Interlude

I spent a goodly amount of last night preparing my room for rearrangement. My bed, which was too high, (srsly, I pulled something a few months ago trying to hoist myself into it) was to be de-box-springed and be-slatted. Bulky Item Pick-up had been arranged for early this morning so cleaning and vacuuming ensued.

At the appointed time, I wrestled the mattress off the plateau which had served as my bed for over a year. This was not as easy as it might be – the mattress is memory foam, which is both heavy and non-rigid. It flopped about malevolently as I attempted to remove it from the frame and then lean it against the wall. Eventually, it leaned against the opposite wall I had intended, but at least it leaned.

For the box spring, I enlisted De’s help. For some reason known only to jerkface mattress manufacturers, there were no grab handles on the box spring. Trying to pry the damn thing out of the frame without crushing my fingers was a challenge I hope never to repeat. Eventually we got it out and tetris-ed it through the narrow hallway and into the living room. I took a break to prepare a peanut-butter kong for Ardala so she wouldn’t get under foot. The dog pacified, we continued to scoot the ungainly base through the hallway when we were beset by another problem – how to get the thing into the elevator. It was too “long” to fit in the elevator, but too “tall” to tip up on it’s side in the hallway. There was much staring, shoving, cogitating and swearing. Since the box spring had itself been delivered through the selfsame elevator and hallway, I was determined that I could figure it out.

Luckily our next door neighbor, an architect, saw us struggling and explained how the box spring could be moved through 3 dimensions (canted towards us and then tipped up – hurrah!) and we were able to make it to the elevator and similarly able to unload it from said elevator, push it through the garage and up the driveway to lean it against a conveniently located palm tree. Sweaty and gross, we went back upstairs, where I excitedly unrolled my new slats onto the bed frame.

You know what’s awesome? When you realize you’ve been misusing your bedframe for over a year due to the upside-down installation of your side-rails. The center beam was a good 3 inches lower than the side-rails. Suffice to say, this configuration is not the most conducive to having an even surface to lay a mattress on.

I spent the night on the single mattress in the living room. The bed will be partially disassembled and reassembled (right-side up!) this evening. There will probably be drinking. But at least I learned something about myself. 1. in the event of future Ikea purchases, I will pay to have the Ikea people assemble the furniture. 2. I am now of the age that any atypical physical exertion requires the dose of at least one NSAID. 3. no matter how feminist you are, sometimes you have to be the re-inforcer of sexist stereotypes – in this case, spatial reasoning, which men are reputed to be better at. And maybe 4. eff that rancid “Girls” show about a bunch of spoiled dumbass white chicks in NYC, someone needs to film two middle-aged fatties trying to move furniture around. That shit would be funny as hell to watch. Call me, HBO!

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I swear this is not a blog about poverty…

I finally got my cello put back together (FINALLY!) and assembled my cello throne (related to the Drum Throne rather than the Iron Throne). Took me forever to thread that A-string back in the peg – I don’t remember it being that difficult. Did I just break a lot of strings in High School, or am I not breaking enough now? At any rate, it’s back on, the bridge has been slightly adjusted and it’s within a step and a half from 440. Didn’t want to snap it from over-tuning after all that hard work and swearing.

Trying to remember the first time I changed a string was a challenge. It was surely around 6th grade, when I was a Srs Cello Player who thought she was going to grow up to be even more Srs. I could not have predicted how far off my life would be.

Let me make it clear – I count myself as incredibly fortunate and pretty well-off, even if my credit sucks, I just barely bought a new car at nearly 40, and I will never own a home. I regret absolutely none of the turns my life has taken, even if I’m not a two-time Tony award winning belter with a house full of cats. But as far back as I can remember I had always assumed I’d be a Patron of the Arts. Maybe not a name-on-the-lobby kind of Patron, but at least a season-ticket holder. Ha!

A couple of weeks ago a friend took me to the closing concert of the Piatagorsky Cello Festival. It was awesome and I learned a few things: Ron Leonard turns the cello into the whole orchestra. Misha Maisky cannot be contained on a mere chair and must have a super-tufted piano bench. Steven Isserlis will wait until you’re finished coughing before starting. There are multiple legitimate ways to hold the instrument. Sadly, I was not able to determine how busty ladies dealt with it, as there were none to be seen. In fact, there were no female soloists whatsoever. (I believe I missed the single lady-cellist earlier in the week). The cello choir, which involved many fabulous young cellists from the Colburn School, was a good deal more diverse both in gender and racial mix. I approve.

But I think the most important thing I learned is that I’m not going to be a patron of the arts, no matter how grown-up I am. I’m not even sure I’m welcome in Disney Hall. As with the Theatre’s Playbill, the LA Phil distributes an advertisement supported program. And what ads! Within the first five pages I was informed of a $1.4 million dollar condo with marble bathrooms among other things, directed to purchase my next Bentley at a dealership in Beverly Hills, and exposed to the relative merits of Bosendorfer grand pianos to fill up my empty parlor.

I know it costs a lot to run a symphony. I certainly don’t begrudge talented musicians being paid what they’re worth. But going to a theatre or classical music even on rush seats, or with GoldStar tickets, or on a friend’s dime makes me feel somehow sneaky and bohemian. And more than even the late-buying of a starter vehicle or the ownership of a charge card marketed to 18 year olds, it makes me feel a bit mutton-dressed-as-lamb. My enthusiasm doesn’t make me a Serious classical music lover if I’m not the target-market for an off-site temperature-controlled wine storage service. In a place where a decent ticket to a musical is around $75 (and yes, far cheaper than Broadway), where single ticket prices for the Philharmonic are an afterthought, hidden many clicks away from the subscription packages, I don’t know who’s going to be the next generation of arts supporters. Can you imagine being a public school kid, going to see the orchestra and getting excited about it, only to be confronted with mentions of first class travel and antique auctions? I don’t know about you, but I’d assume this type of thing just wasn’t for me.

At any rate, my absurd cigar-box of a cello’s together. I have a place to sit. My bow’s nowhere needing a rehair. Maybe I can get a sponsor so I can upgrade once the student loans are paid off. Think that Ferrari dealer would like to buy an ad on my blog?