right in the middle of my garden that this time of year is covered in purple flowers.  I think this particular one is the best I’ve ever seen, it is my pride and joy, and she knew what it was.  We had a long very interesting talk, without her realizing she had already won.
So, she’s with Sotheby’s.  Oh my dear, oh yes.  They’re going to produce a booklet about the house, the samples of which she showed me were the most expensive looking printed material I’ve ever seen outside of a good book store.  And a VIDEO.  Not just a video, but one shot with a drone for aerial views.  I am not making this up.  When it’s online I’ll post the link.
The plan both proposed was for a stager to redo the house.  Wendy was much more delicate about urging it, but apparently when asking for the buttload of money I want, staging is a must.  I had already known I would have to repaint.  My stairwell and upstairs hall are painted black.  Counting on someone to dig the black hall seemed like a long shot.  How many Goth kids are in the real estate market these days?  So the stagers will handle all the painting and repairing a barely functional shower that has been the bane of Diane von Austinburg’s visits for years.  They will use their own furniture, thus I’m moving before I sell the place.  Life is so complicated.
The big problem, as usual, is Saki.  I have to get him and the eau de kitty out.  So we’re going to move out, rent some place for the time it takes to fix up the house, show it, sell it and then find a new one to buy.  Did I mention that point?  I’m buying a small place down in the Castro, hopefully for a great deal less than what I sell this one for.   I am actually OK with the moving out part, I do not want to be dodging the realtor showing the house and it is the only way to get rid of the cat smell.
Once I  resigned myself to selling the house, the first thing I thought of was holding an estate sale.  Imagine the thrill of not just going to one but being the ruler of it. I have invited Diane von Austinburg to act as co-ruler, I’d love it.  She is considering it.  Think of the thrill of watching people fight over the crap she and I have dragged back from various thrifting adventures over the years.  I cannot wait.  And I am serious about unloading.  Everything must go.  I’m keeping my bed, and few other bits and pieces, but aside from that, it is all on.  Make me an offer for the cat and I will consider it.
Last night I was organizing my vast porn collection to give away and wound up with the floor of my bedroom covered in stacks of magazines (I had decided to organize them by titles.  I now have no idea why)  It was exhausting, and as I dragged my poor aching carcass to bed, I thought “I’m going to trip over this in the dark on a pee run.”  I was too tired to care and a few hours later, sure enough, coming back in, tripped and went down like the Titanic.  Fortunately, I already had an appointment with my chiropractor and he helped, but I am still sore.  Why is life so hard?
Here’s one last look at Chez Moi:
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My living room

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My favorite rug,  The center is a lantern hanging from a branch protruding from a cliff.  Love.

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A tiny little Danish modern bureau which

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ta-dah, converts to a vanity when you flip up the top.

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My room, where absolutely no magic happens.  That red lump on the cedar chest is Saki napping in one of his many, many beds scattered around the place.

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When the relator I like showed up, the first thing I said was “I blame everything on the cat.”

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And finally, my late, great smut collection, now handed off to some weird guy from Oakland who repeatedly announced he had OCD.  Whatever.  Adieu, my paper dolls. God love you and thank you for the countless hours (cumulatively) you have given me.

Boxing Day

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Sorry I’ve been distracted, but I’ve been shipping off all kinds of goodies to New Orleans and my life has been an absolute whirl of packing tape and cartons and pissed off kitties who do not appreciate change, not one bit.

I have known for months and months that I would be sending all the furniture and knick knacks I’ve bought here so of course that meant I completely ignored packing until the night before the movers came calling to load up the Pod when I burst into a frenzy of relocation.

Have you heard of the wonders of the Pod?  The company drops off a shipping container in your driveway,  you stuff it full of your flotsam, and they pick it back up to ship it off to your destination.  It’s possible flying monkeys are involved.

Part of the thrill of dealing with the company is announcing that “the pod people are coming on Wednesday,” which sounds a lot like the vilains from some cheesy 50’s sci-fi flick are dropping by for drinks and a couple of hands of bridge.

Naturally, I have spent the last few days since the pod left bumping into things I meant to ship off in it.  Books.  Linens.  Speakers.  Cats that refuse to stop pissing in the corner because they’re mad that I shipped the bed I thought of as mine but turns out it’s “ours.”  Stuff.

I’m not Mad at You, I’m Mad at the Dirt. Wait, Maybe I am Mad at You

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It is, as so many things are, all my mommy’s fault. When I was just a wee little duckling, she had me store my toys in separate boxes, one for my cars, one blocks, one for Legos, you get the picture. So now when I say I cleaned up my garage I don’t mean I sort swept the bigger pieces of dirt into the corners and called it a day. O baby, no. I hauled every single item out, tried to talk myself into throwing it away (up to and including our car) and if I absolutely couldn’t, I shoved it, neatly, under the stairs where I can’t see it.

I understand my goal of having an empty garage is a futile one. The purpose, after all, is storage, and yet the thrill of big open spaces is so powerful. I don’t want a garage, I want the steppes of Russia.

The best part was that R Man and I were able to work together on a project without me turning into Baby Jane. I do not play well with others. On jobs around the house, I tend towards snarky bitchiness and my sweet, sweet boyfriend has borne the brunt of this way too many times. So to be able to successfully hang up a ladder (hoo hoo) without swerving towards Divorce Court is more of an accomplishment than it might sound.

Boyfriend was so relieved to come out of it with his skin in one piece, he even allowed me to dump the ratty little dresser he’s had for decades. He found it on the street in the French Quarter and dragged it home (just like me!) and has kept it ever since (just like me!) It served us long and well, but time to go is time to go and thanks to craigslist, it’s gone. So farewell, loyal bureau, godspeed, and may the underwear of others repose in your semi-sturdy embrace for years to come.

On a separate note, go immediately to Fabulon and watch the Official Fabulon Video http://thombeau.blogspot.com/2007/07/official-video-of-fabulon.html . The thrill of a glammed-out Dame Shirley Bassey covering one of the great anthems of our time is not to be missed.

I Gotcher Box Right Here, Baby

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I want to go see “Stardust”, don’t you? Everyone who agrees with me that the prospect of seeing Robert De Niro in cancan drag is too fabulous to pass up should plan on getting in line behind me. And it has Rupert Everett (who was probably trying on the cancan underwear every time De Niro took it off) just in case there isn’t sufficient poofiness.

I cleaned out the garage last night in a burst of suburban housefrau madness which I am so regretting now as I sit here achy and tired and even crabbier than usual. The garage does look pretty tidy, I must say. It’s very gratifying. Plus, along with a bunch of stuff destined for the Goodwill limbo, I found a big stack of moving boxes, so I offered them on Craigslist for free and suddenly my email is full of new friends, lusting after my boxes. That’s very gratifying, too.

I gotta go.

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