Last night, Ray Soleil had dinner with us. This gave him not only a chance to catch up with Kathleen but a convenient departure time for the spiriting away of furniture through the lobby, a practice frowned upon during what, even though this is a residential building, we shall have to call business hours. The piece that Ray was taking — happily, he’s found a spot for it in someone else’s home — lost the game of musical chairs that ensued when the wicker armchair, a stout piece that was purchased for my use, surviving not only that but also several years exposed to the elements on the balcony and Kathleen’s favorite perch, was brought inside during the evacuation. When it decided to stay, some other chair had to go. Now that Ray has removed the loser, which was very much in the way for a week, we have our Feuerbach.

(Come on, how often am I going to get to say that?) 

My post-vacation Zen cool is in danger of fraying. The problem is the kitchen. Not the dishwasher, which still isn’t working. (A new motor has been ordered. When the price was quoted to me over the phone, I said, “Perfect!” There was nothing perfect about the price itself, which was pretty steep, but it was much lower than the cost of a new unit, which would also involve delivery, installation, and other inconveniences that would require me to confront the Cerberus in the basement.) Surprisingly, I still don’t mind washing the dishes myself. (I’m very suspicious of this equanimity.) But, what with the cascade of decisions that the clearing of the balcony unloosed, I haven’t had the time or the mental energy to keep the kitchen in shape. Every surface seems to be taken by something that, when I’m harriedly in the middle of something else, is “indispensable.”

What I would like to do is to put on a nice old movie — one of the Bournes, perhaps — and get to work. But I haven’t got a screen in the kitchen anymore. The all-in-one Toshiba, with its self-contained DVD player, was never entirely satisfactory because it would play only American discs, and I’m usually in the mood, in the kitchen, to watch something British. Then the sound went kaput. Even at the loudest volume setting, most dialogue came across as a whisper. I plugged in a pair of auxiliary speakers, but to no avail; all they added was massively distorted bass. So, in the orgy of disencumbrance that constituted the first phase of the balcony operation, I sent the unit off along with the other discards. (There’s probably some brilliant solution involving the iPad and Netflix. In fact, I know there is, because that’s how Will watches his favorite shows.)

Such are my woes: not very serious. I’m hoping that the rain will let up by this evening, so that I won’t have to get wet when it’s time for the Toots Thielemans celebration at TimeWarner Center.

***

The downside of getting a staggering amount of housework done is that it leaves you staggered. I think that I’m going to go out tonight not because I have the strength but because I’m too weak just to stay home. I’d fall apart. I remind myself that it is not necessary to be punctual for events at the Rose Theatre. Walk in anytime! The cool thing about jazz — and about our aisle seats.

An enormous bag full of antique comestibles went down the chute about ten minutes ago. (There was a tub of Greek olives that — ew!) Four shopping bags full of shopping bags were reduced to two. Is the obsessive accumulation of shopping bags a New York thing, or is it just that everyone in New York accumulates shopping bags, and not just prudential old ladies and general hoarders? I must have discarded thirty Crawford Doyle bags.

Looking around, I can breathe. The place looks normal again.

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
This entry was posted on Friday, September 28th, 2012 at 10:30 am.