We've been living at my father-in-law's since we got back from France three(!!) months ago. In fact, we've been living in my father-in-law's bedroom, while he's been staying at his lady friend's as his children figure their shit out. J -- my sister-in-law -- and her husband have recently moved from here to their re-modeled mega-house next door. And Dave and I are packing up and heading out to our new one-bedroom apartment, with all the old-school features -- like a built-in kitchen hutch, a Wedgewood stove, and a strange swiveling door that used to house a Murphy bed.
I'm excited about our move, to finally be in our own space with our own things. But I must admit, I'm also regretting some amenities of living in the burbs -- washer/dryer (I'm not quite sure I can live without one at this point . . . this will be a test), no apartment neighbors for Desmond to bother, no utilities or cable bills.
What most characterizes our stay here has been "going around the bed." Going around, that is, the California King sized bed that is the main piece of furniture in the room in which we live. The in-law's bedroom is of a generous size -- bigger than my studio in Paris for sure -- with a bathroom and walk-in closet attached. It also houses a huge flat-screen TV that offers one million channels or something close to that. What I do all day is sit on the bed, feed the baby, walk around the bed to gather clothes to put in the washer, check to see if I've already seen the "What Not to Wear" episode, walk around the bed to get to the kitchen to prepare lunch, feed the baby, walk around the bed to stare blankly at a bookshelf with books that I'll definitely read tomorrow. The bed is big and to get anything accomplished, you must walk around it. Thankfully, I'm not concerned these days with getting much accomplished, so I've been occupied mostly upon rather than around the bed.
Soon I'll be sitting on the new-to-me sofa I bought through craigslist that we tried to squeeze through a series of apt. doors, scuffing and streaking its white micro suede fabric, only to decide that we entered through the wrong entrance. The currently cushion-less couch is now sitting in the back utilities room waiting for Dave to regain his strength to take it through the correct series of doors.
4 comments:
The phrase "bigger than my studio in Paris for sure" is SO widely applicable!
My life is very "around the kitchen table that serves as my desk." There is neither a flat screen TV with cable nor a baby. Different, but the same.
would you please blog more? i know there is a baby to care for and an apartment to move into, but i'm so stuck at home and staring at your blog home page, willing it to have a new entry.
You know, I think that no matter where you live, life with a newborn pretty much revolves around a bed.
When Laura was born, we were living in a craptacular one-bedroom apt. in San Jose, right downtown by the SJSU campus. There was a meth lab on one side of us and a Dickensian miasmic tenement apartment building on the other. Our place was a kitchen, a tiny living room, and a bedroom, all arranged in a line like train cars. It was fine for the seven months we lived there, but I didn't realize 'til we left that the place was making me crazy.
I hope the walls aren't closing in on you! Hang in there, sister.
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