DATELINE: Last Friday
I worked for 25 years at this desk.
That's the site from which the Bleat was arranged and sent into the world for a quarter century. I loved it. The view of the blossoming trees or the dog in the yard. The pull-out keyboard tray. The hole in the desk for cords. The storage in the back where I had coffee cans of burned DVDs, all my work, all my family movies. (Backups, of course.)
The last day for the desk was Friday. I did my last podcast there. In the afternoon I had to take more things Fredwise, of course, because that’s all I do this month. Schlep boxes. This time it was all the stuff from the medical supply drawer. I’m set for all sorts of contusions and abrasions and limb-loss now. Moved the rack of Capitol Ultra-Lounge CDs. I never listen to them, they’re all ripped - but they’re a reminder of another era, artifacts from the AM 1500 Diner -
Just got a call from the TV delivery people. They advised me that I am the first stop Saturday morning, at 7 AM. If that doesn't work they will have to reschedule me for another day. But - but - but no, no. I have to have the TV for the first night. That’s the whole plan. One night of setting everything up for good, ending with the computer taken Saturday morning to the new place after the last night of work. No no no. Okay, I'll pick it up myself.
As for the last Fridays, I was told at 8:15 that I had to help clean the small flecks of mouse urine off a metal rack with Brasso. I take her word that they’re mouse urine. Of course it must be done, because time is short and the estate sale is next week and someone might not buy the big wire racks because they look at a small dark spot the size of a head of a pin, and rear back in horror. I suspect that if I am tasked with mouse urine removal at 8:15 on Friday night, I will be tasked with other things that will make the Last Night at The Desk an irrational, ridiculous thing to insist upon having, particularly when there is so much to be done. Maybe I’ll make it next Friday. Maybe I won’t have it at all.
And maybe that’s fine. I give up. I just fargin’ give up.
Okay, off to clean mouse urine.
UPDATE: I asked for, and received permission, to use a razor blade to remove the dark flecks. It was easier than grinding in the Brasso, and less odorous.
SATURDAY NIGHT, LATE
In the afternoon the house was full of commotion for party prep, STBF and sis-in-law. I excused myself early and went to the Giant Swede’s to meet up, because he was helping me get the new TV into the Hip New Place. It is large but not as large as he thinks I should have. He was pushing for the the 85”, and I demurred: 65” is enough, given the space. It is bigger than any TV I’ve had. Given the distance ‘twixt screen and sofa, it’s practically an IMAX. We collected it at Best Buy, cursed may ever be their name now, got it into the unit with ease on a dolly, attached the base, and Bob, he was, and is, your uncle.
“Should’ve gotten the 85”, just saying,” he said, and I was unaccountably emotional about the ribbing: I don’t want any of this to be happening and it is happening and can I just have my TV size decisions validated
We went back to his place for coffee. Discussed the problems he’s having with his trees. The utility company sent a note that made it sound as if they are hell-bent on chopping two of them down, and one is a particularly magnificent specimen that provides shade and stature and gravitas to the backyard. That’s something I don’t have to think about anymore, I thought. Trees, and my personal, emotional, and financial relationship to them. Then I went back to the Fred, where I hooked up my computer and despaired at the mess of cords I would now have to conceal. But everything worked, and I could feel the office assuming a solid role as a solid space for labors. At three I returned to the house, still in party prep mode, sisterly bickering. I took a nap. I have about 14 naps left on that bed.
Around four I fed Birch two of his tranks. Guests were expected to arrive after five, so we left in advance. Birch was considerably more relaxed, due to the tranks, but unsure; why are we here, again? It’s familiar, but it’s not. You have no idea what I am smelling. Eventually he just sat down and stared while I put together a corner lamp. It’s okay.
I'll have to get a plant for the shelf, of course. It's the law.
Then I made supper, the first in the HNP. A hamburger, with all the trimmings. It was underwhelming, and felt odd, because I had all these practiced motions and routines transplanted to a new space and new machines, and I’d chosen a most insuperior mince, alas. I had problems with the new coffee paradigm as well: the new life is supposed to include top-quality coffee, and I bought a Bodum French Press for this very purpose. But. The instructions demand I use coarse grounds, and I had only find ground coffee - Illy, and some Bustello. I was unsure how much water to use, it being a larger device than I’d used in previous French Press experiences, notably the Hutte in Walbers. It’s odd: I am attempting to recreate the marvelous coffee experiences of Boston, at Sis-in-Law’s place, with the Moka pot, and Walberswick, with the French Press. In both instances I have failed consistently. I haven’t had that perfect cup of coffee that was supposed to define the Hip New Place.
It’s depressing. But I’ll figure it out.
I know it seems like a small thing. It is not a small thing.
Birch and I took a post-meal walk, and he made his first solid contribution to the ecosystem. Then we went back up and I assembled an IKEA bookshelf, the last one, and thought:
No, we’re not staying here tonight.
The thought buoyed me, even though I knew it was wrong, and I set it aside, but I knew I had realized there was still a filament that stretched between me and the house, me and her, and as angry as I was about ALL OF THIS FUCKING SHIT I wanted to see another human being at the end of the day and greet another human being when I woke in the morning, and hey: this shelf works here. When the shelf was in the proper spot I repositioned a yellow Fiesta pitcher, and thought: I need a fruit bowl. A yellow fruit bowl. Yes, that’ll do it. Apples and bananas. Of course!
Of course! It’ll be the perfect touch!
Everything here is coming together perfectly!
I have to leave here now
I have to go home
Around ten I hooked Birch to the leash - he was keen to go. Brief contretemps with the seventh-floor Doberman, Bo, in the elevator. Bo wanted to play and Birch got that rictus stress-face, faced the wall and dry-heaved. I feel you bro
We drove home. One guest left, she was leaving. I set about cleaning up, because I always enjoy cleaning up after the party, after-action reports, gossip, sorting and storing. Twenty-five years of that. This, of course, is that last of that. We put away things and washed plates and rearranged furniture and set the house back to default. We chatted and laughed like an old married couple because we are an old married couple except for the part about the imminent end of being an old married couple. I told here about hearing the thumps on the other side of the wall when one of the Weed Bros went into Saturday Night mode, how it felt to make dinner for one, how I have a head-start on her experiences to come and how the apartness descends like an ice-cold iron blade.
The closing has been moved up a week. All goes as planned, we sign papers on the morning of the first, and she drives off in the afternoon. At some point I expect I will remove her from that family-member-locator app.
Two o’clock?
Three?
In keeping with our Monday tradition, which became a "tradition" for reasons I can't recall and probably don't matter, we continue with our Monday trademark. For this year we'll do 1936.
Still around! Here's the home office.
A bit scant today, but -
Oh do I have to say "but" at this point
Substack up around 11, and as noted, it's Bleaty and also free. I'm going to write it now and do not feel particularly amusing. But who knows. Might find a groove.
Thank you for your patronage and patience.
|
