“My Own! But what own are you? What is your Christian name now that you have become someone else?”
***
…It’s one of my favorite Gwendolen lines. That is until it came to life in actual circumstance, and then ceased to be funny to me. Which, of course, will be funny to everyone else who reads this post.
Apparently, they have changed the name of my apartment building.
No notifications went out, only there is a new sign outside, where once another hung, announcing the historical name (reaching back to the 20′s.) It is a fairly classy looking establishment, made of old brick with window workings in stone moulding, complete with inset cursive “E’s” above all the main pass-doors, lending an over all esthetic that I have always been pleased with back before I even lived here and put it on my list to some day do so.
Now it seems a moot point: The classiness, the historical integrity, and the cursive “E” above the door.
For reasons that only landlords can understand, our building was given a rent price hike, only to announce shortly afterwards that the building they owned behind us, would be soon undergoing an entire facelift. Conveniently funded by us, it would seem. As if this would somehow excite us or something. The news was actually sent in the form of a press release, tucked into all of our door jams, and went on for paragraphs and paragraphs about the various stages the face lift would undertake and why the modernizing was key to building a new aesthetic to blah-de-blah-da, in the contemperary artistic style of who-de-ha, for the fleur-de-fleur of B.S.-ness. Marty was here when I got it, and laughed so hard when I read it aloud, that she cried.
…So then, the facelift commenced, and new name was given to the new building.
…But nothing was said about ours. Nothing was done to ours. Ours had never changed, except in rental price.
…Until today.
Ma was the one who noticed, when we met up for a walk.
Ma: “Um, so, when did your building name change?”
Me: “What? Never. It’s the one behind us.”
Ma: “No, yeah, I know. But you have a new sign now, too.”
…And fuck me, if we didn’t.
Know what our new updated, fancy name is?
“Brick House.”
Yeah. I know.
Know what immediately comes to mind when reading this?
Yes you do.
Don’t lie to me.
It won’t make me feel any better.
I already know the answer.
I know what you thought.
I fucking thought it too.
Everyone will.
You thought this:
Yes. Welcome to your classy, newly rent-hiked home everyone!
It’s only the worst name ever, second to if they had called it “Shit House.” That’s all. Second-worst-name-ever, we can live with, right?
…Meanwhile, the cursive “E’s” cower in total humiliation at the greatness of pride they once owned. And with one swift kick in the ass, the romanticism that was…back when names gave character and meant something to a home…has been slammed to the curb.
…And I get to pay extra for the privilege of it.
Yay, “progress.”
~D
P.S. Ok, so I might have blown it a little out of proportion. The name is not that bad. But it might as well be. And I won’t tell you what it really is. But only to protect the poor innocent bastard for what it must now forever deal with. As a handle: it’s still stupid. I don’t like it. I never will. I hate change. The end.
