Return of the Native

Since what was once my second home, out at the end of Long island, is now my primary residence and I only bought the NY apt. so that I don’t have to crash in my daughter’s place when I want to see her, I completely resented the various hoops through which I had to jump in order to obtain said apt. When I purchased the London apt., good enough to be in a building in which Princess Di had once resided, all I had to present were a few character and bank references. No interview, no full disclosure of finances, zilch. The Board of the building where I now live know more about me than my former husband ever found out. I suspect that this is all totally unnecessary but it is the NY way of things, as was the interview. C prepped me for the meeting with the Board; she told me what not to say & what not to wear, put the fear of God into me and then ended by telling me that, short of going in completely sozzled and with a ring through my nose, I’d get in.
Once in, of course, the remodeling started. The previous owners had been here for 26 years, the husband having purchased the apartment while single. At the time they left, the couple had a 9 year old daughter sleeping on the floor of a bedroom shared with her sister. This place needed work. I was lucky enough to find a contractor who had been in the building for 8 years working his way around and he obviously knew the ropes. So we started and things went pretty smoothly despite a few suppliers who neglected to supply exactly what we had requested when we had requested it. I’ve learned a lot through this remodeling job. For instance, I now know that if anything goes wrong it is always because the walls are not level, and never the contractor’s fault. And I’ve had to learn a completely new vocabulary: contractor for builder, base boards for skirting boards, pocket door for sliding door, high hats for recessed lighting…or is it? I am now so completely confused as to which word belongs in which country that I can no longer make myself understood even to myself.

In the midst of all this we had Elections. Now here’s an admission: I had never voted before in my entire life (whose years I am not divulging). For some reason, absentee voting never appealed to me; who wants to be sitting in London and voting for Dog Catcher of Suffolk County I ask? So I toddled along to the local school and got in line prepared to own up and ask for help. As I approached the desk, the attendant peered at me and demanded, “where did you get that handbag?” Somewhat taken aback, I stuttered out my reply and, preliminaries over, moved along to my guilty admission. The attendant woman, having checked my identity and taken my John Hancock, called out in a voice akin to a waitress placing an order to a short-order cook, “Hey Joe, we have a first-timer here!” Since there was no hole in the school gymnasium floor into which I could jump, I moved along to Joe for his help. Short of saying ‘Abracadabra,’ he whisked open a curtain with a flourish uncovering what looked like the main console from the Starship Enterprise.
To my amazement, it turned out that Democracy wasn’t quite as democratic as I thought. Half of the positions for which I voted had only one candidate and for other posts the candidates seemed to belong to several parties. Robert Mugabe would love this. But I did my civic duty, America…