@#(*&$_(*&@(*&$!!!

There are no words for the complete and utter clusterfuck that is this day.

Last night, I was packing until around 12:30 when I and my aching body finally threw in the towel, watched a few minutes of CSI, and went to bed.

This morning, I woke up at 7:00, finished the last little bits of packing up, went down the street to get coffee and a bagel, and then sat around waiting for the movers--and my parents, who were driving up from PA to help hang shelves and take back a few things that won't fit in the new place--to show up.

10:00 rolls around... 10:15... around 10:20 my parents call to tell me they're stuck in traffic on the BQE. I tell them the movers haven't arrived yet so not to sweat it.

10:30. I call the moving company to get an ETA, only to learn that they're not. fucking. coming.

Let me repeat that.

THE MOVERS WERE NOT COMING.

When I switched my reservation from Saturday to Monday, the guy on the phone accidentally put it in the computer for Tuesday. In other words: I. Am. Fucked. And my parents had already taken the day off work and driven 3 fucking hours to be here to help me.

I'll give you a minute to imagine my mental state on this one.

It took every amount of willpower I could muster not to start bawling on the phone--I did not, however, rein in my use of the word "Fuck," since I figured he had long ago lost any and all right to politeness as he did not, in all honesty, sound all that sorry about the fact that his error had completely and utterly fucked me over.

With a motherfucking chainsaw.

So I hung up the phone. I screamed. I smoked a cigarette.

My parents came and we ran a few things up to the new place--my plants, my food (since they were supplying the cooler), and the shelving unit that I needed my dad's help to hang. Now I'm sitting here in my apartment, on my legless, half-naked sofa, with cables running across the livingroom so I can connect to the internet since the router is packed and I'm out of tape so I can't close the box if I open it... oh, and my computer? Is being a royal dick today.

Really, aside from being pissed off, inconvenienced, and totally frustrated, I am completely and utterly amazed by the sheer number of things that have gone wrong with this move.

1. Couldn't get movers for Friday, so scheduled Saturday.
2. Find out the building doesn't allow weekend moves. Reschedule to Monday.
3. Learn that the post office, electric company, and cable company have no idea my apartment exists. It may take me up to three weeks to get cable/internet at new place.
4. Try to set appointment to get current cable box picked up, since new apartment has different provider. They say all they have is Wednesday, but I'll be gone. Finally get one for Tuesday, when I'll be here to paint.
5. MOVERS DON'T FUCKING SHOW UP
6. Call cable company to get that Wednesday appointment, no longer available, all they have is Thurs. Say fuck it, I'll figure out how to get the box back to them myself, even though all of their offices are WAY THE FUCK AWAY from where I'll be living.

And just to top it off, due to massive schedule conflicts, I probably won't have time to actually unpack anything until, oh, Friday.

I'm thinking that right about now is the time to buy a lottery ticket because something has got to go my freaking way!!

Lock Your Doors, I'm Going on a Rampage...

A few days ago my Facebook status message noted that if one more wrench was thrown into the works of this move, I was going to go postal.

Well, it turns out that, according to, oh, the Electric Company, the Cable Company, and the motherfucking U.S. Postal Service... MY APARTMENT DOES NOT EXIST.

I can't open an electric account. It's going to take me three fucking weeks to get cable--don't ask me how the hell I'm going to find a job without the internet--and changing the address on my bills has been nothing short of a nightmare.

Of course, I discovered the brunt of this around 6:00pm on a Friday, which means that nobody was home at the management company when I called, and I therefore can't do dick about it until Monday--which is when I'm moving!

The apartment has electricity, so I won't be stumbling around by candlelight or anything, and there are no less than four cable jacks protruding from the walls, which means that it's capable of receiving a cable signal. Now, the building itself is Pre-War, but my lease listed the apartment as New Construction, so they must have split an older, larger apartment into two.

But don't you think they maybe should have told somebody??? Work like that requires a permit, so shouldn't somebody, somewhere, have maybe made a note of it?

Un-mother-fucking-believable. Seriously.

So, to keep me from jumping out a window, I need to remember the reasons I'm excited for the move, and thus I bring you...

Things I Will NOT Miss About My Apartment

1. Shittiest. Stairs. Ever.

The second flight of stairs has looked like this since I moved in--at which time the landlord claimed they were going to re-finish them within the next few months. Lies. All lies.

Which segues nicely into...


2. My Landlord's Laughable Attempts At Home Repair

 

Remember The Bathroom Saga? Well this is the resulting linoleum application after, you know, I finally got my floor back.

The best part? Is that beneath that shoddily applied linoleum is... even more shoddily poured concrete. Yes. Motherfucking CONCRETE. Sure as hell hope they never have to get at those pipes again...

  

Also post bathroom-repair. I'm willing to bet that that exposed drywall is just seething with mold spores. Seriously dude... why??

 

Livingroom ceiling has also looked like this since I moved in. What? You thought that hastily applied, greyish spackle would just blend right in with that horrible faux finish?

Which reminds me...


3. The Wretched Popcorn Finish That's Been Applied Everywhere.

The photo is from the kitchen. It has been applied to ceilings throughout the house, over the edges of the crown molding, over the original light fixtures, and all over the kitchen and my bedroom walls. It is ugly and it is sharp. WTF were you thinking??


4. The Song-and-Dance, Special Charms, and Sacrificial Goat required to Get a Reasonable Water Temperature in the Shower, Which Only Last for a Few Minutes Anyway.

Did I mention that the hot and cold taps are reversed, and the water pressure sucks?


5. The Not-Even-Remotely Level Stovetop.

I originally set the level on the floor, but it came out even, so the problem is clearly with the stove itself. Sauteing becomes a real pain in the ass when all the oil pools at one side of the pan.


6. The Fact That This, and a Shoddy Chain Bolt I Installed Myself, is the Only Thing Keeping Murders and Rapists Out of My Apartment.

A single, crappy lock in a hollow door. I've never been particularly comfortable with that.

Fortunately, for the next few days, I'll have enough boxes piled in front of those doors to keep out the 300 Spartans.

If I ever finish packing.

I have furniture!!

Hooray!

I no longer feel guilty about having avoided the gym for several months, as this weekend certainly put the "Labor" into Labor Day!

But the results are stunning.  My apartment no longer looks like the residence of some poverty-stricken squatter who owns only a butterfly chair, a coffee table, and a very old television.  It now looks like the home of, well, an adult. Really, it's kindof creepy.

However, this remarkable transformation did not come about without incident--most of which centers around my couch.

My parents came up for Friday and Saturday to help with the transport and installation of furniture, as well as to bring some stuff that I'd been storing at their house--like the nice dishes I inherited from my grandmother, which I can use now that I no longer have to worry about roommates breaking them.

Friday was an exhausting day of hauling heavy furniture up the VERY narrow stairs of my building, but we rewarded ourselves with a nice dinner and several glasses of Stella.  All in all, it was a good day.

Saturday I once again dragged my ass out of bed alarmingly early for a weekend and trudged over to my parents' hotel for an expensive but excellent breakfast.  Then we began our trek to the IKEA over in Jersey. (Hint: it may be a bit further away than the IKEA on Long Island, but the sales tax is only 3.5% vs NY's 8.75%.  And they were offering 10% off for Students!  See, I knew grad school was good for something!).

We only got moderately lost navigating across Manhattan (what can I say?  I never even walk downtown, let alone drive there!), but the real fun began towards the end of our stint on the Jersey Turnpike.

The highway splits and one half becomes 78 W and the other 95 S.  Easy, right?  The sign says "95 S Keep Left," so we merge left.  No problem.  

About 50 yards later there is another sign: "95 S, Right Lane."  Ooookay, sure.  So we merge right.  

50 yards later, yet another sign: "95 S, Keep Left."  WTF??  But we merge left.  Again.  

Then, you guessed it, ANOTHER sign, this one telling us, yet again, that we should be in the Right lane!  

By this time my dad is swearing up a storm, as are all the other drivers behind us, one of which decides to display his displeasure by cutting in front of us, slamming on his breaks, giving us the finger, and then speeding away.

Like it was our fault that whoever placed those signs was clearly acting out some bizarre revenge fantasy on the drivers of New Jersey.

Note: he also mis-labeled the exit ramp signs when we finally got off the turnpike.  Bastard.

However, we finally made it to IKEA and all was fine and dandy.  I scored a couch, a bookshelf, and several very nice rugs all for a ridiculously low price.  I really do love IKEA.

Then they wheeled my couch out of the warehouse and it seems that "some assembly required" really means "screw the legs on;"  aka: "How the HELL are we going to get all of this in Blazer along with 3 human beings??"

So my mom sat on my lap in the front seat the whole way back from Jersey.

And we got stuck in traffic.

But the *real* fun began when it was time to get the couch into my apartment.

Now, I had measured the narrowest part of the stairway before selecting the couch, and I knew it would fit up the stairs.  And it did, with remarkably little difficulty.

We should have taken that as a sign, because when it came time to angle it through my oddly-placed front door, we hit a snag.

Actually, it was the wall.  Then the door frame.  Then the ceiling.  No matter how we repositioned the damned thing, we were always shy by about half an inch.

This is the point where most normal people would have given up, but not the P______ family.  We are stubborn bastards.  So as we stand in the hallway sweating and swearing, I look around and say, "you know, that wall right there is just a sheet of plywood nailed over a door frame.  If we took it down, that would give us an extra 2 inches of space to work in."

Which is precisely what we did. 

We took down a fucking WALL to get my couch into my apartment.

You know, I never thought it would turn out to be a good thing that my landlords are crap at renovation, but if that wall had been properly installed sheetrock, we would have been screwed.

But whoever rents this apartment after me is gonna have to buy that damned couch.

Success!!

Is a wet, naked woman eating Sun Chips directly from the bag considered hot?  I only ask because that's what anyone looking through my kitchen window a few minutes ago would have seen, and I like to maintain a rapport with my local peeping toms...

At any rate, I feel a certain level of accomplishment tonight.  A scant week after moving a whole 5-ish subway stops away from my neighborhood of 5 years, I ventured back to the old stomping grounds for drinks with friends, thus proving:

a.  one can maintain old friendships (and bad habits) after moving to a residence outside the "comfort zone";

b.  I am capable of walking the entire 1 1/2 blocks from the subway to my house--after midnight, while intoxicated--without being accosted or otherwise encumbered (unless you count the unexpected swarm of rats running from the trashcan to some unsuspecting individual's house, thus making me exceptionally grateful to be living on the 3rd floor);

and c.  that even riding on the most worthless train in all of New York City (feel free to make your guesses as to which train I mean) I still made it home before my friends!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is certainly an evening to feel proud.

Or perhaps that's just the Yuengling talking.

Moving, part 3

Oh.  My.  God.

Everything hurts.

EVERYTHING.

It's only 10pm on a Saturday and I am so totally ready for bed.  I have a looooong day of painting, cleaning, and unpacking ahead of me.

If I can walk when I wake up.

Wish me luck!!

Moving, part 2

It is 2:30 am, and I have finally finished packing.

Or at least, finished enough that I can go to bed without feeling too guilty.

Not bad really, only 2 1/2 hours later than I thought I was going to finish.  I have a real knack for grossly underestimating the enormity of a given task.  I tell myself "oh, my room's not that big... it can't take more than 4 hours to pack up...."  

Then I remember:  I have a shitload of crap.

Around 10pm I also realized that I was definitely going to run out of boxes.  At that point, what I should have done was say "fuck it," and thrown out everything that was not yet packed.   Instead I went down to the bodega and managed to sweet talk my way to 5 empty beer cases.  Now my movers will probably think I'm a lush.

Which is fine with me, so long as I'm not carrying anything down the stairs.

Moving, part 1

Oh my god, I hate packing.  Suddenly I remember why I haven't moved in 4 years... because packing SUCKS.

That and my rent was really cheap.  And there are 4 flights of stairs between my stuff and the great outdoors.  At least this time I've hired movers.

I hear my roommate washing a dish.  $20 says it's one of mine (an easy bet, they're all mine) and now I'll have to figure out what box all the others are in so that it can join its kin.  *grumble*  Not like I didn't tell them days ago that I was moving out, yet still I had to wash everyone else's dirty dishes so that I could pack them.

Not only does moving suck, but being the only person moving out of an apartment while the others are staying is even worse, because all their stuff is in your way and you have to keep worrying that they've got something of yours stashed away in their rooms somewhere, and you don't want to appear mistrustful by asking more than once, even though that's exactly what you are.

It's okay.  I'll just sit back and relish the fact that when they wake up tomorrow they'll have no dishes, no microwave, and no internet.  (Can you tell that household relations have been less than friendly as of late?)

Maybe I'll go out for pizza.  All my food is packed and right now the thought of actually starting to pack my room is quite daunting.  Another hour of procrastination can't hurt that much... can it?