I found an apartment. I found an apartment! There will be no staying put (as I deeply feared). We have walls and hardwood floors and a roof! And a kitchen and bathroom that haven’t been touched since the 1940s. Unless you count the fridge and stove—they exhale 80s all over the place. Bigger than a nutshell, taller than a basement and—thankfully—not scraping the sky. We’re on the ground floor of a two-storey, postwar brownstone in a residential area. We have trees and coffee shops. What could be better? Windows on three sides, bedrooms with closets and a bona fide linen closet in the hall (told you it was old.) Tiny black and white tiles in the kitchen and bathroom and old porcelain fixtures. I suspect the kitchen cabinets are older than me (here’s hoping math isn’t your strong suit). And I’m not the least bit unhappy about any of that. Painted white with shiny hardwood floors and original windows, this place has Charm.
And … ohgoodgod. I have to move. I need to have a yard sale. CHUCK OUT STUFF. Collect Boxes. Pack boxes. Clean. Worry about not having cleaned enough. Say goodbyes. Squeeze everything and everyone into a moving truck. Not lose our cat. And hit the highway. I’m tired already. I want to nap. This is not a good sign.
But I can’t wait to get there! Three weeks and counting down …
artwork by: virginia lee burton, the little house