Frustrated Freudian Flogs Mailboxes

Confession being my preferred rhetorical ploy for introducing guilty pleasures, I will confess to what I see as an entirely uncharacteristic fondness for Federalist-era mailboxes. In addition to the ornate stylings, the eagle motif is a dead give away where Federalist carbon-dating is concerned. Something very satisfying about all of that brass, though for reasons that I guess will only get funnier by the end of this post I'd prefer a black one.

Here's the paragraph of marketing copy that describes the mailbox:

Whether you look at the thickness of the brass, the innovative drain pipe surrounding the flag shaft or the powerful closure magnets on the mail door and locking access door . . . one conclusion is apparent . . . the Classic Mailbox Collection is the best quality money can buy.

You know they are targeting a discriminating audience when the words thickness, power, and shaft all wind up in the same sentence.

anyone wanna bough?

I should feel some twinge of remorse for having killed 25 cedar bushes. Instead, I marvel with a nearly paternal pride (look at that big boy!) at the mass of boughs that nearly fill the garage. Bigger than our car. Doesn't take too long for this pride to dissipate, as getting rid of the boughs turns out to be nearly as taxing and far more time-consuming. Not sure what to make of the hauling business: given the no-shows and unreturned calls, I get the feeling that perhaps haulers aren't doing so badly for themselves. My attempt at giving them away on craigslist as wreath material is an absolute failure. I had imagined some troop making a holiday project... I get several calls and emails from women (only women) interest in, variously, the wreaths, the christmas garlands, wreaths to put in storage for a "Christmas in July Wedding" (Hello? Department of Too Much Information? We have a situation here...), and some who genuinely understand the ad, but who are unable to fit in a bough pick up around their church-going schedule. It takes 4-5 calls to coordinate (one with a husband whose transparent "look, this is not my project"-out was "Can you call back? My hands are full of dirty diaper." No problem. Two days later, one woman comes by and picks out one bough.

Am ready to have a winter solstice bonfire at this point.

red letter day

The gray cat has brought a mouse over for a game of chase. This is the first mouse game in the new house. Curiously, he has brought over a long-unused mouse from the bottom of his toy box. Is this an acknowledgment on his part about the new space? New space, new toy? And if so, what am I to make of the fact that he eviscerates it in a record 3 volleys?

I Have a Vision, Part II

Took all the masking tape and protective tarps out of my study today. I'm pretty happy with the color, almost exactly what I had in mind.

The only gaffe was that the taped I'd masked the ceiling with, well, removed big strips of the ceiling as I removed it. This had me at pretty low ebb last night, more sanguine now though. Here's a shot...

Joining the Club

A couple of years ago we walked through the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights. Even though we rented in a nighborhood with many apartment buildings, students, and young professionals, it was only a two or three block walk from Haddon Hill. The hill is known for Italianate homes that might pass for mansions.

The idea of home ownership seemed like a fantasy, and the other-world-liness of a 3,000 square foot villa was reinforced in some way by all of the light displays. My favorite included giant christmas-light lit flamingoes. As this strains credulity, I'm happy to say I have evidence:



I also have a photo of the lights I put up on our front porch today. Need to get one of those flamingos.

day one in the front yard

It did not take us long to realize that home ownership is simply cleverly repackaged consumerism. In the first seven days of ownership, we made as many trips to our friendly Home Depot. We were both surprised to discover that Home Depot only carries one brand of pitchfork. After all, they do have an entire football-field length aisle devoted to garden tools. Unfortunately, I broke this pitchfork in under an hour of use, so we'll have to find some other purveyor of garden toys.

Luckily, the work gloves fared much better in their first day of hard labor.

"...doing God's work..."

Think we both felt a pang of remorse as we went after the juniper bushes. The junipers were alive after all, and we were about to lay slow and gradual waste to them with a single Fiskar's Pruning Saw. Several folks from the neighborhood went by yesterday without saying anything. I was worried that they thought we'd be paving the front yard. Putting in a nice patio, that kind of thing.

Today was better though. A woman jogged by and shouted that we were,"doing God's work". She also offered up that we should do that same at her house next. Another woman wanted to know what we would be doing with the space. After she left, we spent several minutes offering up other possible responses. I offered up that we were looking for WMDs.

Hypodermics and Hillsides

Began removing shrubs from the front of the house today. Not sure how long they've been there, but along the way I found the drug paraphenalia of at least two generations (hypodermic, aerosol cans), and one ominously heavy diaper.

For a while it was a joint effort. Share a pair of gloves, share a single pruning saw. Then: division of labor. As the sawing momentum picks up, you hit craigslist. Looking for someone to haul the shrubbery away. A surprising number of haulers have online estimating calculators that take into account things like gas from their location to yours.

2 gals with a truck will be here Tuesday morning. All in, looks like 200.00 to 300.00 to haul our shrubs away.

It was one of two major mysteries in our home buying experience, that the previous owners didn't remove these shrubs. The other is that they didn't remove the white and blue paint from the front of the house, but I'll probably have more to say about that after we figure out how to remove it.

It'll be a full weekend's effort to remove the shrubs. Sometime later we'll have to figure out whether the retaining walls stay or go. Then several weekends of soil maintenance and planting. Probably would have pushed the selling price of the house up over 600k.

Another neighbor introduced their self. Observed that she hadn't seen us move in, but knew that we were there. Also, that it took a long time for the house to sell.

I have a vision

Trying to not give much away about the shape of our plans for this place. This applies to my "study" in particular. I can only say the study will feature very dark walls. When I brought this up with some folks who work with me, they made a concerted effort to confirm that I was following at least one established best practice.

To no avail. The room is not particularly big and gets very little natural light during the course of the day. The first picture here was taken mid-morning pointing toward the sun.

We painted sample swatches of the color on a wall about a week ago. Some over primer some on the wall. Realized a couple of nights ago that the swatches made the wall look sort of haunted, and promptly shut the door. If this blog were a novel, The Navidson Record in House of Leaves comes to mind, you'd know that we were in trouble already. As book people ourselves even bringing up the convention seems risky.

But then, I have a vision...

the things they left behind

It doesn't take us long to discover that Mr. and Mrs. Previous Owner left us some welcome gifts.

Even for a word-whore like me, there are moments when the strength of the visual image incapacitates the use of words. Let us enjoy such a moment...

First Night In A Brick House

First night in the new home. our piano has made it down two flights of stairs at the old place and up two flights to our new place. Dozens of boxes of books have migrated, 3 lemon trees too, and it all ends in pizza and beer on the front patio as the sun goes down.

Later friends who helped with the move are long gone, there are good faith efforts to unpack a few boxes before finishing a bottle of Chambolle-Musigny and heading to bed. A cat is taking the move hard. Doesn't move, doesn't support any of his weight when you pick him up. We carry him upstairs to bed with us and pass out.

Until 3:00am. Cat is awake, meowing loudly. The meows echo in the mostly empty space. Take him down to the basement where we put the litterbox. Climb back into bed, and then a high pitched noise sounds. An alarm. As it sounds there are sirens and a helicopter overhead. Or is it just nearby? This is Oakland after all.

Downstairs, turning on lights as you go, you reach the control system for the alarm. The system panel has a yellow light next to the word "armed". Somethings going down in Zone 3, and Zone 4. Looks like that might just be you though as you take in the various sensors.

You hit some buttons and the alarm goes off, make it back up to bed and the alarm starts in again. A neighbor said there car was stolen the night before, that her sister's radio had been snagged recently. Are you really going to have to go down into the basement at 3:00am?

After some discussion, calls seem in order. 911 will send an officer over for a security check, though you have to mention sirens and helicopters before they commit. Then dial information for the number of the security company. The automated voice connects you to the wrong number, before you get through to the alarm company.

They diagnose the problem: the system realized the phone line was disconnected. The alarm company operator can't help without the previous owners' code for the alarm. They tell you that hitting the star key will temporarily disable the sound.

Everyone back to bed, until 4am. A knock at the door. A young police offer says that he is sorry to disturb, you there in your sweats and sweatshirt. A security check is this - they ask if everything is okay.

24hour recap

It is not only I who feel the alienating aura of a new space. The gray cat has completely shut down: his body is as heavy as a sack of wet rice, he cries in spurts. He doesn't even have the energy to raise his head; or he doesn't want to: when I offer him food and water, he gives me a brief hairy eyeball before the look-off. His anguish overwhelms me; I hover too much and walk him through the house so that his scent will leave a familiar route. By the 26th hour, his circadian rhythm has reset, and he weaves a cautious path among boxes and wires.


The old warrior siamese, on the other hand, has nosed his creaky body into every nook, inside and out. Terrorizing the shameless neighborhood cats who waltz into the backyard and open doors.

half the visual bulk

By noon on Sunday, all of the dishes had been unpacked. This was more difficult than it sounds, as nearly every container (cabinet, drawer, fridge, closet) is one-half the size of the equivalent at the old place. I try to contain my feelings of thwarted imperialist and consider tossing half of our condiments.

It's not a practical solution, so for the time being we'll just have to go to the market half as often.

The unpacking, or more accurately, shuffling boxes from room to room so we and the cats can move about, is less stressful than anticipated. In general, my compulsion to put things away is strong--so I'm contending with that as well as the more general visual confusion (boxes everywhere disgorging their guts) of things not just in the wrong place, but so out of place (toiletries in the kitchen, speakers on sofas, tools on the piano) as to make my vision buckle.

It is somewhat unsettling to see one's life amassed in boxes; less so the thought of so many boxes, more that it is so packageable. Stowing half the visual bulk in the basement minimizes this sensation, until I realize that half of the boxes take up most of the basement.

still life with furniture

Torn between the peaceful mien of empty bookshelves and useful spaces, I debate leaving my study in its unfinished state. Even more compelling is the thought of an entirely empty room, the four slate-colored walls surrounding a single work-table. This image doesn't square at all with my real-life career of erstwhile academic; the necessary props (books, paper, pens) singularly unsuited for laying about the room in aimless heaps.


Meanwhile, across the hall, a still-life unfolds while awaiting Mychal's paint...

heavy and fragile

Is it gratifying to drive an enormous truck? I realize, after hearing that it took all of Mychal's weight to depress the gas pedal, that I will never find out for myself. Similarly, I will never know the sense of accomplishment of heaving a 4-foot tall spinet down and then up two sets of stairs. On the other hand, as I sweat through two tee shirts and wonder where a pair of shorts might be, I discover the odd solitude of being the box bearer and that I have a preternatural skill of packing boxes both "heavy" and "fragile."

Shortly after noon, the troops show up. Moving becomes a team sport, the one-up-manship and heavy-lifting competition begins in earnest. Not enough coffee for this crowd, as the smack talk is limited to comments about the importance of tape and box bottoms.

Yes, well, at least we didn't move our chipped glass collection, as did some annonymous box-doner.

give moldings a fighting chance

It is a sobering realization to discover I lack the requisite patience to be a day laborer. There goes another future career option. What I appreciate about painting--the satisfying squeak of the paint adhering to the wall, the saturated distinction between the swath just painted and the uncovered expanse, the obedient paint bead along door jambs--does not compensate for the pain in my back, shoulders and hands.

As I paint, I discover that in this room as well Mr. and Mrs. Previous Owners have painted everything--walls, moldings, trim, ceiling, socket and switch covers--with the same color. I try to understand their choice--perhaps they were in a hurry, colorblind, or desperate for a sense of coherence, whatever the cost--but my frustration outpaces my tolerance, especially when I realize that the socket covers are permanently afixed to the walls.

battling the blue

A few hours ago, the doorbell rang. Wearing jeans splattered with three colors and my hands in rubber gloves, I go to see who is there. Mr. Previous Owner, who would like me to stop what I'm doing and go search through the basement for something he left behind. I try my best to be civil, but after three full days of battling nearly 1000 cubic feet of baby blue walls and ceilings (and ceilings!), I have little patience for Mr. Previous Owner's trivial requests. Besides, it was after dark.

Who paints their bedroom the color of Cinderella's ball gown? Evidently, the same person who thinks that bedrooms and halls, walls and ceilings, should match...