tomatomato

One down and one to go!

(I’m actually reupholstering, not slipcovering—though I may cover the one that’s currently living in the bedroom.)

It’s true that I had no idea what I was doing—not only have I never reupholstered anything before, I found out after I began that I’d picked one of the absolute worst pieces to start on because it has an unexpectedly complicated design and construction—and that I became terribly frustrated several times during the process, but I now have one totally beautiful chair that is unlike any other in the world.

Even my dad (who, thinking perhaps that I couldn’t or didn’t want to do it, gave me a gift certificate to get the chairs covered for my birthday) was impressed, and one of my friends, upon seeing it, asked me how much I paid to get it done.

Okay, I’m kind of proud.

i don’t know if the weekly reminders helped drill this desire into me, but i can’t remember the last time i went to the wa-wa and whenever anybody mentions it i shudder and cringe and start making emphatic speeches about how glad i am that i wasn’t there to witness this or that dramatic event.

i was talking to a friend the other night about this vicious going-out cycle that i think people fall so easily into. go out, drink, create drama, go home; go out, drink, discuss drama, go home. there’s no room in this cycle to feed new and interesting topics of discussion into your brain, and even if you did have something illuminating to say, most people wouldn’t be able to hear you over the band and those who did wouldn’t remember it anyway.

a friend was relating to me what went down at a party after i left it the other night, and after about three seconds i was ready for the story to be over. all i could think was that none of it would have happened if there hadn’t been a bunch of drunks in the house. drunks, especially drunks en masse and drunks under the age of 30 (sorry sane, 20-something drunk friends! you’re exempted!) are nothing but trouble. and it’s tiresome. and so boring. i can’t remember the last time i went out, or went to a party, thinking, “this is going to be so much fun!”

but when did this happen? did my maturity increase exponentially overnight? i used to go out several times a week, and it never seemed like a chore. i looked forward to it because i was spending time with friends. i can’t point to any one particular incident that finally put me off going out; it was more like a mouse finally understanding that cheese equals ouch.

and it’s not just going out. parties aren’t fun anymore either. too much mess, too much drama, too many blubbering idiots. what i’d like to see is a situation like the great salons of paris, and, later, new york. sure, there may have been booze involved, but it served to inspire vibrant discussion (and heated debate!) of literature and philosophy and politics and art, not breaking stuff and throwing up and hurting people’s feelings and generally doing stuff you feel bad about later.

so i’m adding something new to my list, something to the effect of making my new house the destination for forgotten modes of entertainment. i’ll play the muse, and we’ll resurrect the bloomsbury group and the round table and dance with their ghosts on my freshly waxed floors.

we closed on monday afternoon. last night a couple of close friends came over to toast cheap champagne and smile at me in my cold, empty little house. it may be premature to tag this as something i’ve really done, since so far all i’ve done is fork over a big chunk of change and sign my name to about a million legally binding documents—what happens next will be the real homeownership part: the initial renovation work, the moving in, and the upkeep and maintenance. i’m so proud i can barely see straight, and even though it’s not perfect, i love my little house with a fierceness i could not have anticipated. i mean i would throw myself in front of a bus for it.

i really did feel like a homeowner yesterday, though. i had called to have the water turned on, and when i got there i found a note on the door saying i could turn on my meter whenever i wanted. and there was no water. i thought to myself “gee, isn’t this why i called the water people and asked them to turn it on? so that it would, you know, be on when i got here?” so i called the water company, and the lady told me i should take a crescent wrench to the manhole that should be located somewhere on my property and go in there and turn the valve. once again, i’m thinking, “isn’t this what the $100 connection fee is for? i mean, the guy came to my house to put the tag on the door, couldn’t he have turned the water on while he was at it?” as luck would have it, the sellers had left a giant, rusty wrench next to the house. i found the manhole down by street and hefted the cover aside. i didn’t have any idea what i was looking at. and of course, it was the wrong type of wrench, but i was able to knock the valve loose with the head and then turn it with with my cold little fingers. whoosh! i hope the victory dance i did in my front yard did not alienate any of my new neighbors. it’s the little things. turning on the water myself for my own house was sort of like driving a stick shift—i really felt like i was owning my home.