Adventures In Moving

Pretty much everybody’s favorite activity in the whole wide world, and it’s pretty obvious why. When else do you get to:

-Finally address the problem of those cockroach carcasses that you, uh, just sort of swept to the side of the stove once they were dead, vowing never to look in that particular space again,

-Ask yourself why, exactly, you needed eight cans of spray freshener,

-Rope your significant other into helping you move from your apartment to his in exchange for a healthy 60% of your stuff, including furniture,

-Sit on the floor of the cab of a particularly bumpy U-Haul all the way to Manhattan with your head down so the NYPD doesn’t see you, which is so comfortable you would not believe it, I want to travel this way all the time,

-Practically lose it seven or eight times because despite the fact that you’re getting rid of tons and tons of your stuff and you didn’t have a lot to begin with, the piles of stuff you ARE taking are not getting any smaller, DAMMIT,

-And, of course, sit around for forty or fifty minutes of anxiety while your vindictive little worm of a superintendent (unless he's somehow reading this, in which case he is a very handsome sweetheart of a man, and I'm pretty sure he's been working out) inspects your apartment and arbitrarily decides whether or not to sign off on you getting your $2,000 deposit back.

However, I have a secret weapon at my disposal: I am a master mover/packer. Yes. It’s not quite as exciting as being able to fly or see through walls, but it is a superpower all the same judging by the awestruck looks I get from friends after I finish packing their 3 bedroom apartments into a single van.

An thus far, my plan seems to be working fairly well. About a month ago, my charming boy and I agreed that he would rent a truck on Sunday and, with the help of his roommate, help move my/their stuff from my Queens apartment to their Manhattan one.

This made sense on any number of levels; for one thing, I think we’d get some pretty funny looks trying to schlep a sofa on the subway. For another, I will be staying with them until my departure next Friday—just about ten days and six or seven mental breakdowns away at this point. I would leave only a few items at my apartment until Tuesday night, when he would come over and help me bring them to the apartment.

Give or take a couple of back spasms, that’s exactly how it all played out.

My apartment is now empty, desolate, emotionally spent at the idea that after one last short visit today, I will be gone for good.

I’m lying. It doesn’t care. Hello, it’s an apartment.

I care, though. Nearly two years, I’ve been in this apartment. That’s longer than I’ve lived anywhere absent my parental units. It was my fifth residence since leaving college, third apartment I was paying for, first apartment I lived in alone, and the place in which I finally got my shit together. It’s where I grew up, learned to operate as an independent agent, loved two incredible men, survived heartbreak and loneliness, resolved past missteps, made decisions that would shape my future for the better, and became happier than I have ever been in my life.

Most importantly, it is the place where I finally learned how to play strip poker. Do you know how embarrassing this knowledge gap has been at parties?!

(Just kidding, Mom.)

(I already knew how to play.)

In a very real sense, I am moving on to bigger and better things. I was recently honored with an actual writing contract, so I will be writing my first book for publication. I will be returning to school and finishing the degree I am so ready to earn now. I will be getting to know my extended family much better than ever before. I will be living in a quiet place, a welcome change after the frenetic pace of the city.

I’ve lived here before, but I am returning a different person. By the way, I’ll be going by Fred from now on.

It’s the last two years that have made this possible. No risk was spared in the creation of this life, and as a result I have become a person with whom I can be pleased and proud. Emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, fiscally, socially, I am more ready to take on these challenges than I have ever been in my life.

I am at peace. The decision I made this time was the right one.

And Then It Crashed Kaboom

I used to live with a little kid. One day she was telling me a long, rambly story the way kids do and at one point she used the above phrase. I stopped her.

“Hey, what does that mean?”

“It means it went CRASH and made a KABOOM sound,” she replied in a patronizing, “you complete moron” kind of voice. The way kids do.

Well, that is sort of how I feel about this blog right now, in much the same way that McCain sort of didn’t win the election (woot!).

Here has been my month so far, in the summary form we all know and inappropriately lust over:

-Wrote. Wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. 25,000 words in 12 days is no mean feat, my friends.

-Finger began hurting somewhere around 13,000 words. Pain became fruitful and multiplied throughout my hand.

-Continued writing anyway, since I am such a “tough cookie.”

-Finger was amputated.

Okay, the last is a complete lie. Actually my finger is doing fine now, in the sense that I can use it to type without actively weeping.

Other than that I’d say the above list was fairly accurate. I also squished in a trip to Baltimore, another trip to Philly, and still haven’t packed a single box for my apartment.

I should really get on that soon.

Anyway, all of this is my rationalization for not writing more in this blog. And my backup plans didn’t exactly work out either. I did get two very good guest blogs submitted by two writers who are at least as funny as I am, but then something strange happened. I didn’t want to use them.

Not because they weren’t good, more like because I got weirdly jealous and possessive.

My blog. Mine. MinemineMINEMINEMINE!!!, is how the thought process went. Also, I was sort of scared everyone would think they were funnier than me and stop reading my blog.

As for the CCS marathon, I would have been happy to continue with that (I still have plenty of backlogged favorites) but unfortunately the entry offended someone very close to me who regularly reads this blog. As a result, I do not feel entirely comfortable running a similar entry at this time. Perhaps after this person has had a chance to proofread the entry.

As a sidenote, I should point out that censorship is like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. I heartily disagree with it and almost never employ it, but this particular situation is so delicate right now, and this person means so much to me, that I don’t feel okay about pushing the envelope just for laughs. Cost-benefit, my friends.

So both of my blog-fillers turned out to be epic failures. I guess I’ll resign myself to a light posting month, here. Hopefully when December hits, I’ll have a) more time to write and b) some good stories that don’t involve my occupational injuries.

December involves a cross country move, Vegas, friends, family, copious traveling, and proximity to death in the form of skydiving, so there’s a really excellent chance of that.

CCS, Edition One: Questionable Theology

As I mentioned last week, due to my wretchedly busy schedule (which isn't really all that wretched at all; I am quite enjoying it) I will not be posting much this month, and since I wasn't exactly breaking records in this department to begin with, I figure that on the somewhat rare occasions this month that I do post, I should have something a lot funnier than my own drivel to entertain you. I am sure we're all thinking of the same obvious source of this hilarity: the church.

Now, I know what you're going to say: It's not very nice to make fun of a thousands-of-years-old institution that has brought us such fine figures as George W. Bush and Shirley Phelps-Roper, not to put too fine a point on it. And you are right, of course.

But I simply cannot resist when they make it this easy. And I am not alone in this. Thus, with all due credit to Crummy Church Signs, which has made my workdays so much more pleasant and abdominal-muscle-surgery-inducing than they would have otherwise been, I will now share with you some of my personal favorites from his website. I've got a bunch, so this will likely be the first of four or five installments.

Not wanting to make this a completely Lady-Snark-free post, let me assure you that all sarcastic comments on these signs are my own. Joel's original commentaries are plenty funny as well, and I highly recommend that you spend some quality time with his site.

Without further ado...

A Step By Step Tutorial:

Step One: Love God and live a really good life...

Fake it till you make it. Arr.

Normally, we worship Satan. But we like to mix it up a little.

Think awful thoughts however, and they will cast you into hell.

Tamie, I just thought you'd like to know that you've been leaving out a word. It's soooooo much more sincere this way.

After death, they sink into a deep depression.

Way to hedge your bets there, First Pentecostal Holiness Church.

THE FOLLOWING SIGNS HAD NO PICTURE:

"Live Drive-Thru Crucifixion. March 31-April 1, 7-9pm"

Yeah, I'll have the two-for-one nail-through-the-hand special with ketchup down my side and an extra large Chalice please.

"Salvation: Apply Within"

Please allow four to six weeks for your application to be processed. We regret that there are only six open slots at this time and encourage candidates who are not selected to reapply next year.

"After the darkest night, perhaps the brightest dawn."

But you never know. Perhaps the even darker morning.

"When you step out, God steps in."

And he turns your life around (no thanks to chickenshit you)... that's what it's all about.

Clap clap.