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