When I got home last night, I found that my windows had been misbehaving. The ones I'd left open in the morning were closed, and the closed ones were open, if precariously. Upon closer inspection I discovered that the building maintenance people had been in there at some point during the day and painted all of my window sills white. Sloppy, bumpy, bland white. I'm taking this as my cue to begin thinking about moving, as my darling green window sills (a perfect shade -- dark, but happy) were one of the last things in the building that retained any of the charm that existed there before the new owner took over the place several months ago and began making "improvements." These so-called improvements have made me embarrassed of my building, which I was once quite proud to be living in. It's a little brick building that had a marvelous green awning (now awningless) and smooth, slightly sloping cement stairs in the front (now covered with some sort of ugly Spanish tiles) that looked like it could be in a New York neighborhood. No longer. Now it's a bizarre mix of brick and tile and old and new and it's just... I miss my green window sills already.
Happily, I will not have to see the new white paint all weekend as the wonderful, amazing boy is bringing me up the coast (in the convertible, so I'm going to put my hair in a pretty scarf and wear my huge sunglasses and pretend it's 1955) to Carmel for the weekend to celebrate the one year anniversary of our first date. We're going to drink wine, eat cheese, bury our feet in the sand and be happy, as we are every day, that we found each other.