So far this week our home has been invaded by landscapers, carpet cleaners, and window washers. Tomorrow the crew comes to drain and sandblast the pool. A little more cleaning and furniture arranging and the house will be ready to sell.
Barry thinks it looks better than it ever did, but I think it looks a little sad. All our books, personal photos, non-generic decorative items, and furniture considered to be nonessential by the stager are in storage. The great room is arranged to make the living room area look as big as possible, which means the sofa is too far from the TV for comfortable viewing. The counters in the kitchen and bathrooms are unnaturally bare. And, of course, the cat and all her worldly goods are missing.
I hope the house sells quickly. I don't think I can bear to live in its sterile shell for very long, constantly alert for any tracked-in dirt, minor spills, or crookedly hanging towels that might mar its perfection. I never had any trouble selling a fully decorated home before; in my heart of hearts, I don't really believe the house needed to be quite this empty to appeal to potential buyers. Still, as Barry keeps saying, "They're the experts." I guess I'll do whatever I need to so I can move on to the next slightly untidy place, filled with books, cat fur, photos of my loved ones, and the aroma of whatever politically incorrect dinner I'm making for myself on a particular night.
"A house that does not have one worn, comfy chair in it is soulless." ~May Sarton
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Captain's Wife
For the last few years my sister has belonged to a book club that meets monthly, and she recently invited me to join. My first meeting is tomorrow night; the book they are currently reading - one she suggested - is The Captain's Wife by Douglas Kelley.
I was excited to find that the book is a novel based on the real life of Mary Anne Patten. I had read a one-paragraph version of her life in one of the Barbara Michaels books - I think maybe it was The Crying Child - and thought she sounded like a fascinating person. Although the novel is of course fiction, it was well-researched and sticks as closely as possible to the known facts. I enjoyed it immensely.
In 1856 Mary Anne Patten was 19 years old and married to Joshua Patten, captain of the clipper ship Neptune's Car, which left New York with both Pattens on board, headed for San Francisco via Cape Horn. Mary had previously sailed around the world with Joshua on the same ship and expected a relatively uneventful passage to California. Instead, the trip became a horrifying ordeal as the first mate turned mutinous and Joshua fell mysteriously ill just as the ship began the voyage around Cape Horn. With Joshua unconscious and the first mate in the brig, petite Mary (newly pregnant and suffering from morning sickness) was the only person on board capable of navigating the vessel around the Cape in the teeth of some of the worst weather in recorded history. This was in an era when women were considered useless aboard ships; the story of how she became the de facto captain (and doctor) of Neptune's Car is astonishing.
If the book has a fault, it's that some passages are a little too well-researched. A few of Kelley's descriptions of exactly how the sailors adjusted the sails in response to the weather made my eyes glaze over, but anyone interested in how tall ships were actually sailed would probably find those details riveting.
The epilogue of the book concludes that Mary Anne Patten died very young. What a waste. What amazing things this woman might have done had she lived to a ripe old age.
"With that modesty which generally distinguishes true merit, Mrs. Patten begged to be excused from speaking about herself. She said that she had done no more than her duty..." ~Interview in the New York Daily Tribune, quoted in the epilogue of The Captain's Wife.
I was excited to find that the book is a novel based on the real life of Mary Anne Patten. I had read a one-paragraph version of her life in one of the Barbara Michaels books - I think maybe it was The Crying Child - and thought she sounded like a fascinating person. Although the novel is of course fiction, it was well-researched and sticks as closely as possible to the known facts. I enjoyed it immensely.
In 1856 Mary Anne Patten was 19 years old and married to Joshua Patten, captain of the clipper ship Neptune's Car, which left New York with both Pattens on board, headed for San Francisco via Cape Horn. Mary had previously sailed around the world with Joshua on the same ship and expected a relatively uneventful passage to California. Instead, the trip became a horrifying ordeal as the first mate turned mutinous and Joshua fell mysteriously ill just as the ship began the voyage around Cape Horn. With Joshua unconscious and the first mate in the brig, petite Mary (newly pregnant and suffering from morning sickness) was the only person on board capable of navigating the vessel around the Cape in the teeth of some of the worst weather in recorded history. This was in an era when women were considered useless aboard ships; the story of how she became the de facto captain (and doctor) of Neptune's Car is astonishing.
If the book has a fault, it's that some passages are a little too well-researched. A few of Kelley's descriptions of exactly how the sailors adjusted the sails in response to the weather made my eyes glaze over, but anyone interested in how tall ships were actually sailed would probably find those details riveting.
The epilogue of the book concludes that Mary Anne Patten died very young. What a waste. What amazing things this woman might have done had she lived to a ripe old age.
"With that modesty which generally distinguishes true merit, Mrs. Patten begged to be excused from speaking about herself. She said that she had done no more than her duty..." ~Interview in the New York Daily Tribune, quoted in the epilogue of The Captain's Wife.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Life at the Kitty Spa
Today the movers took the furniture our realtor's stager didn't want plus all my books and a lot of other miscellaneous boxes to the storage unit we rented to use while our house is being shown. To be sure that my cat Rusty wasn't underfoot, I moved her to my parents' house last night.
This was a more involved project than you might think. I had to pack Rusty's litter box, scratching pad, food, dishes, toys, and favorite napping blanket without her noticing; we've moved enough so that she understands what stacks of brown boxes mean, and she's been edgy for days. She actually caught me moving her toys and crouched next to them defensively for about an hour before giving up and collapsing in her cat bed. At the last minute I picked her up and cuddled her all the way into the kitchen where I stuffed her into her carrier. (Barry followed with the bed.) She howled about my betrayal for the entire 10 miles to Mom and Dad's place.
Once we arrived I unpacked her things and she sulked under the bed for most of the evening. My mother finally got her to come out by offering her a dish of tuna juice which she deigned to accept. I slept over last night and will again tonight to make her feel more secure.
Surprisingly, Mom and Dad said that she was quiet and well-behaved today, spending most of the afternoon in their screened-in porch watching the quail and the bunnies in their backyard. No howling. No scratching the carpet. No tossing of hairballs. Amazing.
That tuna juice and the porch must have tipped her off to what my sister and I have known for years - our parents' house is the ultimate Kitty Spa, where cats go to be spoiled rotten. I only hope Rusty is willing to come with me when I find my next place.
This was a more involved project than you might think. I had to pack Rusty's litter box, scratching pad, food, dishes, toys, and favorite napping blanket without her noticing; we've moved enough so that she understands what stacks of brown boxes mean, and she's been edgy for days. She actually caught me moving her toys and crouched next to them defensively for about an hour before giving up and collapsing in her cat bed. At the last minute I picked her up and cuddled her all the way into the kitchen where I stuffed her into her carrier. (Barry followed with the bed.) She howled about my betrayal for the entire 10 miles to Mom and Dad's place.
Once we arrived I unpacked her things and she sulked under the bed for most of the evening. My mother finally got her to come out by offering her a dish of tuna juice which she deigned to accept. I slept over last night and will again tonight to make her feel more secure.
Surprisingly, Mom and Dad said that she was quiet and well-behaved today, spending most of the afternoon in their screened-in porch watching the quail and the bunnies in their backyard. No howling. No scratching the carpet. No tossing of hairballs. Amazing.
That tuna juice and the porch must have tipped her off to what my sister and I have known for years - our parents' house is the ultimate Kitty Spa, where cats go to be spoiled rotten. I only hope Rusty is willing to come with me when I find my next place.
“Cats are connoisseurs of comfort.” ~James Herriot
Saturday, March 26, 2011
A Disgusting Sign of Spring
Much as I love my cat Rusty, I do not look forward to the period each year during which she sheds her winter coat. I hate the thick coat of cat hair on all the furniture, the cat hair tumbleweeds rolling down the hallways, and the giant "dust bunnies" lurking in the corners of the closets. Not by chance does the color scheme in my house coordinate with the color of Rusty's fur.
The worst part of the shedding season, though, is the hairballs. You know what I mean - the gagging noises in the middle of the night, the horrible moment of stepping barefoot on a wet roll of cat hair marinated in semi-digested cat food, and the futile attempts to lift the remains from the carpet. (I chose carpet for the bedrooms in a color close to that of semi-digested cat food for this very reason.)
Tonight poor Rusty hacked up the first hairball of the spring, but she either did it quietly for a change or when neither of us was around. Unfortunately, Barry found it by stepping on it. Under the circumstances, it's just as well that Rusty is leaving tomorrow for a little vacation at my parents' house, where she will live in pampered luxury while our house is being sold. (Their cat died about a year and a half ago and they still really miss her.) I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that she doesn't have a hairball attack on their beige living room carpet.
"The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter. You don't buy love for nothing. Like all pure creatures, cats are practical." ~William Seward Burroughs
The worst part of the shedding season, though, is the hairballs. You know what I mean - the gagging noises in the middle of the night, the horrible moment of stepping barefoot on a wet roll of cat hair marinated in semi-digested cat food, and the futile attempts to lift the remains from the carpet. (I chose carpet for the bedrooms in a color close to that of semi-digested cat food for this very reason.)
Tonight poor Rusty hacked up the first hairball of the spring, but she either did it quietly for a change or when neither of us was around. Unfortunately, Barry found it by stepping on it. Under the circumstances, it's just as well that Rusty is leaving tomorrow for a little vacation at my parents' house, where she will live in pampered luxury while our house is being sold. (Their cat died about a year and a half ago and they still really miss her.) I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that she doesn't have a hairball attack on their beige living room carpet.
"The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter. You don't buy love for nothing. Like all pure creatures, cats are practical." ~William Seward Burroughs
Friday, March 25, 2011
Boxes of Books
Moving - don't you love it?
As I expected, our real estate agent's stager was not pleased by the wall-to-wall bookshelves in our house, so I've been packing my books for the last few days. This will be the fifteenth time I've moved in my life (not counting shuttling back and forth in college), so I'm resigned to going through the following stages:
Stage 1: The Good
Since I have a touch of OCD, my books are arranged on their shelves by genre, by author, with the series in chronological order. As I start packing I am determined to keep them in order so I can unpack as quickly and easily as possible. I carefully insert them in the cardboard boxes exactly as they come off the shelves and label each carton by author.
Step 2: The Bad
M-Day (when the movers will be coming) has been set and is getting uncomfortably close. I need to speed up the whole packing process. I throw vaguely related books into boxes and label them by genre.
Step 3: The Ugly (or, who cares about the unpacking - get these suckers moved)
I toss whatever is left into cartons labeled "Misc. Books."
Movers are coming on Monday to move the books, the shelves, and the other furniture the stager didn't like to a storage unit, so I'm on the verge of Stage 3. Too bad I didn't finish the project to thin the books out when I intended to - I'd have at least a few less boxes for Stage 4: The Resurrection.
"Books are not made for furniture, but there is nothing else that so beautifully furnishes a house." ~Henry Ward Beecher
As I expected, our real estate agent's stager was not pleased by the wall-to-wall bookshelves in our house, so I've been packing my books for the last few days. This will be the fifteenth time I've moved in my life (not counting shuttling back and forth in college), so I'm resigned to going through the following stages:
Stage 1: The Good
Since I have a touch of OCD, my books are arranged on their shelves by genre, by author, with the series in chronological order. As I start packing I am determined to keep them in order so I can unpack as quickly and easily as possible. I carefully insert them in the cardboard boxes exactly as they come off the shelves and label each carton by author.
Step 2: The Bad
M-Day (when the movers will be coming) has been set and is getting uncomfortably close. I need to speed up the whole packing process. I throw vaguely related books into boxes and label them by genre.
Step 3: The Ugly (or, who cares about the unpacking - get these suckers moved)
I toss whatever is left into cartons labeled "Misc. Books."
Movers are coming on Monday to move the books, the shelves, and the other furniture the stager didn't like to a storage unit, so I'm on the verge of Stage 3. Too bad I didn't finish the project to thin the books out when I intended to - I'd have at least a few less boxes for Stage 4: The Resurrection.
"Books are not made for furniture, but there is nothing else that so beautifully furnishes a house." ~Henry Ward Beecher
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