San Francisco Real Estate Part 2

One month has passed and untold cans of paint later the place is starting to feel like a home. The operative word in that sentence is "starting". Anyone with half a brain will nod a head in knowing agreement when reminded that this whole move in bizzo is at least a six month process. One down and five to go.

The colours chosen to eradicate the reminders of a cheap and shoddy interior spray by the previous owner are bold, and that's nearly an understatement. The obnoxious green in the hallway has been plastered over with an equally obnoxious greenish yellow, the living room is now a radiant orange and the bathroom honestly glows red. That, and a so-hip-it-hurts Formica table is about all I have to show for one month's worth of night in, night out labour. Where has the time gone?

A visit from my father, of course. Parents are obligated to fuss over their children whenever they take any kind of grand leap up the ladder of maturity. Purchasing this place was no exception. Dad, affectionately known as the Rog, made his first landing the Friday I moved into the property - 14 October. His stay was part of the inbound leg of a journey that would take him across the continent to DC, New York City and Princeton. I immediately put him to task.

A house guest with a vested interest is a wonderful thing - nearly as wonderful as a girlfriend with vested interest. With the work day comfortably in the past you can swing open the front door and take in an eyeful of the changes that have miraculously taken place in your absence. Usually my dad would be standing there, a little soft around the middle and bald headed, peering back at me with a wet paint brush in hand.

When all the work stretching out before you seems endless and insurmountable even the smallest accomplishments completed during the hours in which you're away count like evolutionary steps. There's one more job struck off the list, one less coat to be applied that night.

There's still a lot more to go. There's a cat that won't shut up and that way too trendy Formica table sits out in the kitchen area with no chairs to make it feel important. And I don't own a vacuum cleaner. But I've got a cat tree that came for a bargain, more cutlery than I've ever seen in one location and a vintage Danish lounge set that smells like stale urine. Care to pop over for a visit?