doubting thom

It’s been a somewhat productive afternoon. After calling the heating contractor and hearing the cost estimate, I finally was spurred to start the process of something I should have done several months ago but, unfortunately, procrastinated: refinance my condo. I’ve missed the incredibly low rates of just a couple months ago, but the rates are still good, still better than my current ARM, and with the equity I’ve built over the past seven years I’ll be able to stop paying PMI each month.

So I’m planning to refinance and take cash out. I can use the cash to pay for the new heat pump and to finance my new car significantly if not entirely, and I’ll be able to deduct the interest. That will also reduce my car payment to nothing or nearly that, and I can use the difference to fund a higher mortgage payment, meaning I can refinance to a 15-year loan and save a lot in interest over the lifetime of the mortgage.

I’ve got a phone appointment with a loan officer this evening once I’m home from work. I’m really excited about finally moving on this, and having the cash to take care of these big ticket items without depleting my savings and cash-on-hand. I may just treat myself to an iPod after all.

After conferring with Jay, my ex, who’s very knowledgeable about the heating and cooling systems at my condo (he lives in the same building, and is on the board of directors), I placed a call on Tuesday to one of the contractors to inquire about getting a new heat pump installed. The contractor called me back later that afternoon, but I wasn’t able to return the call until today.

Of course–given my luck–the heat pump in my unit has a right-hand intake (the contractor says that half of the units in my building have right-hand and half have left-hand), which apparently is rarer and harder to find; the contractor says that it can take as much as six to eight weeks to get one installed if the distributor doesn’t have any readily available (they keep many more of the left-hand models in stock). I’m going to call him when I get home tonight to verify the model number of my existing system, which will allow us to determine the capacity needed in the new unit.

And Jay was pretty darn close in his estimate of the cost, telling me it would likely be about four grand. The new system itself will be $3,680 (covering removal and disposal of the existing system and installation of the new), with a programmable thermostat an additional $250, for a total of $3,930 before tax. Granted, everyone keeps saying that a new model will pay for itself over time because it will be so much more efficient than the old one that my heating and cooling costs will be reduced. But my electric bill–which covers not just heating and cooling, but cooking, washing, drying and computers, televisions, etc.–has only been $82 at its highest during the month of August when the air conditioner was on almost non-stop, and has averaged just $56 over the past six months. The lowest, when the heat pump wasn’t running at all, was $45. So even if the new unit were so efficient that my costs never went above $45, it would still take me almost nine years to recoup the cost of the new system. On the other hand, a new unit should add to my eventual resale value, and will definitely be quieter and cleaner.

So that’s one big problem nearly resolved. Now I need to turn my attention to my transportation situation; I think Jeff and I are going to visit the Toyota dealer this Saturday to see about putting a deposit down on a new Prius.

When we first started getting hanging out together and then started dating, Jeff and I saw some concerts, musicals, and a lot of films. More recently, though, I’d been feeling guilty because I felt like my schedule–hospital visits, home visits, work–had been preventing us from going out at all. But we seem to be getting back into a bit of a cultural groove.

After having planned earlier to see Arena Stage’s production of Shakespeare in Hollywood, circumstances seemed to make it unlikely. Last Friday, however, on a somewhat spur-of-the-minute decision earlier in the day to purchase same-day half-price tickets, we had dinner on the waterfront and then saw the play, which I found very funny and enjoyable. I was surprised to overhear a 20- or 30-something man after the performance say that it “the most ribald play he’d ever seen.” Since I found the sexual humor in the play no more bawdy than Shakespeare’s own work, I found myself wondering if the young man’s previous cultural experience had peaked with Disney on Ice.

And tonight we have tickets to Ballet Boyz, a very intriguing-sounding troupe from the George Piper Dances dance company out of London, principally comprised of two male dancers formerly with the Royal Ballet.

Should be fun. As the Washington Post notes:

When they fly into Washington Tuesday for their area debut at Lisner Auditorium under the auspices of the Washington Performing Arts Society, Trevitt and Nunn will have video cameras in tow. For along with their envelope-pushing program choices–which include William Forsythe’s tensile “Steptext,” British choreographer Russell Maliphant’s male duet “Torsion” and New York City Ballet resident choreographer Christopher Wheeldon’s contemporary yet classical “Mesmerics”–the two also have a knack for filmmaking. They carry cameras everywhere on tour, in rehearsal, in airports and restaurants, making short films that they intersperse between the performed pieces. These video diaries might offer a glimpse of rehearsal, of life backstage, of their idiosyncratic impressions of living on the road or, as Trevitt, 34, says with a hint of wink, “a night out with the showgirls in D.C.”

I’ve seen the purported sociological studies of usage and avoidance patterns for urinals in men’s bathrooms (e.g., in a bank of urinals, the newcomer takes the urinal that affords the most distance from men already standing at others), but there are a range of interesting bathroom behaviors. There are the usual suspects of those who never flush or those who repeatedly flush every ten to twenty seconds while seated on the toilet, those who wash their hands when they enter the bathroom but not when they leave, those who bypass the seat cover dispenser but then are heard tearing off strips of toilet paper to line the seat, etc.

Yesterday, though, I saw evidence of an unusual and previously unobserved behavior: scattered over the floor in and around one stall were little pills of paper, as though the person sitting on the toilet had torn off strips of toilet paper, rolled them up into little balls, and then randomly tossed or rolled them under the partition.

My mom has one uncle, her father’s youngest brother, who’s actually only a few years older than she. Moreover, his two daughters are only a couple of years older than me. When I was a kid, they lived in Northern Virginia and we didn’t see them very frequently, usually once a year for sure on Independence Day and only very occasionally otherwise. I regret this, because they were a lot of fun and I really enjoyed the times we did spend together.

And, in the way that these things so often go, now that we’re grown and I’m also living in Northern Virginia, I actually see less of my great-uncle and his family. The eldest daughter still lives in the same general area with her own family (including one child in college and another who’s a senior in high school; where has the time gone?), but because of job demands the younger moved to Vermont with her husband and son a number of years ago.

Fortunately, on a business trip there in 2001, I got to have dinner with my cousin (first, once-removed) and her son. It was so nice to see them, but we hadn’t been in touch again since. After my father’s death, though, she sent me an email (and a card) explaining that after she heard the news, she was thinking of me, searched on my name online and found this blog. This is one of the reasons I so love the Internet.

So, hey there, cuz! Great to hear from you, and I hope I can get back up there to see you again.

Last month I posted about my ongoing search for the best sour apple martini. Although the drink I had last night was called a sour apple margarita and is therefore not a martini, most of the other contemporary drinks called “martinis” are not technically martinis, either, so with my complete editorial discretion I’m going to include last night’s anyway.

Jeff and I had dinner at Chevy’s Fresh Mex at Pentagon City, and I ordered the Sour Apple Margarita, a “tart blend of Sauza Gold tequila, Pucker Green Apple and fresh-squeezed lime juice.” Served in a heavy, large, attractive green margarita glass, their standard size (they also offer an option to supersize it, or whatever catchphrase they use) is quite large and a real bargain at $5.75.

Larger and cheaper than Fuzio’s sour apple martini ($7.95), the sour apple ‘rita presentation included three huge floating slices of a Granny Smith apple (complete cross-sections), and tasty sour apple-flavored sugar on the rim. Taking a sip, Jeff agreed that this drink was quite yummy (and his own mango cocktail, served in a mug, was so fruity-tasting he didn’t quite remember it contained alcohol until he nearly swooned).

Of the current three contenders, the Chevy’s sour apple margarita is now the sour apple cocktail to beat.

[Addendum 16 Oct 2003 15:32]
Since this entry originally was published, Jeff also has posted about our evening at Pentagon City; it has indeed become a meeting place for us. When my car was working, it was the closest Metro stop from my house and an easy pick-up spot when he would come over after work; now that the car is garaged for the moment, it’s an extremely convenient, five-minute bus ride from the end of my block.

As my cat-sitter, personal baker and incredibly understanding boyfriend noted, I went back to visit Mom and my family again this past weekend. I calligraphed my dad’s name on acknowledgement cards and addresses on envelopes for about 50 thank-yous which Mom was going to complete this week. We also took care of several “firsts”–Mom’s first trip outside the house for groceries without Dad, first meal out, first return to church, first visit to Dad’s sister, etc. Life slowly returns to a semblance of what now passes for normality.

I’ve been sick since last Wednesday, with what appears to be a bad cold–congestion, headache, cough. Thursday and Friday I sounded like the adolescent Peter Brady as his voice changed, and at times I’d open my mouth to speak and nothing at all would come out. I’m feeling better each day; the cough lingers on, especially bad at night, but my voice is returning to normal.

Work has been much more stressful than usual lately, for all of my group, with some amazingly bad timing given the personal demons that several of us are fighting–besides my father’s death, one co-worker’s partner broke up with her and is kicking her out of the house, another experienced a personal tragedy not unlike mine, and another was notifed of the death of a close family friend. Additionally, due to circumstances not completely in our control and just bad timing and worse luck, some people in high places haven’t been altogether happy with our department recently.

But my co-worker Waldo supports me with his perennial positive outlook, despite his own stresses and troubles, and my friends and family console me with their outpouring of love. And most of all, Jeff is just there with his calm assuredness about us and his unwavering support during a time that could be trying for any relationship, much less only a burgeoning one. I do feel sad and regretful that circumstances haven’t permitted us as much fun as we had been having, and that our time together has been significantly proscribed as I’ve spent all but the hurricane weekend away for the past month, and will likely be spending many more away. But I need to take to heart his words to me today, as he reminded me that I can continue to lean on him, that “a friend doubles your joy and halves your sorrow.” And what the sometimes cynical, at times self-pitying me might have considered just a platitude in the abstract, really does feel truer here in the reality of my sorrow, anger and even still the occasional joy.

And–at the risk of another “aww, shucks” from himself–some of those specific joys included returning home last night to Jeff busying himself in my kitchen and feeding Alex, and to a loaf of delicious pumpkin bread (even if Jeff does say so himself), and the warm fuzzy from Jeff earlier having said on the phone that he’d meet me “at home”–not at “your home” or “the condo” but just “at home.” And it does feel like home when he’s here.

From his recent trip to Boston, Jeff brought me back a truly gorgeous, green-gold tie from the MFA store.

On Thursday, when we were picking out a suit and accessories to take to the funeral home for Dad to be dressed in, Mom told me to take any ties of his that I wanted to remember him by; I chose two, one an abstract sky blue and gold pattern on a violet background, the other a tie from Harrods that I’d given to Dad after a trip I’d taken to England in 2000 with small gold foxes and hunting horns on a red background (Dad’s longtime nickname was “Fox,” as in “Crazy like a…,” and he collected foxes).

In the course of writing this entry, I was reminded of another incident from the weekend, among the most personally touching and emotional but which I had neglected to include in my Day 3 entry. On Saturday before we left for the viewing at the funeral home, Mom called me aside into the bedroom and shut the door. She then placed a ring in my hand, a signet engraved with the initials for the first and last names shared by my grandfather, father and myself. The ring had belonged to my grandfather, my mother said, and upon his death had gone to my father. She said that Dad had always said that if anything happened to him, he wanted the ring to come to me. A fit for my middle finger, it was much too small for my father’s significantly larger fingers, so I don’t recall ever having seen it or having known of its existence. But it’s an interesting connection with my paternity, and a beautiful, simple piece of jewelry, and its passing to me at that time and in that way created a special emotional moment between my mother and me.

While I both wanted and needed to be with my family through the events of this past week, I’m also very happy to be back home now. I love my family, but even under less stressful and tragic circumstances being with all of them can be overwhelming after a few days. And I’ll be spending a lot of time there over the next few months, so I’m trying not to begrudge myself enjoying being back here in my quiet, peaceful little condo.

And it was so, so wonderful to meet Jeff last night for dinner and to come back to my place together afterwards (where we watched Down with Love, a very cute film he’d been talking about for months). I hadn’t seen Jeff since I left for Richmond and Covington very early last Thursday morning, and I’d missed him quite a lot in the intervening week.

Saturday Mom and I stayed home all morning and afternoon. My oldest nephew had to referee two soccer games in the late morning, and afterwards my sister took him to the funeral home, so that he could see “the remains” on his own before the viewing and visitation scheduled that evening.

The viewing for friends of the family was scheduled from 7 to 8:30 p.m.; the family went down early, around 6, to have some time alone before people started arriving. Unfortunately, people started arriving by 6:30 and we didn’t really have a chance to organize ourselves first into a receiving line. Suddenly there was a crowd of people and we were inundated; Mom and I were both at the front of the room, near the casket, but about ten feet away from her. We were so surrounded by people that it took me ten to fifteen minutes to get back to her; I got her a chair, but she never really had a chance to sit, as people kept pulling her up and into hugs. And the tide of people kept sweeping me away from her again and again.

It was really rather a brutal experience, and part of the entire death/funeral process the value of which I don’t entirely appreciate. While I understand that people who knew my father needed a chance to see him and grieve, and to tell us about him and to express their love and condolences, there’s almost a cruelty done to the family, keeping the emotional wound very open and raw; the visitors get to come in, say their piece, and leave, but we were faced with such raw emotion again and again and again, and never really were able to get in touch with our own. It was one of the most emotionally exhausting experiences I’ve been through; by 8:30, we were all aching both physically and emotionally. By the time we got home that evening, a part of me just wanted to scream to all the visitors to get out of the house.

In fact, we almost never had any time to ourselves. Family and friends would start arriving as early as 8 or 9 a.m. and there would still be people at the house as late as midnight or 1 a.m. By the end of the weekend I found myself torn between wanting to remain there with my mom and the rest of the family and coming home to my quiet condo where I could finally hear my own thoughts and feel my own emotions, rather than constantly listening to other people talk and reacting to their feelings.