A Moving Apology

Sorr about No Post Tuesday the other day. There was an incident, and then a second incident compounding the first incident, and then a string of lesser incidents that complicated the prior two incidents. In short, I’m moving.

I joke about suicide a lot and occasionally make threats so I can sneak 11 items through the express line, but moving is genuinely one of the few things I’d rather die than do. (Okay, I guess not technically or my head would already be in the oven, but you know what I mean.) I am not neat, patient, organized, or efficient, and generally have none of the Boy Scout virtues that the task requires.

We simply couldn’t avoid moving. The place we’re leaving is technically too much apartment, but I’d be willing to swallow the cost had we not had repeated landlord/other tenant problems, including but not limited to: the electric company threatening to break open the sidewalk because the downstairs tenants wouldn’t let them in to fix the meter; water seeping into the downstairs apartment that we got blamed for until the handyman spent three hours flushing our toilets and pouring jugs of water on the floor to see where the leak was and couldn’t find it; “Sweet Home Alabama” karaoke every night of the week downstairs (you think it’s an easy tune to carry, but you’re wrong); and, the topper although we were already leaving, last night the contractors redoing the floor downstairs set off the fire alarm with a power sander, somehow, solved the problem by disconnecting the fire alarm, which is both unsafe and causes a loud beep every four seconds from the hall control box, and then kept sanding until one in the morning.

My last apartment hunt was terribly easy, and even though the landlord and neighbor situation has been awful, it’s a fabulous apartment. This one, however, was a living hell. I called eight or so realtors one day, and most didn’t even answer the phone. Not one returned my phone messages, and of the people who answered I got one “we’ll call you this afternoon” and one “I don’t know if we have any apartments or not, I’ll call you Friday.” They did not. Of the realtors I did manage eventually to reach, one canceled my appointment half an hour before and never returned my calls to reschedule, and another rescheduled my appointment so he could show the apartment, which p.s. was crappy, to eight people at the same time. Now ordinarily I have the work ethic of a ninety-year-old narcoleptic Spaniard, but don’t realtors work on commission? Don’t they kind of have to show apartments or… you know, starve?

Remember my inventory of weird shit in the apartment from my eccentricity post? Tip of the iceberg. I have a really hard time giving away anything someone gave me, which explains the eight pounds of Mardi Gras beads. (This is the only time you’ll hear me imply that a stranger is a person.) I’m also really easy to shop for, so I still have most of the birthday presents I ever got as an adult (rocket ship lamp, plush pig in a flapper costume, and the pirate mug). Giant Camel also used to buy clothes for fun, which is terribly alien to me. I have a long torso and short legs, so anything more tailored than a muumuu fits me weird. Buying a pair of pants for me is usually at least a three-Goddammit job for me, but somehow Giant Camel used to fill his days buying what must be forty pounds of Technicolor polyester man-blouses. I also brought along, inexplicably, my one family heirloom – a large, technically ugly cedar chest upholstered in Naugahyde (yes) that my parents got for their wedding. They got married in 1975, which is reflected in the architecture of the chest. I love it. I also keep every letter anyone ever writes me (any person, not old gas bills and shit. Yet.)

So I bought plastic tubs at Target, and I packed everything I could figure out how to pack and I was really proud of myself. Dishes interspersed with clothes so no one tub was too heavy, all cooking stuff together, spices in one bag, etc. For one glorious moment, I looked competent.

LOL!!!!!1!

The kitchen was my first setback. (Well, first after “being born with ADD” and “being a loner so no one is helping me do this.”) After my big false-alarm heart scare last winter, I bought all this salt-free crap that I now got to throw out, including Salt-Free Tony Chachere’s Cajun Seasoning. The salt substitute they use it a powder, not a crystal like real salt, so when I poured it out (why?) and got a wafting face-full of a secret spicy blend. Snot everywhere. (It’s no diarrhea story, but it is embarrassing and does deal with a human fluid.) I also had a tub of expired plain yogurt I’d bought mistaking it for vanilla. I had the SUPER clever idea to flush this down the toilet so it wouldn’t sit around in the trash bag and spoil and smell. I reasoned that toilets have to deal with worse. There’s probably some scientific specific-gravity reason why toilets will suck human waste away perfectly and send it straight to the Schuylkill while not doing the same with a quart of yogurt, but I don’t know what it is. What I do know is that bits of yogurt kept floating back into the bowl for about two days, and since yogurt is essentially made of bacteria, some weird, flourishing colony of some kind has established itself in the toilet.

So now that all the stuff that packs is packed, I’m left with a stratum of What-the-Hell items. Free lint roller I got for Christmas from the dry cleaners. Where does that go? Should I fill GC’s various overnight bags with actual stuff or with each other? Bowl that’s supposed to be a pear but looks more like a bedpan goes on the curb, but what about the Ugly Plastic Leaf Plate? One loose Ambien I found on the desk can go in my stationery box until thirty minutes before I leave for tonight’s internship board meeting, but canned goods? Can’t I just leave the dented-so-half-off can of sauerkraut for the next tenant? And, God above, TWO BOXES OF AUDIOCASSETTES?

All the movers I called had already been booked until well in advance, so I’m forced to beg my friends for help. My local friends are a lady construction worker and a Marine with a bad shrapnel injury. Add to this my generally modest physical talents and we almost add up to one mover.

And so of course just this minute I got called into work. Maybe while I’m gone the house will burn down and I won’t have to pack.

Who says you can't go home again?

Como estan, bitches?

After the most stressful two weeks of my entire life, I am back. You may recall DGF from a few weeks ago, where I was moving all my worldly possessions with my own two hands. On top of that, work was an ever loving bitch last week. I may have worked 55+ hours at my normally 35 hour per week job. Beakers are usually not that demanding, but last week was hell on earth. To make matters worse, I had a death in the family (wamp wamp, who brought Debbie Downer to the blog party?), which means yours truly had to trek back home for the services.

So, sad reason to be at home with the family. But I enjoyed my time at home considering the circumstances. However, about 2 days into my time at home, I realized something was amiss. Let me preface this by saying I’ve been living away from home for almost 6 years now (I’m including college in that tally), and during that time I like to think I’ve become a responsible member of society. (sometimes). Maybe I’m alone in this, but I find that when I’m in my family’s house, I turn into my 12-yr-old self. Let me elaborate:

1.) My mom. I make my mom do things for me that I am perfectly capable of doing for myself. Frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. My mother birthed me for the sole purpose of doing things for me. Isn’t that why all women have children? To love and care for them? So when I’m home, I let my mom do my laundry, make me delicious sandwiches, tie my shoes, and what have you. I feel as though I’m doing her a service by giving her something to do. Could I get up off the couch to make my own sandwich? Sure, but there’s a Deadliest Catch marathon on, and sammiches always taste better when they are made with love.

2.) Food. Being home is greater than being at my apartment because at home all of the cabinets are fully stocked with foodstuffs. However, being home is less than being at my apartment because I eat all of the delicious foodstuffs in the aforementioned apartments. Seriously, when I’m home I spend most of the time eating like I just escaped from fat camp. Living on my own, I’ve gotten used to eating approx one meal a day. (True story: the first week of freshman year, I got so overwhelmed in the dining hall that I left without getting anything and ate nothing but crackers and peanut butter for a week.) So being at home and eating three square meals a day is strange. Not to mention the never-ending snacks I consume in between meals. I’m not saying I was a fat little kid, but I’m also not NOT saying I was a fat little kid.

3.) Animals. They say that petting a cat adds years to your life. If that’s the case, I’m going to live to a ripe old age after this weekend. Living on my own, I don’t have pets because they require you to be responsible. And my binge drinking habits don’t really speak to my responsibility. But at home, I’ve always had several pets at a time. So when I’m not cramming my cramhole with foodstuffs, I’m playing with the dogs or chasing the cats or other pet-related activities I can’t do in my apartment. I don’t walk or feed the dogs though, because that’s work. And that’s what my mom is for. But I’m not opposed to rolling around on the floor like a child. I’m in the privacy of my own home, who is going to judge me?

4.) Manual labor. Much like how women have children to care for them and cater to their every whim, men have children to perform menial physical labor for them for free. I can get my mom to do my bidding no questions asked, but my dad, as soon as I get home, has at least three projects that he needs my help with. No sooner had I put my bags down from getting in Friday night than my dad informs me we bought a new screen house that needs to be put up and a new pool liner that needs to get put in. Here is where I diverge from my 12-yr-old theme, because as a 12-yr-old I was rotund and physically useless. Now that I’m a strapping young lad, I get the pleasure of doing these chores. Nothing says I love you like fighting over Tab A and Slot B.

5.) Sleep. Unlike some of you, when I moved out of my old room, my little brother moved right in. The room I grew up in is no longer. My little brother’s poorly-lit, weird-smelling pigsty replaced my poorly-lit pigsty (but my room didn’t smells like dead hamster and blue cheese, thank you very much). I have been relegated to the “guest room” in the basement, which consists of my little brother’s old bed and heaps of junk my mother cannot bring herself to throw out. I don’t mind the heaps, but I do mind having my feet hang over the end of the bed all night. I am not 5’5” anymore. Please plan accordingly. This past weekend was even worse, as my aunt was staying with us, so I had to spend the whole trip home sleeping on our various couches. On the plus side, they are longer than a twin bed. On the downside, I slept in the living room, and our three kittens go beserk around 4 in the morning. A fact I was made aware of once one of them jumped square onto my chest.

Please tell me I’m not alone in this phenomenon. Going home is like going through a time warp. Just being in that atmosphere is like going through puberty all over again. Much in the same way being on or near a college campus makes me binge drink.

Regardless, I do enjoy going home, aside from the 10 pounds I inevitably put on after each trip. But it’s great to be back in the city. And in my new apartment, which now I have to make look like I actually live here and not like someone is having a yard sale in my place. If you’ll excuse me, I have some Jonas Brothers posters that need tacking up.

Drinking Game Friday promises to buy you dinner if you just do one thing for me.

I feel like 10-yr-old Kaitlin and you, collectively, are my Uncle Rick when I tell you: Rick! Rick! Rick! I got an apartment!!
Also, Rick, if I get my ears pierced, they'll look really professional when I grow up and I go on job interviews...
For those of you following me on Twitter, I apologize that you have to hear this again, in more than 140 characters. For those of you not following me on Twitter, for shame! (www.twitter.com/misterlizlemon).

Anyway, I am unreasonably excited about this for a variety of reasons.
a) I'm getting a place of my own, which will significantly cut down on roommate issues, like who is responsible for cleaning which week and why the electric bill is so high. Unless I suddenly develop multiple personalities a la The United States of Tara and one of my alters is a total neat freak, whereas another alter, called "the Monkey Man," literally throws feces everywhere. Barring any unforeseen traumas that may shatter my psyche, I think I'm in the clear.
b) I secured this place completely on my own. I did all the legwork, I dealt with the brokers, I saved up for it. I feel like a real adult. While I might never grow up, I can at least appear like an adult to the rest of the world. Also, this is a feat for me because I get outrageously nervous doing anything for the first time. Going to a new bar for the first time? I need to do countless hours of research, and I need to show up with someone. I can't even begin to tell you how nervous I was the first time I had sex. (That, my children, is a tale for another day. And a more adult-oriented website.)
c) I also got a pretty bitchin' apartment, considering I make pennies being a nerd. It's a pretty decent sized space, so the next time Meg comes to visit, we won't be awkwardly sitting on top of one another. But we might do that anyway, just for shits and giggles.

So understandably, I'm psyched. But like Jessie Spano on cafeinne pills, I am simultaneously so excited and so scared. Why scared? Because the physical act of moving is a fate worse than death. Why do you think the Egyptians had slaves build the pyramids? Because no one wants to cart a mattress up 4 flights of stairs themselves. Especially if that "mattress" is actually a sandstone block weighing several tons. (Did I really just make a history joke? You know what, I stand by that. I'm leaving it.)

All that being said, this is whole moving thing is going to have to happen. And I have a feeling I'm going to have to rope some friends into helping me, so this week's Drinking Game Friday is the Reluctantly Helping My Friend Move Drinking Game.


(Luckily for my friends, I have neither a sleeper sofa or an air hockey table. However, my grand piano isn't going to get up those stairs on its own.)

Drink once:
- for every flight of stairs you walk up or down
- for every item you drop
- for every battle scar you acquire (bruises, scrapes, cuts, et al.)
- for every pound you lose afterwards

Drink twice:
- when you pull a muscle because you failed to do your pre-move lunges
- when someone tells you to lift with your knees
- when any container rips or breaks
- for every item broken during the move
- for any item lost during the move

Drink thrice:
- when you have to change clothes from sweating far too much to be considered healthy
- when a fight inevitably happens because someone is stacking things incorrectly
- you realize everything you own won't fit in a car
- when someone asks you if you "really need all this stuff"

Finish one Long Island Iced Tea:
- when you've finished, even though all of your stuff is still in boxes in the corner of the room.

Though this won't be happening until the end of the month, I plan to get very drunk after the big move. I'll let you guys know how much you need to drink, if you want to play at home. In any event, thanks for reading! Have a great weekend, and see you back here on Monday!