Moving sucks and I want it to be over. The end.
A few weeks ago, before the onus of moving was really upon us, I had a lot of smug ideas about how organized I was, how I was “basically done” packing and how I would probably be writing how-to posts about moving and how to make it go smoothly. Now that I’m in the shit, I realize that I didn’t know anything about it, and I still have a lot of dumb things in my apartment, and a lot of dumb work to do that I would rather forego in favor of unpacking at the new house. But I can’t, because I was dumb. Anyway. This is what our house looks like at night:
Our little tract is full of variations on this theme, sort of an English storybook revival minimalist traditional kind of cottage thing. Looking around the neighborhood, it seems that you could opt for a fireplace or no, front door on the side or in the middle, dormers pointy or cut off (sorry, I don’t know the technical terms yet), or a host of other options offered by the Los Angeles Investment Company. Our house was built in 1924, but I think the kitchen and baths were redone sometime in the late 1940’s or 50’s.
Note the beige carpet in the first kitchen pic there. It factors in later.
One of my unexpectedly favorite features of the house is the bathtub in one of the weird bathrooms. The assessor’s records list our house as a 3 bedroom 1 bath. We bought it as a 2 bedroom 2 bath with the second bedroom being an addition, so I can’t imagine what’s going on there. The bathrooms are small, so my unsubstantiated hunch is that it was a jack and jill situation and they were divided in the 1940’s, but again, I’m dumb. Our bathtub is deep and old and is surrounded by layers of what may be wood and caulk. I don’t know. It’s weird.
If you’re noticing a color story here, I would agree that it could best be described as something like “living in a cookie dough covered world” or “it’s better in butter.” EVERYTHING in the house is painted with many, many coats of sickly yellow or white paint. And, oddly, all the windows are painted shut. And there’s no air conditioning. And it’s 90 degrees outside at night. I mentioned that the bathtub is a favorite. I fill it with cold water and drink cold wine and write.
We quickly noticed this funny little gnome door in the hallway.
We opened it.
We have a claw foot tub.
This little door allows access to plumbing and dreams, of a bathroom with hex tile and pretty woodwork and open windows and a refinished claw foot bathtub, with a reclaimed wood caddy stretched across its width.
For now, though, I’m still moving.