Tag: Home

Home, Humor

Upsetting the Natural Order

“A good neighbor is a fellow who smiles at you over the back fence, but doesn’t climb over it.”
– Arthur Baer

The building that contains my flat is typical student digs: old, in less than mediocre shape, and seldom improved or upgraded in any way (see my 30 year old furnace).  But it sets itself apart in one way: the landlord prefers to rent to young married couples and the occasional small family.  His logic, not entirely unjustified, is that couples and families are more likely to treat the place as a home rather than some dump you rent for a couple of semesters before moving on and mostly likely leaving a substantial amount of damage behind.

As a result, a sort of culture has sprung up in our building.  People are largely quiet, go to bed early, take pains not to annoy one another.  Many of us are done with school, finishing up internships, or generally in the transitional stage that comes after university when one gets a Real Job, but is still laughably poor.  There are rare cases like My Lord and Lady Stompington, but when they rear their heads, people in the building are likely to mention such behavior to the managers, who in turn mention it to the perpetrators, who in turn usually manage to shape up.  It’s a watered down version of Suburbia, everyone plays by the rules.

That is, they did, until the landlords decided to take a risk and let the flat next door to mine to four younger girls still at university.  Our tranquility is shattered.

The other night I’d turned in and just barely shut my eyes when suddenly I heard one of them start to tune her violin and then practice scales for 45 minutes.  Luckily the couple beneath them just had a baby and was able to invoke the Wrath of Mothers and the performance hasn’t been repeated at night.

Where I used be able to wind down at 10pm, that is the hour they they are just livening up. They crank up their music and have the occasional impromptu dance party.  The opera (at reasonable levels), Edith Piaf, and Ella Fitzgerald, and plenty of indie rock I don’t object to in the slightest – but for the lateness of the hour.  The Miley Cyrus, on the other, I object to strenuously, particularly because of the lateness of the hour.  No one needs to listen to that at 11pm (or indeed ever) with the stereo cranked up.

Don’t they realize that the rest of us are old and boring?!

Friends, Home, Humor, Husband

Room. Mates.

“It’s hilarious how tied up [our niece] was in the idea of having a sister, I think little boys are cute.  Watch, God will give us triplet girls for that…”
“As long as they don’t act like the girls I live with.  If they do, I’m sending them back.”
“Come on, darling, they’ll be half me.“
– C. and J.

Readjusting to having flatmates after living with a spouse is quite interesting.  I’m lucky, because Margot’s a great flatmate.  She’s funny, driven, seemingly indestructible, and unfailingly clever, one of those people who you just like being around because you’re practically guaranteed a good time, even if you’re doing nothing.  But that doesn’t mean it’s not an adjustment.  She is, after all, not my husband.

Our recreation is totally different, for one thing.

Hey, baby, you single? No? Pfft, wasted my best moves on you, then...

For example, Margot goes dancing and when she invites me along I decline, because where we live is a notorious marriage market, and frankly, I’m glad I’m out of all that!  Nights out dancing are no longer fun: firmly not flirting with the overeager boys, disclaiming my taken status when asked to dance (in the interest of full disclosure) and trying to hide a grin when they back off hurriedly, as if they are complicit in adultery.  I went dancing once or twice with girlfriends when J. and I were dating or engaged, but it was distinctly not as fun as it was as a Singleton.  A good chunk of the dancers were hunting (aggressively) for a mate and the rest of us, only there for a good time, were in the way of that mission.  Now I’m married, mission complete, and I’m a false start which they will resent should I wander into their path.  It’s all frightfully funny, but not necessarily the way you want to spend an evening.

And for another thing, we’re at very different points in our lives – she’s recently graduated and job hunting, I’m (relatively) settled.  She’s constantly putting in applications for a full time teaching job, and I admire her for it, but I’ve got a job.  I’m all sympathy and willing to ponder the mysteries of our generation’s day and age…but my trials and concerns are different from hers.  I am, in short, an old woman.  I must be the most boring flatmate ever, but she puts up with me, and we get along great!

J., on the other hand, lives with two women who are daily growing in seeming hatred towards one another.  That too must be the oddest feeling, living with two feuding females, neither of whom he’s related to as he tries desperately to stay out of it.  It’s a foreign experience for him, he’s only ever roomed with other men and people he was obligated to love (me or his siblings).  I’ve taken to calling his updates on the battle “Dispatches From the Front.”

This attitude, hilariously masquerading as "maturity," allows one to rise above most arguments.

I never got into a fight with any of the girls I lived with, it never seemed worth the energy.  If you didn’t get on well, in six months one of you could move out and never see the other person if you so desired.  There was no need for impoliteness or other unfortunate behavior in the meantime.  I was the flatmate baffled when another girl would suddenly collapse weeping on my shoulder demanding if she’d done something wrong because I hadn’t spoken to her in an hour.  I was the girl who unintentionally sparked a civil war in one flat because I put the newly washed silverware into the drawer in the wrong order (forks, knives, spoons, instead of the other proper way around), who was oblivious to the growing rage until the girl I’d offended demanded if I’d been raised in a zoo, flung all the cutlery across the counter, and promptly burst into tears.  I patted her awkwardly, “there there-ed” a while, and promised never to put the forks on the left hand side again.

Margot’s gloriously sane by comparison.  I like her lots.

Home, Humor, Husband

Alarm Clocks And Other Concerns

“You’re Garfield.  You’re a kitty and you hate Mondays.”
– J.

I had a reliable morning routine with J..  Our alarm would go off, one of us would smack it silent.  Fifteen minutes later, ditto.  Fifteen minutes after that I would poke and prod him to get up and shower with many protestations of showering after him, he’d get up, and I’d go straight back to sleep.  The probability of whether or not I would shower depended utterly on whether or not I needed to wash my hair.  I’d be awoken for the final time when he would march back into our bedroom and order me up.

With him gone, I’ve had to go back to pre-marriage mode of getting myself up like a big girl.  And, minions, I do not like it.  I am not, nor have I ever been, a morning person.  These days mornings are cold, dark, and currently husband-less.  I see no reason why I should have to leave the comforts of my bed, on a Monday in November.

I’m in a bit of a strop (if you couldn’t tell), so cheer me up this fine (wretched) morning!  How was your weekend, my loves?  I had a nephew’s baptism, a date with Margot, and the beginnings of seasonal shopping to leap into – and I’m not even talking Christmas.  J., Venice, and my father all have their birthdays this coming week, Sadie and Pieter have a couples wedding shower next Monday, and I’ve a wedding to attend this weekend.  I’ll be exhausted before Thanksgiving!

Home, Humor, Husband, London

The London Chronicles: My (Land)Lord and Lady

“I know that atmosphere of the Parisian apartment building with the twin menaces of the concierge on the ground floor and the landlord upstairs.”
– Roman Polanski

The house itself was fine, we met the landlady who showed us around, but we had to meet her husband that evening and pass inspection.  Landlady is a Swedish woman, a bit harried, and perpetually busy working on her various properties.  I’m not sure what I was expecting her to be married to, but it certainly wasn’t a short Brazilian man who answered the door wearing board shorts and nothing else.

Landlord then spend the better part of two hours trying to scare us out of renting with emphasis on how strict he was with cleaning, and tales of how he’d tossed various Germans, French, but mostly American students out on their ear for failing to clean the house to his draconian expectations.  He hated Americans!  Every American renter he’d ever had was awful and destructive.

J. and I assured him calmly we’d do our best to change his opinion of American tenants.

But look!  He dragged us to the bathroom where he shoved the corroded remains of a bathtub tap beneath our noses.  The water here was practically acid!  And if you didn’t scrub the whole bathroom down after a shower, the mold would grow overnight, smother you, and you would die.  Surely we would reconsider living in such a place.

Not at all we said pleasantly, making a mental note to rely on bottled water for drinking.

While we were waiting, three other potential renters turned up and we had to move fast to assure him that we wanted the place while he threatened teased us with the possibility that maybe he would just rent it to someone else instead, ha!  Half an hour later we’d convinced him we were serious, and half an hour after that the papers were signed.

Immediately, Landlord became the soul of amiability.  He and Landlady regaled us with tales of their travels and adventures, with heavy emphasis on more cleaning and domestic disasters.  By nearly 10pm we were fast friends.

And I’m insanely jealous that J. gets to listen to all of Landlord’s stories while I’m stuck back in the US because I’m sure if I could turn anyone into a book, it’s this guy.  He has engaged in such epic housing battles that the council knows him by name.  He single handedly was responsible for the crackdown on prostitution in the Brazilian quarter.  A scooter he once owned was suspected to have been used in a murder mere days after he sold it.  You can’t make this stuff up, I just want to follow him around all day with a voice recorder!

Home, Humor, Husband, London, Travel

The London Chronicles: House Hunting

“I want to know what the devil you mean by keeping coming into my private apartment, taking up space which I require for other purposes and interrupting me when I am chatting with my personal friends.  Really one gets about as much privacy in this house as a strip-tease dancer.”
– P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters

The school website told us to allow two weeks to find a place to live.  We had to do it in six days.

We’ve been living in the same place for over 2 years now.  That’s two years without having to worry about finding flatmates, divvying up utilities, spending all available time setting up and meeting appointments to view small and dingy rooms that look nothing like their photos online, and trying to determine exactly how much Ramen you’ll need to eat in order to make rent.  Two years of knowing where all the local shops are, having transportation sorted out, and a settled routine of laundry, shopping, and housekeeping.  Two years of being settled.

In other words, I – at least – felt woefully out of practice.  But we dove in with gusto.  Every morning we got up early and made our way to the school library to take advantage of the free internet and spent hours combing through university housing website.  We sent off dozens of emails and counted ourselves lucky if anyone responded.  We set up at least three appointments a day (which inevitably turned out to be on opposite sides of London, requiring an hour’s travel time a piece).  And time after time, someone got there before us, the landlord wanted to rent to females and neglected to inform us beforehand, the residents didn’t want to live with an “old married man” (not even 26, mind) who didn’t want to go clubbing and drinking with them every night, or just found somebody else instead.

I won’t lie, both J. and I were starting to have visions of him starting grad school living in a hostel with raucous German roommates, unable to set up a bank account or phone service without an address.  But then, on Friday, my second to last day there, the heavens opened and we found a place.

It’s in Zone 2 and only about 30 minutes  by tube from the school.  The tube station itself is a 10 minute walk from the house, as is the High Street with all the local shops.  The house itself is privately owned by a pair of eccentrics (more on them later) and shared between three students – a girl from China, a British guy, and now J.!  Each have their own room (which was larger than our hotel room, incidentally), the rent is half of what we’d initially budgeted, and utilities are cheap.

Saturday we moved him in, unpacked, and stocked the fridge with food and wandered the neighborhood.  Turns out it’s the center of both a large Hasidic Jewish and a Brazilian community.  Apparently the only languages spoken in the area are Portuguese and Hebrew.  We saw a large number of men in large fur hats and black satin coats, accompanied by women in grays or black dresses meeting up and wondered what the occasion was, before thunking our heads.  Duh.  Saturday, it was Shabbat.  We found a Rabbinical and Hebrew school just down the street from Sainsbury and a Brazilian takeaway restaurant.  Gotta love London!

In spite of all the crazy we did manage to catch two shows in the West End and an afternoon at the Tate Britain, but this was primarily a working vacation and in the end we were able to land J. a place to live.  Vigorous huzzahs and appropriate sacrifices to the gods of flat hunting are in order.

Next time: the landlords!

Home, Humor, Husband, University

Scope Creep

“If the psych boys ever got hold of him, they’d never let him go. No. This is a family matter.”
– Louis McMaster Bujold, Memory

I apologize for thinking that it only produced self-congratualting jerks. I mean, I knew J. came out normal and well adjusted, so did Janssen's lovely husband, but I never really gave the institution in general credit for a well rounded education. I herewith apologize. Sort of. History still rules!

One of the reasons I like J. so much is that we have largely completely separate interests.  You’d think this might lead to marital incompatibility, but au contraire!  It means that we’re constantly introducing each other to new things and are obligated to at least try them out once.  I expose him to opera, he takes me hiking, etc.  Occasionally this is not only interesting but useful as he has a whole brain chock full of things from business and accounting that I never learned in a liberal arts degree.

For example, his upcoming move to London.  As it turned out, my good friend Margot may need a place to crash for a while before she jets off to South America for a job (my friends are nifty!), the timing of which just happened to correspond with my grad-school-induced widowhood!  In any event, she need a place to store some things as she figures out life plans, and I needed an excuse to pack up the back room and get it stored, so we decided to kill two  birds with one stone and clear out my space so she could occupy it for a while.

I press ganged J. one evening and we packed up our entire collection of books (no mean feat), our fine china (a present from my parents which I’ve never even used because I’m terrified of breaking it), and our desktop computer and stacked it all in a closet awaiting transport for storage.

Then, on fire with my success, I turned a baleful eye on my front room.  Before I knew what had happened I had cleaned out our closet and reorganized all the coats, athletic gear, shoes, and luggage.  I vacuumed everything.  I dusted.  Everywhere I looked I saw lists of things to be done and my stress level (exacerbated by recent events and circumstances) rose slyly, but steadily.  Finally when I lashed out at J. for leaving the dishes undone, he crossed his arms and declared, “You, my love, are experiencing scope creep.”
“And just what’s that supposed to mean?!” I frothed, clutching the Swiffer Sweeper manically.

And he explained.  Personally I appreciate that he used a business reference rather than a (in my opinion likely more accurate) psychiatrist term.

But see?  A problem properly cataloged and my worldview expanded.  He also sat me on the couch and told me to watch some mindless TV for an hour to calm down.  How handy!

Home, Humor

Now Is the Winter of Our Discontent!

“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”
– Albert Camus

Will someone please tell me which of the jealous domestic appliance gods we’ve angered recently so that we can sacrifice the appropriate item (sock to washing machine, milk to back of fridge, etc.) and get on with it?

Wednesday when I got home, I noticed it was a bit chilly but I had to quick turnabout to go pick up J. so I just adjusted the temperature and figured all would be well by the time we got back.

For all their drool-worthy abs, chiseled chins, and muscled glory, the domestic gods are cruel masters.

Foolish, foolish C..  You know the domestic gods hate you.  When we got home it was colder – our furnace had thrown up its hands in defeat and was slumped uselessly in its closet, clicking and wheezing occasionally but for all of our pleading, threatening, and dancing around cabalistic signs and fires…nothing.  The handyman was duly summoned.

I had to take off work as J. had class so I went home…and waited.  He was an hour late and then only stayed about 10 minutes, the ultimate underlying problem being that our furnace is from the Neolithic Age.  Our pilot light, clogged with the grime of ages, mastodon hairs, ash from Vesuvius, and soot from the Industrial Revolution, can’t stay lit very long.  The quick fix is a thorough cleaning – which the handyman advocated but was, of course, too busy to do that evening.  I smiled tightly, pulled out my diary, and briskly inquired when he would be available next.  He stuttered, “Saturday,” and I wrote it down firmly in dark, indelible strokes.

The real solution is, of course, and entirely new unit.  And since apparently we’re not the only people in our building to have our furnaces give out recently, I’m hoping the landlord will fork over the funds.  In the meantime we’re guarding our small, flickering light like Vestal Virgins and wearing sweatshirts to bed.

Home, Humor

Presenting My Lord and Lady…Beepington?

“Beep beep!
– Roadrunner

My Lord and Lady Stompington are long gone, but the creaky floors above us remain.  Our newer neighbors, whom we have never actually met have their own quirks (including loud, ahem, conjugal activity.  And even more inexplicably, always vacuuming directly after said activity.  We still haven’t figured that one out) but by and large we prefer them to the clay-footed, bowling ball dropping, riverdancing jerks who went before.  But yesterday they almost lost their Small Dog Family stamp of approval.

While J. worked on finals, projects, etc. yesterday, I was busy being a phenomenal wife.  I cleaned the whole flat and did two loads of laundry… and nearly went completely round the twist before noon.

Hi!

Because the smoke alarm in the flat above us apparently needed its battery changed, it beeped precisely every thirty seconds.  All day long.  For the first hour or so I tried vainly to locate it, pressing my ears to the walls and moving incrementally about the apartment with me head cocked to the ceiling.  The second hour I paced in circles fuming and pondered angrily as to why the neighbors didn’t shut the blasted thing off.  The third hour I lay on the couch, waiting to switch out laundry loads, and glared upwards.  It didn’t shut off until nearly 9pm at night.  You may imagine my wrecked mental state at the time.