Tales From The Quarter
Movin’ On
By Debbie LindseyMoving is not for the faint-hearted.
Oh, it all sounded like great fun. I saw those empty walls and floors as the perfect blank canvas to decorate upon. I visualized the sense of order and serenity that the large rambling house would have on me.
Well … all that may happen in due time, but for now I am surrounded by towers of cardboard boxes.
Boyfriend and I decided that running a full-time business without the benefit of employees, working at our rent-payin’ jobs, writing for a local magazine, and managing our herd of dogs and cats was not enough to fill our plates. So we chose the busiest time of the year, Jazz Fest, to pack our two households up and embark on co-habitation – or as Momma would say, “living in sin.”
Of course, the movers never showed. And it goes without saying that packing was an exercise in procrastination. But we really fared quite well – Boyfriend only fell down the stairs once, and really it was only a few steps from the bottom. And just two pieces of my furniture were rebellious going down the stairs, which resulted in the stairwell mugging the crap out of them. But the gashed mahogany simply adds to the distressed allure of antiques.
Packing is a systematic and orderly process that allows for the purging of non-essentials (useless crap) and that brief trip down Memory-Lane as you neatly box old letters, greeting cards, and photos. Of course everything is spit-polished clean (so unpacking is carefree and fun) before being wrapped in newspaper and labeled.
Yeah, right.
Oh, I started out that way. But after three hours of packing three measly shelves of kitchenware, and then four hours and seventeen boxes to empty one medium-sized china cabinet, I began to yell “Buck Up!” to Mom’s paper-thin antique crystal and resumed packing like a M.A.S.H. unit buggin’ out under fire.
Some things are easy to discard: decade-old Combat roach traps, that last box of tampons I bought five years back in case my menopause didn’t stick, old candy wrappers, three dead begonias, and that can of tomato paste that looks real swollen.
However…how do you toss that little red dress that is hemmed with duct-tape, only slightly stained with guacamole and merely three dress sizes too small? I’ll tell you how. I put it in the Hefty garbage bag that was looking more and more like a body bag. It was my younger-than-springtime bag with the detritus of my youth sulking among the trash.
The deconstruction, the excavation of our apartments (fortunately both were in the same house) was disheartening to us as our personalities slowly slipped from the walls and into boxes. We took a month to move, squeezing in a little moving every day. And every time another piece of furniture was removed, a rug rolled, or painting crated, the apartments seemed to dwarf in size, echo every little noise, and simply change from homes to rooms.
As if packing and moving under severe time, energy, and financial constraints was not enough, I decided I simply had to paint two and a half rooms. When you first look at the soon-to-be new home, the paint job looks fresh and thorough. But it never is. And for some reason, landlords are drawn to the God-awful hues routinely found in government facilities. The bedroom’s fleshy beige was clearly conceived to bore a civil servant into early retirement rather than greet me “good morning.” So Pink Satin was chosen over the Pantyhose Beige. And the kitchen with its new Mustard Yellow paint job now looks like a cross between a French patisserie and a Mexican cantina.
Even if walls lack a fresh coat of paint upon signing the lease, or the landlord’s paint job is unworthy of Architectural Digest, there are some short cuts I will share with you.
NEVER paint the ceiling, even if those red splatters resemble someone’s DNA rather than marinara sauce. Just dab at it with a bit of that white paint you’re using for trim and no one will be the wiser.
Never paint yourself into a corner – just don’t paint it. Save time and paint and just stick a coat rack or a tall plant there. If you know where your paintings will hang, skip those brush strokes. Same goes for that never seen area behind stoves, refrigerators, and all large furniture.
If you are going to buy cheap paint, then go to the Green Project and select recycled paint (save the moolah and the planet). But if you simply must have that Satin Pink, then visit the way-cool hardware store on Elysian Fields.
Never admit that you are a one-coat gal. I had gone back to purchase more paint and lamented my difficulty in painting over those fleshy beige pantyhose walls. The fellow said not to worry, that the first coat needn’t be Picasso-like, that the second coat would forgive all the flaws of the under coat…blah, blah, blah. I said “What second coat?” This was a mistake. Immediately, I was given the utter distain look that only a mother or a fussy gay man could out-master. I pretended to take his advice, but, stubborn to my one-coat theory, went home and slapped the remaining walls with one coat and watched my pretty Satin Pink dry into a flesh tone that blushed with a tinge of heat rash.
As if painting was not enough to elongate the miseries of moving in, I had to give equal time to our yard. Yes, after two decades of no grass and limited courtyard space, I now have a backyard. Got me a tree, grass, flower beds and … poison ivy. I am still enamored of our backyard, but for now, we spend most of our time in the ivy-free front yard. We white trash it every morning, lounging in our bathrobes, drinking coffee, and waving at the garbage men. Oh, the country life.
I don’t know if I am merely burnt out from living twenty years among brick and mortar, or if the need to wiggle my toes among blades of grass is simply visceral. I rejected, walked away from the suburbs of my hometown. And in doing so I grew, stimulated by my life in the Quarter. But maybe it is time to fall in love again with the simple pleasures I took for granted.
And it doesn’t take much to bring back the memories of my Alabama youth or vacations to Fairhope. A pine tree, the sound of a screen door banging shut, birds foraging the back yard for beetles and worms, sheets flapping on the clothes line. We are a mere mile, walking distance, from the Quarter, and yet it is country quiet. Here, a Saturday night means cold beers in the front yard as our dogs patrol the porch for trespassing cockroaches and the only ruckus is the noise of leaves caught in the breeze. Glad to be home again.
Comments: Debbie@whereyat.com