Tag Archives: storage

1.30 Takeaway

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(Teriyaki Salmon, Miso and California Rolls were the first items we unpacked! So Good!)

Recalling my initial reaction to Sunny Valley Farm, I decided to wait until I got home before calling Sarah. Crashing the Princess due to distracted driving (i.e., Little Ben drives me to distraction) wouldn’t fit within my budgetary constraints at the moment. So I opted to sit on the garden wall in the Lavender Lady’s back garden and watch the squirrels and birds fight over acorns while I dialed her number.

Waiting for Sarah answer, I took stock of all the good things surrounding me – my toes felt warm and cozy in my wool socks, my crochet scarf kept the brisk air off my neck, and a handful of cookies kept my tummy full on this fine fall day. Sarah picked up on the fourth ring.

Sarah (chirping): “Hey mom! I can’t talk right now. I’m at work. Mind if I stop by for dinner tonight?”

Me: “Little Ben’s right there?”

Sarah (still chirpy): “Yup! So dinner?”

Me: “Seven sound good?”

Sarah (still channeling her inner cheerleader): “Great! See you then! Love you!”

Click.

Little Ben must have been standing right next to her. 

Which isn’t as creepy as it sounds, Sarah Armstrong is Nevermore’s Chief Funeral Director (she prefers the title mortician, but Big Ben won’t let her change it). Who often works within close proximity of Little Ben. I texted Beatrice and added an extra entree to the Chinese takeout order for this evening.  Then thought about it and added three more and a side of hom bow to my request. 

Fortunately, my earlier tasks ate up enough of the day that seven pm rolled around rather quickly. Three hours flew by while I disassembled Laundry Island, made my bed and participated in a lengthy discussion Harold S. Ellington (Beatrice’s skeleton) about my current inquiry while dusting the front room (nope not stalling at all).

At a quarter of seven, Beatrice rolled thru the front door juggling two large boxes filled with takeout containers plus her bag and briefcase. Relieving her of the boxes, I breathed in the wonderfully spicey smells of General Tso’s Chicken and Mongolian Beef. Setting the boxes down on the entryway table I perused the selections, egg rolls, yakisoba, all kinds of veggies covered in multiple sauces (I love sauce) and a variety of rice dishes. At this point, my stomach realized the pancakes and cookies left the building hours ago and threatened to attack the takeout boxes directly, Alien-style.

Beatrice (a bit out of breath): “So, why did I buy enough food to feed a small army?”

Me (wishing I could filch an egg roll): “I might have invited one?”

Beatrice: “That’s a good reason. Why?”

Me: “To help move my table and stuff into the garden shed.”

Beatrice (smiled and arched her eyebrow): “Nothing to do with not wanting to go by yourself?”

Me: “Nope.”

And with timing only Dourwood can muster, he knocked, saving my bacon from Beatrice’s follow-up funny.

Wood: “Bee! Morticia! How are the new housemates doing? Hmm…do I smell Chinese?”

Me: “Sure do. Sushi too! And you’ll get some right after you help me move some stuff into storage.”

Wood: “Morticia, I would love to, but I’m not dressed for it. My suit….”

Me (crossing my arms over my chest, trying to look stern):”…Is perfectly fine. And after you help me move my boxes, we’ll eat the takeout in the shed. Where you can pay Beatrice the ten bucks, you owe her.”

Wood (laughing, looking between Beatrice and I): “Ahh, you told her about the bet? Thick as thieves already! I knew you guys would be great together! Let me grab my sneakers out of the car and roll up my sleeves. That food smells terrific by the way, had an emergency ear infection come in, so I missed lunch.”

He gave me a quick squeeze then darted back outside again. 

Beatrice (shaking her head and laughing): “Can I change? Or should my penance extend to trying to bend and lift while wearing a pencil skirt?” 

Me (smiling): “No, go change. You bought food, that was our deal.”

Sarah walked in with Wood who’d retrieved his sneakers. Things moved quickly with three people (Sarah only carried the food down, wasn’t fair to rope her into Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum’s atonement), everyone laughed when I recounted (with Wood providing sound effects) why I disliked garden sheds. My 50’s style Formica and aluminum kitchen table fit perfectly into the middle of the shed – providing a flat and stable surface for both eating and map reading. 

Fortunately for Wood and I, tonight the former came before the latter.

1.24 One More Time With Feeling

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(My plate after Beatrice and I dished up our late dinner!)

The shadows shrouding the walk between the alley (where I was allowed to park the Princess) and the Lavender Lady were only slightly shallower than those I’d encountered in Nevermore this evening. We really needed some landscape lights back here. 

I’d take a candlelit lantern at this point.

Fearing Ms. Hettie might mistake me for a prowler if I used my flashlight to traverse the walkway, I made do with the intermittent moonlight. Walking at a pace which snails would find laughable, I finally made it to my door, my toes remaining unscathed for the first time tonight. Win!

My victory lasted precisely three paces. 

The same toes which Mr. Grindle’s crutch repeatedly mashed and I stubbed against a tombstone were abused once more when they came to an abrupt halt against the metal joint of my roommate’s suitcase. Which she’d thoughtfully left lying just inside the door. No longer needing to stay silent I gave full voice to the sentiments felt by my beleaguered digits, this venting allowed me to catch myself before kicking the suitcase with the same foot in retaliation for the pain and suffering it caused (who says a fool can’t learn?). 

Me (borrowing the profanity filter from The Good Place): “Holy mother forking shirt balls! Steel-toed Forking boots, part of my first Forking paycheck needs to fund the purchase of Forking steel-toed boots.”

While I hopped about yelling Beatrice stuck her head out of the kitchen.

Beatrice: “While not a traditional greeting, I’ll take it. Hello Phoebe.”

Continuing to hop around, I glared in her general direction while my litany of questionable language streamed on unabated. I wonder if Wood would look at my toes to ascertain if they sustained any hairline fractures this evening…

Beatrice (unfazed by spectacle I presented, waved her hand towards her baggage): “I’ll pick those up in a second. Come into the kitchen. I fixed snacks.”

The swinging door swooshed back and forth when she went back into the kitchen fanning the pleasant aromas of sautéed onions, garlic, and basil in my direction. Snacks? Deciding it was pure foolishness to hop on one foot down a hallway strewn with bags, boxes and a crate (Seriously? A crate? I don’t remember hauling this much stuff to the airport), I put both feet on the floor and threaded my way through the maze. 

Opening the kitchen door with care, I scanned the floor before looking at a rather amused Beatrice and the platter of bruschetta she held in her hands. 

Beatrice: “No new objects in here to trip over in here I’m afraid.”

Placing the platter on the table between us, she waited until I sat down before dividing the tomato topped toast between our two plates.

Beatrice: “Senior dance tonight? I didn’t think the Center was open this late.”

Me (needing a moment to chew and swallow before answering): “Nothing so exciting. Forgot to turn my meter off, got a late fare.” 

Beatrice (arching an eyebrow): “Someone give you a hard time?”

Me: “No, just a weird guy. Good tipper. Speaking of weird, what’s up with Ms. Hettie?”

Beatrice (delicately nibbling her little slice of heaven): “You met our landlady? By the way, do not ever call her that.”

Me: “She accused me of being a thief.”

Beatrice (snorted): “Seriously? You met her? And she conversed with you? Did someone introduce you two?”

Me (muttering): “Technically we spoke if you call throwing accusations and general unhelpfulness speaking.” 

Beatrice (cocking her head): “No you don’t get it, she doesn’t talk to anyone unless introduced to them. Ever.” 

Me: “She wasn’t shy with me.”

Beatrice (hand hovering over her plate): “What happened?”

Describing my fruitless quest of locating the mythical storage area, the general crabbiness of Ms. Hettie and her accusatory air to Beatrice I finally appreciated the ridiculousness of the entire episode. The only hitch in the giddy-up? I still had an island of boxes in the middle of my room which is starting to morph into an oddly shaped laundry pile. 

Beatrice (looked thoughtful while she polished off her portion of the late night snack): “Maybe she likes you? I am not sure. She’s not rude to me, but quirky I suppose could come off the same way…”

Me (finishing off my food, I grabbed our plates and put them in the sink): “Well if you could show me where the storage area is I’d be grateful. Maybe Ms. Hettie will come by while were moving stuff, and you can witness her hostility towards me first hand.”

Beatrice: “How about tomorrow? Early? If you get up around six, I can show you the building before I head to work.”

Me: “Sounds like a plan.”

The early bird catches the worm, right?

1.18 Sugar & Spice and Nothing Nice

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Remember when I I said I forgot to ask Beatrice about something when she toured me through the Lavender Lady? When she lured me into a very reasonable lease?

Yeah, I figured it out.

The penny dropped when I started searching for the promised storage area.

It turns out Beatrice owned a rather nice espresso machine, so I finished unpacking and arranging my books (then rearranging them when I imagined a better way), rebuilding my bed and hanging up my clothes in two days.

However during said process, an island coalesced into existence in the center of my room. Unopened boxes which contained useful yet redundant items; a second set of dishes, silverware, pots and pans, my dinner table and such. While putting my stuff away, I’d poked my nose into all kinds of interesting corners of the apartment and I knew this mythical storage spaces wasn’t inside our four walls (I did earmark a few places for further investigation). Now why didn’t I just ask Beatrice? She left the day after I moved in for Scotland. Pulp sent her to a book festival and she wasn’t going to return until the following Saturday. I didn’t think my itch to finish (and to quit barking my shins on the boxes) warranted a transcontinental call.

Which is why on I found myself on my tiptoes peeking in outbuildings around grounds. I found a tool shed and potting bench, a root cellar (which could also double as an oubliette), a garden shed (which I couldn’t see inside because of some very thorny rose bushes and a locked door) and the garage – which looked promising, but the only thing in it was a vintage Chevy Impala, not a single shelf in sight.

That’s when she caught up with me.

A voice croaked behind me: “What are you doing? Casing up my house?”

Startled, since I hadn’t heard her approach, I whipped around and saw the cutest little old lady standing on the walk. She looked like an advertisement with her long braid of silver hair, rosy cheeks and pleasant plumpness. She wore a frilly apron over her sweater and jeans and a pair of sensible shoes on her feet. I could just imagine her baking sugar cookies for her grandkids’ school bake sale or knitting red woolen mittens for neighborhood kids. I tried to discreetly look around for who’d spoken me – because the voice I heard didn’t match the person standing in front of me.

The vision of sugar and spice opened her mouth: “Well? Are you one of the thieves who robbed me?”

Seriously, the croaking ten-pack-a-day-washed-down-with-a-half-a-bottle-of-bourbon voice came from her and she thought I burgled her house. Fantastic.

Me (with my brain still trying to align incongruous sensory input, fell back onto Aunt Pearl’s axiom ‘politeness never hurt anyone’): “No ma’am. My name is Phoebe Arden, Beatrice’s new roommate…”

Her (cutting me off without any attempt to conceal her suspicion, she barked): “Doesn’t mean you’re not a thief.”

Me (trying again): “I’m not ma’am. Beatrice left for a week and forgot to tell me where the storage space is. So I was seeing if I could find it myself.”

Her: “So snooping then?”

Me (praying she had a cellphone in one of those adorably frilly pockets): “I’m not snooping, ma’am. I am just looking for someplace to put my extra boxes. Call Beatrice, she’ll tell you who I am.”

Her (snorting and crossing her arms over the geese frolicking across the apron top): “Don’t need to. I know who you are and I don’t like snoops.”

Me (an idea finally dawned on me): “I am not snooping. Are you Ms. Hettie?”

Her (a sneered marred the laugh lines around her mouth): “Who else would I be?”

Me (irritated by her manner and lack of manners): “So if you know who I am, you know I’m not going to rob you and I am not snooping around. Will you show me where the storage space is?”

Ms. Hettie: “Beatrice can show you when she gets home.”

With that she turned on her heel and disappeared around the corner of the garage – leaving me gaping like a fish at her unwarranted unpleasant attitude. Then I remembered Beatrice’s comment in Altar about Ms. Hettie and the other shoe dropped, “…when she gets nervous she gets cranky, well crankier.”

Well hell, I forgot to ask Beatrice what her definition of cranky was. Maybe calling her in Scotland wasn’t such a bad idea?