O, Blog, Why Have I Foresaken Thee?

I took a mental health break-- from myself. I can only stand to listen to myself whine so much about the renovation. Really, who cares? If I can't bring myself to write about it, who would really want to read about it?

Saturday gf and I spent six hours opening every box in the Giant Pile of Crap and poring over its contents-- the second culling. I had done it once already on my own. Keep, throw, throw. We pared down by at least another third from the initial culling. There's still more, but it's down to a manageable level. The Electrolux vacuum from 1956? "It works!" said gf, defensively. "I hate it," I countered. "My mother gave it to me!" she trumped. In college, all of my possessions fit into the back of my 1980 Volvo sedan with room left over for a passenger. I want to get there again, but for now the Electrolux stays. These are the compromises of love.

As of yesterday the downstairs office was officially complete. Walls painted, molding put in, outlet covers on. I came downstairs to check it out and the sunlight was hitting it just so-- it was beautiful. The cream color for the walls, the grained gray tiles we chose, the exposed beams... I do have to say, it looks nearly perfect. I sighed a happy sigh, texted gf about how pretty it was, then got to work with Adelio, our contractor's heavy-lifter, schlepping stuff from the Giant Pile of Crap upstairs to store in the completed room downstairs, so as to make room for the kitchen which will be delivered in boxes next week, and then, for the sanding and painting of the upstairs floors.

Now the checklists in my head are shrinking: things to purchase: drawer pulls, a floor lamp, night stands, reading lamps. A scratching post and a sisal rug (before the new couch is delivered and the cats see it as their new playground.) Door knobs, shelving, chairs for the dining table.

There was a give-away bonanza outside of our building. We filled the entires sidewalk spanning the from on the building and the garden of the adjacent building.Gf took sidewalk chalk and wrote on the avenues: FREE STUFF! with big arrows pointing the way. Almost all of the stuff walked away within minutes.

Saturday night, Valentine's Day. I am not given to large romantic gestures, though I do make an effort to appreciate gf and our mutual amazing good luck at having found each other. We went to see Melissa Ferrick perform at the Bell House by the Gowanus. I also got her this: Which, given my monkey fetish, was absolutely perfect. Even though gf was in a bad mood, it cracked her up when I toddled out of bed to present it to her first thing in the morning.

The concert was interesting...I adore MF and her songs also have special meaning for me and gf as there are some that we traded back in forth leading up to our relationship and in the beginning that perfectly reflected our experiences at the time. "Easy"; "Closer"; "One Year"; "Everything you get"... One of the first official things gf and I did when we were together at last was to drive four hours to Albany to see MF perform. And she has that manic energy that makes her an amazing performer, so we were really looking forward to seeing her on Valentine's Day.

But Saturday night, her energy passed "manic" and hit the upper levels of "frenetic." She played and sang and spoke so fast it was almost impossible to understand what she was saying. She kept having the lights guy turn up the stage lights even higher and crank her volume even louder so that by halfway into her performance she was like a supernova on stage, flaring with unbearable brightness. After one song, gf and I gave up our coveted spots within spitting range and moved back to get away from the blare of the speakers. I am not known for my sensory sensitivity; I can pretty much be oblivious to things like volume and light and crowds and energy, but this was beyond the threshold of pain for me.

About 3/4 into the performance, I am sorry to say, we actually left, not because we don't love MF and not because it was a bad performance, but just because the gestalt of the experience, the lights, the volume, the speedy speedy mania of MF and the ramped-upness of the crowd (not to mention the shrieking drunk girl behind us) had jangled us both thoroughly. It was as if her jitteriness had infected us on a cellular level.

But the night ended beautifully, back home, just us.

In a month we will be in our place-- not mine, over crowded with animals and furniture yet-to-be-discarded or still in boxes, and not hers with reminders of her ex literally carved into the beams and laid on the floor-- ours.

I can't wait!