LOFT LIFE: Almost there

Saint Jay, on his lunch break, is driving my x-rays to the Jefferson Radiology radiologist as I write this. So, hopefully the report will soon be on its way to my pulmonary guy (notice I am trying not to call him a turnip anymore), so it will be there in time for my appointment on the 28th. And, hopefully the final diagnosis that I will survive will be unanimous. (I do think God makes that final decision.)

In the meantime, I am feeling stronger, and am appreciating you all so much. I am working a few hours a day, and doing my best to reserve strength, but not stay in bed all day.

Tonight is the Bigelow book club. Jay and I would rather have movie clubs, and I want an American Idol club--but that is mostly because we still don’t fork out the $150 a month for cable, and the community room has a big screen. :) For some reason, people assume that if you a writer, you like to talk about books. I do, sometimes, but feel a lot of pressure to read faster than I normally do when I have to report on a book. Also, most of the recommendations I give and receive on books in book clubs have little to do with what I actually read.

I have been addicted to Patricia Cornwell’s Scarpetta series, but what more is there to say than that I love them. If you tell anything, you ruin them for the reader. And, I just finished reading Lauren Bacall’s By Myself and Then Some, which frankly ruined what used to be admiration for her, and ended up giving me the feeling, from her own words, that she is a pretty self-absorbed actress. Actually Bogey said it to her: "All you actors are alike” meaning prima donnas. And they are!

Jay and I have become addicted to watching Dexter--a Showtime series about a serial killer. We have heated discussions on Dexter, namely about me saying he is sweet and only kills bad people, and Jay insisting that killing is killing if it is illegal, and that Dex has a big problem. I think Jay doesn’t really “get” people with detachment disorders--like me, and that Dex, except for this teeny problem, and the fact that he memorizes social behavior rather than “feeling” what to do, is a pretty decent guy.

I also seem to compulsively take my polls on Dexter with others: my hairdresser also thinks he is sweet; my pastor says Dex is “not a healthy person.” Okay, I might have to admit his M.O. isn’t “healthy” but still it is helpful to others. Think of all the innocents he has protected from the killers he has killed. I ask you, wouldn’t you want Dex as your neighbor and friend? I like him even more than Sling Blade.

So, you see I am back to my usual self. Thank God, and family and friends. Now I can continue with Loft Life without the self-absorption. Maybe I should consider acting.

LOFT LIFE: More waves

OK. You’re not going to believe this.

Did I mention that when I was having the CT scan, I happened to say this all started with a chest x-ray at the clinic? I left out of my saga that the technician said the radiologist at Jefferson was likely to want to see it. I asked her if I should get it for them--since I had hand carried it back to the clinic from the pulmonary specialist’s office, at his request.

No, she said they would have no problem getting it. No problem. That should have been my first clue.

Now a week later, after the CT scan, I am on prickly pins and needles trying not to worry that a whole week has gone by without a phone call. I am also imagining more turnip-behavior from a guy who probably knows what the lab said and isn’t telling me. But, I would be wrong. He doesn’t even know all this is happening! I look down at my ringing cell phone and it says the name of the clinic--which wouldn't be the people who should be calling. Evidently the radiologist is just getting around to requesting the x-ray, and the clinic needs me to pick them up since they don't mail them.

Remember that long drive to the radiologist, where I needed my husband to drive me in case...well, now my husband, who is rapidly reaching sainthood, is driving to the clinic at 6:00 p.m., missing praise band practice, and will have to take time from work tomorrow to deliver them to the radiologist. No problem! For whom?

I don’t blame the clinic for not mailing original pictures of people’s chests. (I think it’s safe to assume they don’t mail pictures of any body parts.) It has to be hand carried.

In our world of technology, you would think they could make a DVD or something--but then they did that at the Grand Canyon clinic when I broke my foot, and when I handed it to my IL doc, he said, “Nice technology, and very efficient, except it’s not your foot, it’s someone’s chest.” Oh dear. Where's the chest pic when you need it. :)

So after Jay delivers the x-ray, perhaps, within another week, I will have an answer. I’m telling you, this is never simple. And, dare I hint that this is when the government is not running the system. We all know how much more efficient it would be if they were, right?

LOFT LIFE: Navigating the medical system

My husband wants a GPS. I tell him I AM his GPS, and much more flexible, even accurate. But my road navigational skills are nothing compared to my ability to wend through the ocean of complication that is the health care system.

Starting with the clinic that diagnosed pneumonia, which was NOT pneumonia, a radiologist who agreed with the erroneous diagnosis (assuming infection is visible on x-rays as pneumonia), the radiologist did detect the “nodule,” which launched me to the next destination: pulmonary specialist.

NOTE: the office manager in my dentist office, dear, encouraging woman, told me her mother had a lung growth and was sent straight to an oncologist, not a pulmonary specialist, which she thought was encouraging in my case.

Now that I think about it, maybe x-ray infection just looks like infection, and Dr. G.’s sureness that it wasn’t pneumonia might have been from my 98% oxygen levels and not from the x-ray picture at all. That makes sense. Geesh. A person has to be a logician to get ahead of these guys.

Anyway, before I could move to the next port: CT Scan, Dr. G. said I needed a blood test before the scan, and that it was required for someone my age, just in case I had kidney problems. I told him I had great kidneys, He said, “How do you know?” I replied, “I would be yellow if I had problems.” He just shrugged. and his dear office manager argued that the lab he was sending me to did NOT require the blood test until a much older age than I. That meant I could go right to the CT port without having to do the time-consuming Q &A with Dr. G. about what this age-related blood test was about.

Tired yet?

So my CAT was scheduled for the next Friday. Of course, I had to know 1) how much would it cost? 2) do they discount self-pays like us? and 3) what is this contrast dye that is so gnarly that a blood test is needed, and maybe 4) what would happen if i do not want the dye?

After literally a dozen calls to the lab, with not one person who would answer my questions, no one knew anything about the cost of a CT scan of the chest with dye.

My friend Andi said to Google diagnostic labs in Connecticut until I found my answer, I did, and found Jefferson Radiology. They were not only friendly and willing to talk, they actually knew the answers. (I did tell you this ocean needs lots of skill to sail.)

The billing department priced me at $1090, said they DO discount self-pays, then transferred me to the lab for my other questions. Though they were nice, they suggested I Google contrast dye. (Seeing a pattern here?) They explained the kidneys have to have good creatinine levels to handle the dye without risk of side effects that could be serious.

So whatever it is, it is heavy-duty enough to have to measure creatinine levels in my kidneys, I thought. So I wanted to know. Google’s answer was gadolinium, which turns out not to be the dye my CAT used, but oh well.

After reading side effects of gadolinium, if creatinine levels aren’t right, I was horrified. Among possibilities are: thickening of the skin, compromised bones, blood vessels, yellowing of the eyes...rashes, hives, etc.

I called Dr. G’s office, explained to dear office manager that I was just wondering how important this dye was to diagnosis, that I should risk being a thick-skinned, crippled, yellow-eyed old woman just to find out that the “nodule” was nothing. I was feeling asea.

She assured me my questions were good ones, deserving of answers, and she would have Dr. G call me.

She must have given him a piece of her mind. Dr. G. sounded somewhat recalcitrant and almost personal--and did proceed to answer several of my questions, convincing me that “if it should be something like a malignant tumor” the dye would help him see that. Maybe we should do phone visits in the future.

I also asked them to cancel the first lab and go with Jefferson. (On my 13th call to the first lab, I got a range of $1000 to $2000.) We agreed the range was too broad and vague. So she booked me for Tuesday at Jefferson. Only problem was, Jefferson required the blood test for my age. Phew.

I warned you that once you are in the system, the waves can get choppy. All this pro-active stuff takes stamina. Really, if you need to go get a cup of coffee, or something stronger, I understand. Just relating the facts, so that should you ever need a CAT scan, you know the ropes.

I then booked a blood test back at the clinic. It turned out they do not do blood tests, but there were two possibilities in the same building. I chose Quest, a very positive experience. My phlebotomist was charming. I asked my test question: “Are you a vampire or a gentle soul?” She replied, “Depends on how I feel.” The twinkle and sense of humor let me know I was in good hands. I was. I will buy stock in Quest. Good outfit.

Then the waiting for the blood results. Dr. G sounded happy again, this time at my creatinine, so I was all set. So, glad to bring him some joy in life.

I had planned to drive myself to the scan, but my daughter, Melissa, leaned hard on me to get Jay to drive, if only for the emotional support--which I never believe I will need, but did.

The scan was a bit more traumatic than I expected. The dye felt heavy, I was dizzy and, though they said it would be in my system for 90 seconds, they really meant 90 seconds for the test part. The dye affected me a day and a half: headache, dizzy, nausea, and a heavy feeling. Thankfully my eyes did not yellow and my skin remains un-thick.

I do have to add that the front desk personnel at Jefferson in Bloomington are exceptional. At least these doctors--and that is at all of my providers--know how to hire the best. Thank you all for your compassion, competency and humanity. It makes a huge difference to a patient.

More waiting. I’ve been very tired, off and on--well enough to go on with stuff like writing, laundry, cooking, and getting the mail, but not good after four hours or so of being up and about. Haven’t felt well enough to do much else. Probably it isn’t the “nodule,” but the lingering effects of a serious bronchial infection.

All in all, I know a lot more about the world of CAT scans and dyes, and why they’re the best thing since sliced bread. Truth to tell, I’m hoping the test shows nothing. But, in case it isn’t nothing, and in case this whole ordeal of mold-induced chest infection turns out to be for finding some little lung lump early, I guess i am grateful. No, I AM grateful.

Most of all, I continue to count my blessings: a loving family, great, caring friends, and even a medical system that, if you keep a persistent eye on things, works pretty well.

LOFT LIFE: I Will Survie

I have made a decision. I will survive. Yes, I saw the pulmonary specialist--more about him in a minute. He said I did NOT have pneumonia, never did have it, that the mold probably kicked off a bronchial thing--definitely infection, but not pneumonia.

Also I did not have a mold infection, though my spraying mold cleaner and getting tons of mold droplets in my face (my words) probably did create the infection. His real concern, and I use that word clinically, not personally, was this “nodule” the radiologist at the clinic--that does’t know what pneumonia looks like--found.

My daughter accompanied me to Dr. G’s and she was not pleased at all with him. I’m kind of numb to this kind of non-personal medical type, but she isn’t. She expected a: “Hi, I’m Dr. G and how are you feeling.” In fact, he didn’t even look at me but sat down at his desk, while I sat on the end of the examination table, and as I talked about my symptoms, he typed.

Now, let me tell you I know about doctors. In California most of my PR clients were doctors and hospitals. In Illinois, my best friend is a marriage-family therapist. i know about the hours of transcription necessary after consults and all the paperwork burdens HIPAA and insurance create for time-consuming reporting. Privacy acts now even make it illegal to take the reports home to accomplish in the comfort of an easy chair, beer and soft music. Anyway, Dr. G. wasn’t going to waste any time being personal, looking up from his typing, or saying “Hi.” He got right to typing, and continued, only pausing, my daughter said, to smirk (laugh) at some of my questions, which by the way he did not bother to answer. His answer to everything was that he would tell me what was wrong when he knew. Finding out I didn't have pneumonia or a mold-infection weren't things he volunteered. I gleaned this during the back and forth--mostly back, conversation.

I explained I wasn’t asking for his diagnosis yet, merely input for my extremely analytical data-base of a brain. (OK, maybe that does deserve a chuckle, even though it is dead seriously true) and that I wanted to know what he was doing, why, what he was hoping or not hoping to see, and what logic-tree of possibilities there were for a “nodule” on the lung of the smallish size and shape of mine. Nada. No response at all. Instead, he continued typing, then examined me with no explanation whatsoever, except to say that the finger-impression oxygen machine showed I was at 98% which seemed to make him very happy. I got the feeling after that that he felt I was taking up time and space that could have belonged to his really sick (dying) patients, which should have made me feel better, but didn’t. His elation at my high oxygen level, felt more like an indictment than a relief.

He scheduled CAT scan in the same building for a few days later.

I have been saying that Dr. G. has the beside (ok, office) manner of a turnip. My husband says I am defaming Dr. G’s character with this statement, to which I reply that beside manner is hardly a statement of character. Even though my daughter was most upset at him, wanted me to leave, and said she didn’t trust him, I remained loyal, and didn’t leave, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. I defended that he kind of viewed me as a lung instead of a person, and perhaps he was an expert in lungs, if not in people. I hope that analysis is correct and that it isn’t that: 1) I remind him of his mother or 2) he has really sick patients and thinks I am wasting his time, or 3) that he just doesn’t care and is thinking about playing racquetball with the hour he saved typing instead of relating to me.

Upon taking my usual surveys of almost everyone i know and even some I don’t know well--my dentist, for instance, on whether being a turnip is a question of character, it is about 50-50. Some see it as a lack of kindness, others as simply that some specialists are just not people-persons, even with all the research about how much treating a patient as a whole person counts in the healing process.

Suffice to say that i will stop calling him a turnip, and try to evaluate whether I can continue with someone so non-verbal, so unwilling to answer questions. I did tell him to his face that I needed a doctor who talks. He just smiled. I also told him that most of my California doctor clients were like him, and that I translated them to the public so well that I made them lots of money, and therefore, he might want to call me. I made it quite clear to his office manager, that if it were not for her kind and caring personality, he probably wouldn’t have many patients.

Well, I will have to weigh the pros and cons of remaining with Dr. G until after the CAT scan.

LOFT LIFE: On Death and Dying

OK, I have already raced through all the stages of grief, except maybe acceptance, and I have some comments--probably unrelated to grief, but oh well.

It seems that in addition to the mold-induced pneumonia, the radiologist spotted a spot, which he called a “NODULE” on my lung--not sure if it is right or left. So now my nightmares and bright outlook are in a deeper struggle for victory, and I am instructed to see a pulmonary specialist.

My call for prayer has resulted in emails from around the country, from family and friends who are all so loving, wise and responsive. Do you all know how much that means? Everything! For me, this is almost worth being sick, just to know how much love surrounds me--although no one has sent chocolate yet, which may be good, because I forgot to request the organic dark kind from the sustainable farms of the third world, or something like that. Not completely clear on this.

My daughter says she wishes she had cleaned the fridge, and after a crying jag of feeling overwhelming love, I assured her that I am sooo glad it was NOT her asthmatic self who had to do that awful, pneumonia-ridden task.

I have already made an appointment with Dr. G, the specialist, and even though I told him not to call unless I was dying, after he read my x-ray, he did call, hadn’t read the x-ray, and evidently didn’t know his call would send me into hyperspace. But, he called to answer my prior request of advice on how much activity was wise for a pneumoniac with a nodule. He said walk till right before I can’t breathe and don’t overdo, which as you will see in the next graph, is not easy for me to gauge being slightly OCD or something of that ilk.

My pastor also dropped by to pray for me, and after I showered, dressed, and frantically tried to convince my husband that we had to clean the house in the 20 minutes for our pastor to travel to us, I was told to sit down--kind of reminding me of my father ordering us girls to “light” as if we were bugs. Anyway, I obeyed--both times.

So, I will being seeing a specialist, I will be doing some light touring with Mic and Andy when they visit, and I can carry on with life, including chocolate (which is important, I tell you). It appears as if I may live, and since I am not dying (yet), this may curtail my getting all my wishes granted (I choose all the movies, we go to Italy soon, and I get to beat all my friends at Bejeweled). But at least I have you all, family and friends so loving and sweet to me. Who could ask for more than that? Except, maybe choc...OK, OK, I will stop with the hinting.

LOFT LIFE: Invasion of the Body Snatchers

Well the holidays being hard took on new meaning when I seemed to be sinking by Christmas eve at Greg and Marybeth’s. Fortunately, their friend, Deb, when she heard i had cleaned out the IL home freezer’s layer of black mold, insisted I get checked out and get on an antibiotic. Good thing I listened.

By the time I went to the doc, the day after Christmas, I developed full-fledged pneumonia. Now I ask you, is this fair? I get to fly back and forth to IL, do all the heavy lifting, clean the house (well with a lot of help from my amazing neighbor, Becky and her girls), tackle MOLD growing from October to December in a fridge I turned off, but forgot to open said door of, and then, just because I forget a silly thing like a face mask...well, the doc said it is mold-induced pneumonia.

So my bod has been bedridden for days, and I have practically missed all of Jay’s Christmas break, and hopefully will at least be better by the time Mic and Andy arrive.

Of course, my nightmares race through a montage of all the friends I know who have died of pneumonia, and I try to keep a bright outlook, but it is sometimes difficult.

They say the antibiotic makes its headway within 48 hours, but mine has taken 60. And, only today have I been well enough to pour my own pita chips onto a plate and spoon on some mango salsa. I think I figured out the cookies and the chocolates earlier, but they take so much less effort, and the motivation is so much greater--even if the nutritional values or lack of could have something to do with the 60 hour benefit vs. the 48. But who’s counting?

Anyway, I am not dead, and seem to be going to survive, and though I do feel like body snatchers invaded my holiday, I am thankful for God's faithfulness, good friends, good doctors, and chocolate. (Thought I would throw that in in case someone feels prone to cheer me up.) And, though "they" may snatch the body for a time, even holiday time, they cannot rob the spirit, in spite of nightmares, slow medications, and what not (I always wanted to say what not), because He who is in us is greater than he who snatches but cannot win.

LOFT LIFE: Holidays

Holidays can be hard. Even though Jay and I make the best of having just us two, it is an adjustment to celebrate without family around.

Our friends make it bearable. Andi and Thomas came over for Thanksgiving. Well, what really happened was that I told Jay that we should just go to a buffet for Thanksgiving and that it would end up cheaper than cooking, even for two. But, we owed Bob a dinner, so I said, why don’t we have him over for a dinner, and, “What kind of meat does he like?” which I erroneously assumed meant to Jay that I was NOT talking Thanksgiving meat, ‘cause we all know what that is, right?

Anyway, in our usual roundabout communication, Jay did not assume anything like that, and proceeded to go to work and ask Bob if he would like to come over for Thanksgiving. After ranting a tad, I adjusted and began to enjoy the thought of company for Thanksgiving. I had forgotten that Andi said they, too, didn’t like being just two for big holidays, and in my normal poodally and insensitive (War Games) manner, didn’t automatically invite them. But, since Bob was coming, I called Andi for the invite, to which she said, “Well, Thomas invited a co-worker,” to which I said, “Well, bring him along,” to which she said, well the Argentinians might come over too, but not for sure. So when the Argentinians did not end up deciding to share Thanksgiving with them, Andi accepted our invite and that included the co-worker. So we were to have six.

Thanksgiving arrived, and Bob was sick, and couldn’t come. Thomas and Andi arrived sans co-worker, who evidently was also sick. So the four of us had a glorious holiday. Andi brought orange cups filled with sweet potato, and the best cranberry bread I have every had (sorry Melissa, it had a coffee cake topping). Note: our family has cranberry bread contests (unofficial) because of Cranberry Thanksgiving, a children’s book with a recipe on the cover. Melissa finally figured out how to use the recipe (she won’t tell) and get the bread to bake all the way through.

Anyway, now it’s almost Christmas, and we are just two again. Marybeth invited us over for Christmas Eve dinner, which is really heartwarming. She says she never has fewer than 20, and we only make 17, so we accepted, and look forward to Greg’s stuffed sole and pork roast.

And, we will go to Andi and Thomas on Boxing Day (I don’t think they know it is Boxing Day), and have cookies and cocoa.

And, then Mic and Andy are coming by train on January 2, and we will watch Mystic Pizza at A & T’s and then all go to Mystic on Sunday.

All in all, these festivities will give us enough Christmas joy to permeate even the just us two on the 25th. In fact, we may need the rest. :)

LOFT LIFE: Walkabout

I love small cities that have the charm of small towns and the convenience of larger cities. Such is our northern CT abode. We have the mall, of course--Macy’s, Target, Home Depot, Best Buy, etc.--all the big box shopping we can handle. The worst is Costco, which is addicting. My first trip there in 30 years and I found myself hyperventilating with the temptations surrounding me. Starting with gourmet appetizers to die for, like Brie spread with pesto and cranberries, and Brioche, filled with brie, cranberries and...well do you see a theme here? And, they give you samples! You can really have lunch at Costco just by stopping at each sample station. Jay, who still hasn’t figured out the calorie thing (could be he still weighs what he did when we married 28 years ago), believes that unless he tops it off with Costco’s $1.25 hot dog, cheese spreads, puff pastries and soup samples are not lunch. You can almost see him secretly beating his chest, Tim Taylor style, and vocalizing, “Meat! Me want meat!.”

But, even Costco’s delights don’t compare with the joy of walking around our neighborhood and discovering the small shop offerings.

First there is Diana’s Bakery. She claims to have been in her Main Street location for 20 years. Her Italian cookies are wonderful, and I am still sampling her breads. Didn’t much care for the whole wheat--it seemed too refined to get the low glycemic benefits, but her rye, which Andi pointed me to, “without seeds” was just fine. I still miss Great Harvest, which if I ever decide to mount the challenge of meandering surface streets to Manchester, I will visit. But, for now, Diana’s is good.

Really, even though it isn’t whole grain, Sylvia’s Restaurant has good breads. She is Rumanian, but serves Hungarian, German and Rumanian foods. There is never anyone in this charming restaurant, which has us scratching our heads. We dined there once, and ordered the lunch portions, which Sylvia, a proud woman, just could not do. I think she thought it was a price issue, so she gave us dinner portions at lunch prices, which made us feel bad, because we were the only diners that hour. The food was delicious. Jay got goulash and I had schnitzel, which was a little greasy and not as hot as I wished. But, I couldn’t complain when Sylvia, herself, was our server, and I heard her exasperation trying to explain to the chef, probably her son, that we only wanted lunch. His reply was something like, “Well how many pieces is that?” to which Sylvia shrugged and gave the okay to give us the full dinner portions.

On my way to Diana’s I had stopped at the Polish Deli to get Jay some baked ham for lunches, but the owner was busy, and doesn’t hurry anyone, so I said I would be back. At Diana’s I mentioned that I was going to the deli next, and she said, “Oh, say hello to Helen.” So I did. And, Helen seemed truly surprised to see I came back. Since it was my turn, I got the full customer-service treatment.

I had a cookie sample, on the house, at Diana’s, and a slice of ham at Helen’s, so I didn’t miss Costco at all. In fact, I have to keep reminding myself that I really prefer supporting these small businesses, rather than indulging in the brie and cranberries and spending $115 just for breathing, when it could have been $30 at two shops, both in walking distance, that really fill the bill, and make life here so much fun.

Diana, Helen and Sylvia are fixtures here, and I intend to tell everyone how lucky we are to have their shops, and their personalities, and how much we need to patronize them so we aren't forced to shop big boxes only, convenient though they are.

LOFT LIFE: New Friends

LOFT LIFE: New friends

Andi and I met at the health club, she working away on her morning routine at the treadmill, and then the weight room, I dabbling with getting back to a treadmill after 18 months of sedentary life, except for my walks around the hotel.

Our bonding started with my request to change the channel on the exercise room television to the Food channel.

“That’s my favorite, too,” she affirmed, and so we enjoyed talking, watching, and getting to know one another. We had coffee at her place—we are in the same building, and at my place the next day. We both love coffee, she and her husband appear to be wine aficionados, and her sister lives in Chicago, where she visits, so we may even share a trip to ORD in the spring, where Andi will show me how to fly from New York and save $100.

We introduced our husbands to each other in the parking lot the next morning, Saturday, and though we are much older than they, I think this is a great start at making friends in the area. Age has never been a big issue with our assortment of fun and interesting friends. And, best of all, these friends are neighbors, just upstairs from our place, and also not knowing many people in this area.

Andi’s in Chicago as I write this, and when she gets back, we will celebrate her new job with a rouladen dinner and dumplings. This is the only German meal I know how to make. Andi’s husband, Thomas, is from Germany, where they met. But, I hope to have her teach me other German dishes, since she also seems to love cooking. So much to look forward to.

LOFT LIFE: iNTRO

LOFT LIFE: Intro

I think I may have to revisit the whole idea of this blogging thing. I understand it is kind of about me, and that you are readers, followers and good friends, and that I have to keep you entertained. But, I seem to be having a bit of a challenge changing from the weekly column idea to daily blog. I promise to get a handle on this—even soon.

In any case, we had some misgivings about our loft apartment: the complex borders a not-so-lovely town, where the citizenry claims to be in an urban renewal mode, but where we we often see people who look either homeless, or bored, loitering about the perimeter of our back parking lot. The fact that we park a Mini and a Jag there is some cause for concern, although I understand the big car and parts thievery makes and models are Hondas. So that is a relief. I guess pawning off Jag parts is not as easy as for Honda stuff. In general, I have found our fears unnecessary. We keep our windows open and no one has yet sought to climb in and rob or maim. I will decide it is a non-event. I also will visit the Enterprise Zone office and see if I can be helpful in the urban renewal. I have skills. Why not help!

Also, as I mentioned before, I have been concerned about space. This is also less of a problem, although there are some creative storage challenges for pots, pans, spices, tableware, office supplies, files, maps, and the list goes on and on. Our tableware plastic insert form, for instance is too wide for the narrow kitchen drawers. My Corning ware is a tad too wide to be placed three across on the cabinet shelf. My spices take up two cabinets—which I think, next to books, is my overdo area. But you remember I had to buy all new herbs and spices for the hotel kitchen, and now when I unpack my IL home spices, I have double contents and half the shelf space. This will dwindle and be resolved, probably by Easter, 2010. (That’s a random guess.)

I was concerned that some of the reviews of the apartment mentioned lots of noise—like hearing a fraternity party, and lots of mess—like party pizza boxes and beer bottles. I think that is not in our building, because we have not had much noise, and the so-called “paper thin walls” are not only very thick, but I can’t even hear Jay playing his beloved acoustic or new electric three rooms away in the same rooms.

So we are happy. We love the place. It is a job unpacking, and much of what we used to have at arm’s length is now down the hall in the storage room. But oh what a joy it is to have our own place, to set up housekeeping, to be able to cook beautiful meals on our Italian pottery dishes, and to have a light on without waking up the other spouse. Oh, and while we are on the subject of lights, there are none here except in the kitchen. No overhead lights! No light in the dining room, the bedroom, or the living room (which we have made from bedroom number two). So our lamps are not enough to light the way for my workday in the living room, or morning routines, like seeing our clothes, in the bedroom. This may have to result in buying more STUFF, like lamps. L

We have a checklist to hand into management, which will include the broken blinds, the broken oven door, the very old microwave, and the nicks on the walls and woodwork, plus a towel rack that dislodges from its track in our master bath. I wish the countertops in the kitchen weren’t white and prone to staining with the whiff of a coffee cup’s presence, but they are! Other than these things, the place is beautiful, and every time I look at the Realtor emails of the houses we could have bought or rented, I am thankful I did not end up in any of those dingy, small places, with overhead lights, but no character.

I love our tall industrial windows, the brick walls on the outer sides of each room, our 20X13 three rooms, our high ceilings, and even the beige carpeting has a nutmeg hue that is more appealing that I thought it would be.

I love passing the massive, exposed support wooden columns and exposed beams in the hallway, which I pass on the way to the mailboxes each day.

I love the health club. We’ve been swimming a half dozen times. And, I have also done the treadmill a couple of times. The first time I met Andy. More about her later.

Hubby is happy, I am happy, we are happy, and we thank God for His goodness in fulfilling my only request: small is okay, but please not ugly!

Hotel Stories: Moving Day

Moving day was set for October 30, which meant another flying trip back to IL for me to direct the packing, labeling, coordinating, etc.

This was supposed to be simple: just sit back and relax and a professional moving company will do it all. NOT!!!

Instead, before the relaxing, the professional moving, I had to divide the house up, finding sticky notes of color to denote which things in EVERY room would stay, and which would go with us to the apartment and the 300 square foot storage space, which was sounding more and more like what might occupy my life for the next ten years. I mean, if I didn’t have time to sell, give away or throw away all of the stuff BEFORE the move, it was only a matter of time before this task would haunt me at my new location.

You know, we spend the first half of our life accumulating, and the second half trying to get rid of it all. It is daunting. Stuff! I have really come to hate stuff!! I want no more stuff. Friends, hear this! Do NOT give me more stuff. No gifts that are not consumable, or about travel, or perhaps small boxes of writing paper—but even that will soon go the way of the dinosaur.

And, books! Oh my. Of the 17,800 pounds of stuff, 3500 were books. We do love our books, but really, this is a stat that has to change. There are libraries. So, don’t give me books either. Give me the author and title, and I will borrow it somewhere. A book is heavy. I am thinking about a Kindle, but even that is stuff, and I might miss the page turning and the feel of paper, even though many of my library loans’ pages revealed what the previous readers had been eating, or in some cases, more than I wanted to know about their DNA.

But, I digress. I got my daughter to list for me what she wanted: the claw-footed oak table and chairs, the piano (of course), the antique Singer sewing machine, the trundle bed and mattress, the treadmill, and the washer and dryer. Only problem is, she lives in one room in a house, and had to find storage. She did. Whew. Then a friend wanted our family room couch and chair, a bedroom set, and assorted other items. The rest will go to charity, and they will pick it up. Again, big whew. But, there were still 17,800 pounds to label for three different locations at the other end: the apartment, the storage room and the barn. This, of course, was also my job.

I stressed. But, there was little basis, as so often happens with worry, for my fears. And, that was due to an awesome man, named John Dalton, who when he pulled up in his Allied Van Lines semi (which he owns), communicated a calm that was contagious.

When his three mover-guys arrived, Larry, Steve and Joe, it became very clear that they were professionals, and that John’s management style left nothing to chance. They walked through the house, saw the items to stay, labeled those for the apartment, the storage room and the barn, and began packing—for the next eleven hours! The next day they loaded the truck.

At the other end, one week later, John hired Peter, Eddie, Dave and Louie, and they were most appreciative of the large entryway to the loft, and the proximity of the storage room, and they traveled on to the barn and even unloaded the lathe, the tools, the motorcycle, and the parts, plus the rest of the garage contents. I have to say here, I love that barn! J

I also have to let you know that John is a very interesting person. I plan to interview him for my Rock River Times column, Lunch with Marjorie, (which hopefully you have clicked on the live link at the bottom of this blog, and visited to peruse the many interesting stories of ordinary people, living extraordinary lives). After it is published, I will tell you more about John Dalton. But, here, it is just important to say thanks, John. You and your crews did, indeed, allow me to begin to relax and enjoy the move.

So, this is the end of hotel life, but not the end of my stories.

NEXT: Loft stories

Hotel Stories: New Beginnings

September seems so long ago. Please accept my apologies for completely skipping blog writing in October. But, you see, October was a busy month.

Actually at the end of September, I returned to the empty house in IL, ready to face another winter of vacancy where the house would begin to decline with no one living there till spring.

I was meeting with a media rep at a local café, when one of my former media reps waved hello from another table. “Are you still trying to sell your house?” she queried. “Yes,” I said, “Interested?"

“Maybe,” she said. A few casual Facebook snippets and she and her husband decided to meet with me to see if we could brainstorm a good rental agreement. And, there it was. The empty house would have a family. At first I had been adverse to children and pets—new carpeting and countertops looming before me as ruined. Then, one morning in prayer, I realized how stupid and selfish that attitude was. A 3,000 square foot living space cries out for children. Pets, hmm, maybe not. But happily they have hamsters. They will not get a dog or cat as renters, and that is okay with them, and us. But, their lovely children will enjoy each having a room of their own, and these doting parents will have space at last to roam, even an acre of lawn for play.

So, October was spent in a frenzy of house and apartment hunting, and we actually decided to pursue a whimsical desire for a loft apartment. We really only needed a house for Jay to have a garage for the motorcycle building, tinkering, etc. So, in a happy serendipity, where our friend (originally the guy who sold me a Jag on EBay), who Jay has been helping for 17 months with Maserati restoration in his several Massachusetts barns, offered some barn space for Jay to work on his bikes, house hunting took on a different perspective.

We would look at 900 square foot homes, and they were ugly and needed lots of work. And, if we were to be renters here in CT or MA, we really didn’t need that house work to occupy our lives.

We Googled apartments and actually were amazed to find a 1200 square foot loft apartment, two bedrooms, two bathrooms (many houses we found had only one), and the real clincher was a 300 square foot storage room just down the hall from our second floor apartment. So the real problem of finding space for the 3,000 square foot of furnishings, suddenly became less of a hurdle, and the garage work became a positive relationship with a really nice friend for Jay—who by the way just bought two motorcycles. Life doesn’t get any better than that for Jay.

I, in the meantime, was giddy for the old manufacturing plant, turned loft apartments. Rent includes a health club, with both indoor and outdoor pools, an exercise room, a weight room, racquetball, tennis, and fitness classes, all included in the rent. Get ready for the new me. :)

So with a short space of double payments in CT and IL, we signed a lease ending our 17-month hotel stay, and we are moving into our lofty loft at the end of October.

God is good. All the time.