Wherein our intrepid diarist whines like a spoiled brat.
6:12 p.m.
Have I ever told you about my grandfather�s desk? No? Forgive me. What a grave oversight. When we first moved into this house in 1990, when it was brand new and we were first-time ever homeowners after having rented other people�s houses either as sabbatical leave tenants or from the university while the actual tenant was taking an unpaid leave (he eventually left his job here to take a fulltime job there), my mother told me that I was taking my clock. I�ve already told you about the clock. Tick tock.
Well, in order to make it worth our while getting a mover to move it and all, I also wheedled several other pieces of furniture out of her, including my grandmother�s china cabinet (which a cousin had borrowed, painted white and yellow and returned in that blasphemous state), two gumwood bookcases which had belonged to my great-aunt, my grandfather�s oak desk and matching chair (I don�t think they really match, though) and a rug which I had purchased as an impoverished student in university and left at my parents� when I moved to Ann Arbor.
The bookcases were nailed into the concrete blocks of the house�s foundation, and my dad took a crowbar to them (I shudder just remembering it) to part them from the wall. They have glass doors, and each had one of the original leaded-glass windows and one plate glass window. The china cabinet had a curved glass window in the front door, which got broken in transit (thank goodness I paid for insurance as it cost a pretty penny to replace). One of the plain windows was also broken, but that was easily enough replaced.
We were lucky enough to get the number of a retired fellow in Waterville who reconditions furniture (I don�t know if this guy is even still alive), and he redid everything (except the clock case which was fine as it was), stripping the white and yellow paint from the china cabinet and replacing the broken glass (except for the bomb� door, which had to be done by a specialist) and getting two new leaded glass windows made for the bookcase doors. He did a beautiful job on the desk.
Anyway, the desk is now in the attic, the bookcases are in the dining room on either side of the antique hutch I bought in North Hatley when we were living on campus (they fit perfectly with no room at all left over, quite amazing) and the china cabinet is opposite the hutch. The rug is in our bedroom and looks pretty ratty (hey, it�s old and it was cheap to start with), but at least we don�t get out of bed and put our tender tootsies onto the bare wood floor.
So, why am I telling you all this? Because I have spent the whole day copying music, wishing there was someone online to talk to, eating baked goods and chocolates and sweets and feeling rather pukey, and feeling sorry for myself because I don�t have a life. At least tomorrow evening we are meeting our friends D & S with their two boys (the older of whom is slightly autistic, which has been a challenge, to say the least) at the Vietnamese restaurant (D is allergic to wheat, so I figured this would be a good place), and the next day our friends from New York are coming to ring in the new year with us as they travel from his parents� home in the Ottawa Valley back to the Big Apple. So, it�s not as though stuff won�t be happening, it�s just not happening right now.
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