the necessity of Π

The plan was to install a door in the hallway -- a folding door, a simple but efficient way to turn one small space into two. So I go to the door store around the corner, tell them the plan. No way, the woman says. You can’t put a door in a hallway. You have to put a door in a doorway. It can’t be done unless you have a Π.

I say ok, and start to take my disappointment home. But wait, the man says. You can make a Π. You just attach a piece of wood to the walls and you’ve got your Π. We’ll do it ourselves.

So the door is ordered; the wood is cut. And then it turns out that the wall isn’t straight; the measurements are off; the wood needs to be recut. So I take it back to the shop. And the woman says, Oh no, we can’t cut the wood. You can’t change the dimensions of the wood or the door. It’s already been ordered. I take her word for it. I take my wood and go home. I make a few phone calls. I find out that half a centimeter doesn’t make any difference at all -- to the wood, to the door, to the division of one small space into two. I go back with my wood, get it cut, stain it, start calling it a lintel. It’s part of the architecture now.

The moral of the story is that some people -- in business, in life -- are inclined to say no, and really insist. They lose sales and make people feel bad. Others, whether or not it’s the easiest or most obvious answer, make a point of saying yes. They try. It’s so simple. It’s not always about the sale. But they usually get that too.

…

Meanwhile, although I’m doing what I can to get ready for life with the buka in this house (first major purchase, besides the door: a very small bed -- yay!) I’m still indulging the highly impractical phantasy of moving house before the buka’s arrival. I thought I had seen everything on the market. I thought I had lost my interest in moving altogether when the house with the arch sold. But on Saturday, I found myself with a key, an address, and an enthusiastic referral. An opportunity. The outside gate was locked, but I liked the look of the house so much, I climbed right over it, seven months pregnant, in broad daylight, as fluid and discreet as La Femme Nikita. Or not. But I got in, and once I did, I didn’t want to leave. It’s that kind of house, just the way it is.