I have officially moved to the light.

Frequent flyers will remember that my old apartment, while classically Bostonian with high ceilings and hardwood floors, faced into an air shaft and got exactly no sunlight. I had started to call it the Cave. But I love the building. Consequently, when my realtor showed me an apartment two floors up and flooded with light, I took it right away.

FYI: the trim is not the mustard color it appears to be in these pre-move photos. It's sort of putty beige.

The actual move was last Thursday. My mother came up from DC to help (because she's cool like that) and kept me mostly sane throughout. Before the move, we spent time shuttling things from one apartment to the other to avoid packing them; we also culled my clothes by some astonishing percentage and gave four bags of stuff to the Salvation Army.

I also got rid of my old TV/VCR cart because it wobbled unnervingly and replaced my dying, dangerous microwave with one of those cute little Half-Pint microwaves from Sharp (I call them iCrowaves because they come in iMac colors). I haven't found a good spot in the kitchen for the iCrowave yet, but for now, it's fine sitting right on top of the box.

And boxes there are. Everywhere. But the sofa and coffee table are in front of the bay window you can see in the picture above, and bookshelves are stacked between the window and the radiator, and more bookshelves are along the wall under the window in the second picture. I've made some progress. But man, do I have a lot of work to do.

However, there seems to be some confusion regarding "fair use." This apartment is managed by a property management company, and I thought we'd gotten off to a splendid start when I called them about a water-pressure problem, then called them back to tell them I'd cleaned the aerator and solved the problem. My contact, Jennifer, was delighted: "A competent tenant! Our maintenance guys are going to love you."

I was delighted in return. The start of a beautiful working relationship, I thought. Wrong.

Once I'd actually moved, I called Jennifer to talk about a few things, among them the question of hanging my antique mirror, which is 28" x 36" and weighs probably thirty or forty pounds. I wanted to hire a handyman, someone experienced in hanging heavy objects, and pay for it myself; I just thought the management should know. "Well, what kind of nails are we talking about exactly?" Jennifer wanted to know.

"I don't know. In my apartment downstairs, I used a pair of brick nails, masonry nails, and seated them right into the concrete until they could hold my weight. Then I hung the mirror."

"Well, this sounds like it would leave holes in the walls," Jennifer said, astutely.

"Sure it will. Then you use some spackling compound and a putty knife and fill in the holes. I could do that before I move out, whenever that will be."

"Well, that won't match the paint. And then there's the issue of -- well, depending on how long you stay, I guess, but even a year -- the paint discolors around pictures and mirrors hanging on walls."

No shit, I thought. What I should have done here was laugh, as my mother pointed out later. But I didn't. I started getting angry. "Yes, that happens when people live in places for a while. Are you telling me that for this kind of money per month, I'm not allowed to hang anything on the walls?"

Jennifer's voice turned cold. "I'm telling you that you will be held liable and charged for any damages to the unit."

"Okay, then I'm telling you that if you overcharge me for simple repairs, I'll take you to court." By now I was good and mad.

Jennifer said, "This conversation is over. I am hanging up now." And she did.

Wow.

Fast-forward through a stress-induced temper tantrum and crying jag (too tired, too angry, too everything). I got my father on the phone and told him what had happened. His reaction: "She's a silly woman. Maybe we'll have a lawyer send her a letter about fair use to scare her into better behavior."

My mother's reaction: "Maybe your super knows someone who can have her killed." (This is a joke! A JOKE!)

My superintendent's reaction: "Everybody hate Jennifer. No one wants to deal with her. I tell her next time she call me to do something for her, I send her a bill."

So for now, the mirror remains in the mirror box I bought from the moving company (for a whole six bucks) and safely tucked under my bed. Picture hangers are going up soon regardless of Jennifer. And the boxes in here should keep me busy for days.

Good thing, too. My DSL won't be back until the end of the month.

Can I just mention here that it's mid-day and this place is so full of light that I have no artificial lights on at all? I think I'm going to like it here.