Young & Restless — where 2007 will take me

“Yesterday don’t matter if it’s gone.”

It occurs to me that in all of my fantasies — all my day dreams that linger in my imagination and rise up just before falling asleep at night — I’m a vagabond… a bohemian. (Isn’t bohemian a beautiful word?) I travel the world and read and write with naught but a dog to commit to. (I will always have a dog.) And I’m always really, really happy.

Which is why, one year after I’ve started at my fantastic communications firm, I’m really feeling the itch. It’s not that I’m unhappy here… I do really like my job. It’s not that I’m not learning... my bosses are brilliant women, and simply listening to their conversations is beneficial. And it’s not that I don’t think I’m going places… after one promotion, a raise, and another promotion within reach, I’d be a fool to say I’ve “plateau-ed.” When they day comes to leave this place, I will be a bit sad. But that day will come.

People tell me I’m a fool. They say I’ve got a good thing here, I have a lease on a fantastic apartment, and staying another year would be smart — for my career, for financial reasons, for a personal life.

And yet, I can’t imagine anything worse than being in this same spot at the end of 2007 facing yet another 6 months of sameness. Instead, I see Paris in the summer, learning French. I see Provence in the fall, wining & dining, writing my book and admiring the sails. I also see D.C., enhancing my media skills as part of a political campaign (but for a candidate who’s sure to lose, freeing me from the job by November ’08 — in case I don’t like it). And I see San Francisco, where I’d empower social entrepreneurs while working for the Skoll Foundation. But there’s so much more — I see Chicago, LA, D.C. again to work at the French Embassy, Montreal to polish my language skills (but not for too long — can you imaging the winter?!), and I see myself coming back to Boston. I see a world of opportunities, and I don’t see how people could just pick one.

Is that a bad thing? Is it bad to dream of seeing the world, living in as many places as possible? I think one could argue it’s impractical — and expensive — but not bad. Is it bad to hate commitments? To think of a year as an incredibly long time? People tell me it’s not necessarily “bad,” but it is immature. I argue that it’s freedom.

And, after all, that’s the only way to be.

“There's no time to lose…
Catch your dreams before they slip away…
Lose your dreams and you will lose your
mind.”

The Oil Crisis

I’m not talking “big picture” here. I’m talking my apartment.

I woke up sick. And cold. But it’s winter in New England — it’s allowed to be cold. The trouble was I was inside, my windows are sealed, and we usually have heat. Yet on this morning — this morning when I wanted nothing more than to be warm and healthy — the familiar and gruesome groans of my radiators were silent, and there was no explanation to be found.

The day dragged on, and the rooms grew colder. But the hot water worked. And the other two apartments had heat. It was just us. Left in the cold. I called our gas company. They said that nothing was wrong, and that the house was still getting gas. And our meter was working just fine.

Meanwhile, our landlord died a few weeks ago. His wife, who is terribly sweet, is still very new to the business… and has no idea about anything to do with our apartment. She told us to bundle up, called the plumber who handles our gas heat, and promised help in the morning. “It’s probably just a pilot light or something.”

So I cuddled up to watch the degrees drop from our thermometer, fully realizing this was not the way to get better.

I awoke to a whopping 51° a falling. Tequila and I sought warmth in the confines of my office. Alex stayed home. Soon enough, shit hit the fan.

“Plumber said we’re out of oil.”

“What?” I asked, totally perplexed. “That can’t be. The real-estate agent said gas heated everything. Gas heats the 2nd and 3rd floors. We have gas heat.”

“Yea, but there are two oil tanks down there too, and there’s no gas tank hooked up to our meter,” I could almost hear him shivering and was suddenly grateful to be at work, even if I felt sick as shit. “I called a local oil company who said they can fill the tank up today.”

But that wasn’t going to work. “Those gas tanks are wicked old and unused — and it’ll be unsafe if we fill them and don’t actually have oil heat. Go check it out. The tag says it hasn’t been serviced since March of 2001.”

He paused. “The plumber said we have gas.”

“Look at the tanks. I don’t think they’re in use anymore.”

He checked them out, agreed with me. “Maybe we do have gas? I’ll call Mary.” Mary is our landlord’s widow.

“I’ll call the oil company.”

And I did. They said the last time they’d visited our address was in 2001, and we had switched to gas heat. I called Alex back, but before I could say anything, he gave me his news.

“I talked to Mary, who talked to the plumber again. He’s absolutely positive we have oil heat.”

My report just complicated things.

“I’ll call another oil company, see if we can get some fuel in here soon. It’s too cold to do nothing, Catherine.” I took his word for it.

But it still didn’t seem right. And how pissed would I be to discover we had oil heat! I mean — had we known, we would have filled the tank a long time ago to avoid such tragedies as being caught without oil in the beginning of January! Not to mention I had no money to pay for both oil AND rent — how the hell are we supposed to budget for a utility we didn’t even know we had?! Plus, oil is cheaper than gas. And how come our landlord doesn’t know what kind of heat we have? Why the hell can’t anyone figure it out?!

Not to mention it’s “that time of the month”… which, when combined with the killer cold I was struggling through, made me even more irritable and angry.

N*Star, the people who do our gas and electricity, were especially helpful.

“Hi, I’m calling because my apartment has no heat, it’s friggen cold, my landlord died and his wife doesn’t know what kind of heat we have. The gas guy(/plumber) says it’s oil, the oil company says it’s gas. Can you tell me how we heat our place?”

The man laughed at me for a second. “It says here your address is heated by gas.”

THANK YOU. I was full of pride (for being correct), relief (for not having to pay for oil), and frustration (because no one was addressing the core problem, which had something to do with our GAS furnace. Then the N*Star man said:

“Oh wait, it looks like the other two apartments pay for gas heat. It’s hard to say how you get yours. I suppose it could be oil… although I’m not sure that’s legal.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yea, houses in Mass. aren’t supposed to have two different sources like that. Most people switch from oil to gas because gas is cleaner, safer and less expensive. The only real exception for having two sources is if it’s a really old house and they can’t convert the first floor.”

Good thing I live on the first floor of a house that was built in 1871.

“I really can’t tell from here. Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he said.

“Yea, thanks.”

And the mystery continued. I flipped out. How do we have oil heat and not know it? What do we do now? How come we were led to believe we had gas? And what’s the landlord going to do for us, seeing as we can’t possibly pay for $600 in fuel in addition to our rent?!

Work sent me home. Sick and angry is no way to be in the office. Alex spared Mary from my wrath, but she still promised to help us with our first filling… and she promised to have the oil tank cleaned and checked.

I arrived home just after the oil man left.

“Guess what?” Alex asked as soon as I walked in the door.

“We have gas heat?” I practically expected a yes — which would have really sent me flying.

“No. The oil guy was the one who filled the tank up last year — so now we know we have oil heat.”

“Great,” although I didn’t feel relieved at all. ‘Surprise — you have oil!’ wasn’t exactly the post-holiday excitement I was looking for. “Then why is it so cold in here?” It was still 51°.

“We can’t turn it on until the furnace heats up, and since it’s been empty and cold for a few days, that’ll probably take a few more hours.”

So Alex and I both grabbed an extra down comforter or two, put on some slippers and extra sweatshirts, crashed on the couch and watched TV.

And when that familiar and gruesome groan filled our apartment, we sighed with relief. There is nothing greater than heat.

A Place I can be Proud of

It’s been three months since the mold was cleared out and we moved in. It’s been three months of weekly additions (mostly courtesy of my parents) and frequently cleanings. It’s been a testament of creativity in apartment dwelling.

But, as proven by my most recent weekend with my grandparents, it’s been a success. They spent the evening Chez Nous, soaked in Slummerville, and gave a positive verdict. We even had fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Yes, I’ve had friends spend the night before… but they currently reside in college dorms or ship hulls. Almost anything is an improvement.

This place was once a disaster... now it’s a home.

My kitchen — once grimy, riddled with holes and makeshift goods, and severely lacking in counter space — is now warm and fun, red & black with sun flowers and pictures of Paris. Not to mention our incredible pots, pans, kitchen utensils, portable dishwasher, pantry, island, and window coverings.

My living room — formally ad hoc and overwhelming — is now filled with nice furniture (including a hardly used sleep-sofa sectional found on craigslist for a third of the original price…$300!) and themed decorations — from the cocktail-covered clock to the framed photographs of my favorite French vineyards.

My bathroom — which I feared would never be private or clean — now sparkles and is protected by special film and waterproof curtain. Plus, from the shower curtain to the decorative soaps, it screams beach and French Riviera. All the photographs — two of Tequila, one of Alex and I, and one picturesque Mediterranean shot — have L’Esquinade for the backdrop.

And my bedroom — once a drafty corner too crowded to exist in — is heat sealed and clearly laid out, full of color and fun. That is, after all, what happens when you theme a bedroom after vintage French travel posters...

Even Alex’s room, with my brand-new never-used cranberry curtains and green comforter, looks great.

This is a place I can proud of.