Rolling the Dice

We have a contract for the sale of my house! 

Although the closing doesn’t occur until May 1, I’ve already signed a lease for my new apartment in River North that begins April 15. Then, I’ill use the week of the 15th to slowly move from one residence to another, with my final departure date, April 22.

This early transition -- 16 days before I turn over the keys -- is due to an April 28 sale of all of my belongings that are staying put. The company conducting the sale wants me, and a few furniture pieces, clothing, and personal items that are going with, to scram before a week-long set-up begins. Hence the premature exit.

To many, my plan -- as carefully thought out as a military maneuver -- might seem risky. In fact, it was my lawyer’s paralegal who warned, “You know there are always possibilities that a closing is held up.” I didn’t fault her caution; after all, it’s her firm’s job to protect me throughout the contract process.

“I understand the risks,” I said. “I’m willing to take them. I have to move ahead.”

I’ve often talked of my philosophy of Leap Before You Look. Now, I’m adding another credo, which I will call, Resist Limbo.

It was Chris, my temporary roommate, who originally urged a leap from on-hold to full-speed ahead. “You’re ready to go,” he had said. “This house is too big for you. If this deal doesn’t go through, it will certainly sell in a month.”

Because Chris had been using his time with me to explore my neighborhood, I felt his words had weight. And, since he has had access to all the house has to offer, I believed he knew what he was talking about. “Essentially you’re a stranger,” I said, “and you have faith in this house. Right?”

“No doubt,” he said. “You should go.”

That was all the incentive I needed.

 “I’ll be in tomorrow to sign the lease,” I told the rental building’s agent in an immediate phone call. He had held this particular apartment for me for over a month, and its time limit was growing closer. Because the rent and floor plan were exactly as I wanted, I didn’t want to chance losing the unit.

“The 28th is solid,” was the message in my next phone call. Again, the owner of the estate sale company had been reserving the Sunday date for me, but I knew it was in jeopardy because of the increasing number of her sales coming up in April. 

As I was about to make my third call, to my daughters to tell them of my speed-dialing decision, the paralegal called back. “No problems on the inspection,” she said. “All looks good.” She didn’t bring up the closing risks; perhaps she now understood I couldn’t be dissuaded. So, I took the latest news as a sign I was moving in the right direction.

While I can probably count on one hand a few rolls of the dice that didn’t win me the jackpot; on the whole, my risks have turned out successfully. Let me relate stories of quick, and potentially dangerous decisions:

-After my first date with Tommy, we became a duo. He moved in with me just a month after that dinner at El Tapatio restaurant. We married within two years. We would have celebrated 15 years January 13, 2013, but sadly, my spouse was otherwise engaged. 

As I’ve written many times, it appeared Tommy and I had little in common. Certainly our marriage could be considered a major gamble. From religion to education to family obligations to bank accounts, we were at different ends of the spectrum. But, my guy and I enjoyed the very same lifestyle: a peaceful home with a pet, evenings on the couch with TV, and respect for each other’s hobbies. In short, I didn’t have to golf, and he didn’t have to love computers.

-My career is one of a series of risky bets. In fact, some of my jobs lasted less than a year; others went a tad beyond that timeframe. Here’s the map: Bernard Ury & Associates, Elaine Soloway Public Relations, Public Communications, Inc., Mayor Jane Byrne, CPS Superintendent Ruth Love, Jasculca/Terman, Elaine Soloway Public Relations, Apple Store, and then, drum roll, please, back to my own business.

Did this dicey route stigmatize Elaine Soloway as someone with a short attention span? I prefer seeing myself as a Selective Seizer of Opportunity.

There’s no predicting my latest wager will pay off. Certainly, glitches could arise before, or at the closing. But, once again, I’ll take my chances. Leap Before You Look, Resist Limbo, and now: Trust.

Roommate

This is what you cannot do when you have a roommate -- especially if that person is a male: You cannot leave the door open when you go to the bathroom. You cannot assume that the extra large T-shirt you’ve inherited from your deceased husband will disguise the fact that underneath you are not wearing a bra. And, if said male roommate is the same age as your grown daughters, you cannot call him on his cellphone to learn why his 30-minute trip to the grocery story has stretched beyond that time frame.

This is what you can do: You can ask him to alleviate your melancholy by accompanying you to three events that otherwise would’ve had you attending solo. And since you no longer own a car, request he act as chauffeur in his. Importantly, you can advise him that the furnace filters need changing, show him how to pull down the ladder that leads to the one in the attic, and wait gratefully as he does the rickety climb.

So, on balance, it appears that the two weeks Chris is camping out in one of my guest bedrooms, while awaiting a move-in to his new apartment, is working out well. We made the unusual arrangement based on a barter deal. I provide his temporary housing in exchange for Chris --  a decorative painter -- to jazz up two tables I plan to take to a River North rental. And in a subsequent transaction, he will build me a flat-screen TV stand in exchange for my aged computer.

"What do you know about him?" daughter Jill had asked when I was in the decision phase of the roommate deal. “Did you Google him?” Her tone of voice was familiar: What the hell was her batty mother getting into now?

"Karen vouched for him," I said. Karen is a long-time friend and interior designer who has aided several previous real estate moves. "She's known him for years and has referred his work to many of her clients,” I added. “Very nice, quiet, dependable."

Daughter Faith was the one who -- in a terse text -- ordered "wear a bra."  Like her sister, once convinced I’d be appropriately attired, and he was properly investigated, supported my new roommate.

The offbeat pact was actually my idea. When Chris visited to give me an estimate on the paint job, he also mentioned he'd be moving to a new space. Somehow, the two week housing void came up in the conversation, and the Jewish mother in me, who may have missed out on having a male third child, had asked, "Where will you go?" 

"Oh, a friend will rent me a room," he said. "I'll be fine."

"If it doesn't work out," I said, in my Leap Before You Look philosophy, "you can move in here."

The invitation may seem odd because after my husband died in November, 2012, I rebuffed any notion of boarders. When various loved ones suggested that other people could forestall loneliness, keep me safe, and help with the bills, I thought about it for a bit. Then, I countered with the fresh delight of eating meals on the couch while watching TV, and the new freedom of caring only for myself. Thinking back to two marriages, I also relished thermostats now tied to my favored temperature, lights left on or off at my discretion, and the option to leave dishes stacked overnight in the sink.

"No," I said to the concerned crew, “no boarders, no roommates. I don't want anyone invading my space."

So, I’m not sure what flipped the switch to welcome Chris. Was it previously noted Jewish Mother-ism and a longing for a male child? Or perhaps simply monetary: a chance to save writing a check for the refurbished furniture?

This is what I have landed on: my husband Tommy, abiding now in his heavenly abode, has become anxious about his widowed spouse. After all, he has known me for 16 years, witnessed my ineptness with household tools and appliances, and is aware of my jittery reaction to creaks and thumps.

Unable to care for me in his habitual manner, Tommy has sent in a substitute. My husband knows I would have rejected an older paunchy type, as he himself was slender and fit, so he pitched a human I could accept. And, with Chris’ black hair, partial Jewish genes, he could pass for a relative.

“Good job,” I tell Tommy in my nightly report. “My roommate is working out fine.”

Then, I could swear I heard back -- or was it the wind -- “Always looking out for you, sweetheart. Never forget that, or the bra.”

Painting Furniture

The coffee table will be painted Sapphire Blue. Chris will also put a coat of Lime Ricky Green on the kitchen table. Although their manufacturer, Sherwin-Williams, calls these colors Number 6963 and 6717, I prefer their more fanciful descriptions.

I need all of the "fanciful" I can get. Once my house is sold, these two pieces of furniture, which will be jazzed up to disguise their scuff marks and worn spots, will accompany me to my eventual apartment. I figure the bright palette will add a bit of fun to smaller rooms.

Like judges in some weird beauty contest, my friend Karen, the interior designer, and Chris, the decorative painter, have joined me at my three-bedroom house to decide which pieces will fit in a very down-sized space.

When I move out, and bring with the Sapphire Blue and Lime Ricky Green tables, the furniture I'm leaving behind will be part of a modest estate sale. Because I will gain some needed income, and buyers seeking bargains will benefit, the ache I’m feeling during the furniture competition is lessened.

As we tour, I wonder, do the pieces not making the cut feel wounded, like the two Room & Board living room couches that face each other? "Humph," I imagine them saying, "the measly coffee table she takes, but us she leaves behind."

To soothe the duo, who I picture with their upholstered arms crossed in defiance, I send a silent message: "Listen, dears, Tommy and I absolutely loved you. But, you're too big, you'd overwhelm the room. Even just one of you -- and you know I could never split you up -- wouldn't fit."

I feel better when the Secretary Desk is among the finalists. Not my style, but brought with by my husband 16 years ago when he moved in with me. "Nice, honey," I recall myself saying. As I ran my hands over the embossed design on the desk's front, I thought, "Where can I put this? It doesn't match anything else in the house."

The quaint desk did win a spot in our guest bedroom, and that is where I once tucked myself away to write. I imitated a Victorian novelist, and lowered the desk's panel to reveal tiny cubby holes and shelves that I filled with lined yellow pads, a variety of pens and pencils, books on “How to Write,” and draft after draft of heartfelt attempts.

"No paint," our trio of judges conclude as we eye the Secretary Desk. "It looks nice as is." It will go in my new bedroom next to a window, and I will use the fold-down desk to hold a MacBook Air.

Alas, the various pieces of country-style furniture Tommy and I bought for our one-year experiment in Geneva, IL., will remain for the house sale. Did we really believe that the lovely home on one acre in picturesque Fox Valley would suit a couple who had lived their entire lives in the city? Perhaps my husband, a gardener who immediately started planting, believed that. As for me, I discovered I could convince myself of anything, for a time.

Oh, if our furniture could tattle! The dining room table, with its one leaf extension, would tell of the evening my daughters Faith and Jill and their families, my ex-husband, and various friends and relatives, joined us for a Passover dinner.

Tragically, three of those at the table have since died. Surprisingly, two partners have been exchanged for new ones. And shockingly, one member has undergone a complete transformation. We knew none of that back then as we sat at the stretched-out table, laughing as the youngest guests performed in a Passover play. Would the table remember this rare, beautiful moment when my entire family was all in one place? Will it forgive me for not bringing it along?

One box spring and mattress, of three sets, will make the cut. Likely not the one Tommy and I slept in as it is deepened on his side, and indented on mine. Our Crate & Barrel dresser and one smaller bureau -- both in their original wood finish -- will move to the apartment.

The chest of drawers on my husband's side, which still holds his exercise clothing, practice golf balls, broken alarm clock, and other items with his imprint, will be sold. First, though, I will remove all, and pack into a special box that will go with me. Perhaps Chris will paint it. Sherwin-Williams, Number 6911, also known as Confident Yellow, sounds about right.

Chatterbox

"You go here, and you go here." I am talking to my laundry.

At my feet are two baskets. As I draw clothing from the laundry chute, where it has landed after being tossed down from the second floor, I alert my blue jeans they are being dropped into "colors" and Tommy's undershirts -- that I have taken as my own -- are learning they are joining "whites."

Four month's after my husband's death, I find myself talking out loud. Not only in the privacy of my house where there's no one around to declare me loony, but also on the street. Listen to this recent conversation: "Good girl! That was clever to keep the drugstore receipt so you could exchange the blue nail polish that was crap."

Fortunately, passersby assumed I had a Bluetooth stuck in my ear, and there was someone else on the other side of the wireless. Naw, it was just me, enjoying the sound of my voice.

There are several reasons I've become a chatterbox in my rookie widow state: First, because I work out of my home, and there is no longer a dog or husband to benefit from my cooing, instructions, or revelations, I could possibly go an entire day without speaking. I doubt that’s good for my vocal cords or mental health.

When Tommy was alive, I was a big talker. He suffered from Primary Progressive Aphasia, and over the course of three years, went from having trouble finding words to being unable to speak at all. We communicated through post-it notes he wrote for me, thumbs up -- his gesture for everything's okay, thumbs down -- for the opposite, or simulations of the parlor game Charade.

If I couldn't figure out what he was trying to tell me, I'd do my shtick: "Are you asking me a question? Are you telling me something? Does it have to do with a television show? A woman? A man?" and so on.  Sometimes, our back-and-forth would take quite a bit of time. But, I refused to give up until I'd get the correct answer. And when I did, I'd give my spouse a happy kiss. Perhaps it should've been Tommy bussing me, but I always believed he deserved the reward because of his spirited efforts.

Even though my husband couldn't hold a conversation, that didn't stop me from talking to him. He could understand everything I said, and had no problem with memory, so I made sure to keep him in the loop of my daily trivialities.

"You'd never believe what happened today," I might say. And then, I'd relate some stupid story that was likely boring, but he was game to behave as if it was absorbing. If the tale made me a winner, Tommy would smile and give me a thumbs up. But, if it was my folly I was confessing, he’d shake his head and return to the T.V. Either reaction satisfied me.

After he died, there was no need to keep up the chatter since he wasn't around to hear it. So, I kept quiet. And eventually, the absence of voice overwhelmed the house. It sunk into the curtains, was absorbed in the carpet, leeched onto the walls.

That's when I started talking. Not only to myself, but to inanimate objects. "Good morning, Herman," I'll say to the stone hippo Tommy bought at a crafts show. It's a heavy and odd piece of art, but my husband liked it. It sits on a bathroom sill and gets a stroke on its smooth surface along with my words.

Not only objects de art are privy to my babble, but the early-mentioned laundry, a teapot, my iMac, various stuffed animals, bouquets of flowers, and I have been known to thank a jug of milk for not spoiling on its sell-date. There’s also the well-known questions you may share, but may not utter aloud: “Why did I walk into the kitchen? What did I intend to do here?”

Of course, I talk to Tommy often. I figure he's still interested in my minutia, so his framed photo on my bedside table gets an earful. "You'll never believe what I did today, honey," I’ll say. Behind the glass, he is permanently smiling. Two thumbs up, I imagine. Good enough for me.

Carless in Chicago

I am in a window seat on the CTA Red Line that is traveling towards Howard. When I reach that stop, I will transfer to the Purple Line that will take me to Main. From there, I will walk about six short blocks to my friend Ruth's house.

As I look out the window at the high rise buildings and landscapes skimming by, I contemplate my new role as someone without a car. I do not feel deprived. In fact, I am enjoying a new sense of calm, relief.

Being carless is a fresh experience for me, for I have been a licensed driver since the age of 16. With learner's permit in hand, my dad took me for my first lesson. I don't remember the exact details, but I can easily see me in the driver's seat of his Buick, propped up on at least two cushions to have a view over the steering wheel. My dad, Irving, is in the passenger's seat. A Camel he is smoking is dropping ashes on his shirt, but he is unperturbed. He brushes them to the car's floor with his left hand, while his right maintains steady drags on the cigarette.

"You're going too slow!" he is shouting at me. I am cautious, because Dad was the opposite. I had no intention of emulating his speed, or his habit of weaving in and out of cars like a NASCAR competitor.

We both survived those early lessons, and I emerged with his perfect method for parallel parking. It is a skill I taught my daughters, my recently deceased husband, and my grandson.

I'm enjoying this musing as an El train passenger. "It's my meditation," I had told my daughter after the first of my carless trips. She worries about my anxiety level, certain it will topple me one day.  "I study the view, the people entering and exiting. I eavesdrop on conversations. I can feel my blood pressure dropping."

"Okay," she says, mollified for the moment. My child is worried that I gave up my Honda Fit hastily.

"Couldn't you have held onto it until you moved downtown?" she had asked. "Why now, when you're still in your house?"

I knew my explanation would just reinforce her picture of me sizzling like someone receiving electroshock therapy. But, I gave it a shot: "I had an entire year left on my car lease,” I said. “If I couldn't return it to a dealer, I'd owe $3,000. The only way to get a manager to accept it was to be sure it was in perfect condition."

I revealed how my rides in the Fit had turned into episodes of angst. I was terrified backing out of supermarket lots, certain I would ding a fender. I was convinced my bumper would become a victim at a yellow light when I’ve stopped and the cabbie behind me doesn't.

"Okay, I understand that," she said. "But, what about grocery shopping? I don't see you shlepping paper bags on the bus."

"Peapod home delivery!" I said. "They shop at Mariano's, the produce and groceries are terrific, they carry the Intelligentsia coffee I love, and they even have the Alstroemeria flowers I've been using to perk up the house for showings."

"Sounds like you've got it covered, Mom."  

"Just think of it," I went on. "I'm reducing my expenses, getting exercise by walking stairs to the platform, and protecting the environment." As I recited these benefits, I was heroic, altruistic, deserving of a medal.

“Good for you, Mom,” she said.

My reflection of this mother-daughter conversation was coming to an end as I alighted from the Purple Line at my Evanston stop and walked to Ruth’s house.

“You made it,” my friend said as she stood at her open door. She led me in and waited as I unzipped my boots and removed each layer of my wardrobe.

“No problem.” I said, dropping into the nearest arm chair. “Water, please.”

Ruth looked at me, and from her seat on a facing couch, said, “Marshall will drive you home later.”

Although I’m certain I would’ve rallied and successfully tip-toed the treacherous icy blocks to the Purple Line stop. And, heavily layered, I could have handled waiting on the windy platform for the Red Line. Knowing me, after carefully descending the slippery steps at Sheridan, I would’ve been fine sharing seats or aisles with bulky-coated rush hour passengers. But, I didn’t want to be rude.

“If you insist,” I said.