Mark and I had to do a seeyalater on hanging out because I was in full “holy crap, I have to pack” freakout mode. Thus, I did some post-work packing and then headed over to the new house to clean. Much to my chagrin, I arrived to find that neither the power nor the water were on, and they should have been. A couple of lucky, post-5:00 phone calls were made and their dudes came out and got both things working. Whew. After that, I stopped by the grocery to get bribes/Mountain Dew for the next day, and hit the ATM for tip money for the movers. I got in bed by 10:00 with the intention of getting up at 6:00 (2 hours before the arrival of the movers) to finish taping boxes and get Murphy situated and locked down.
Despite the best laid plans, I slept through my alarm. I was awakened at 8:30 by the sound of knocking on my door. The movers were greeted by a crazy-haired, bespectacled (evil), hurriedly saying something about sleeping through an alarm. Both dudes looked at me lilke I was crazy, even though one of them actually spoke English. This gringa’s out her damn mind….
The move ended up costing me almost twice as much as expected, due to the movers’ careful habit of quilt padding every piece of furniture…and the fact that my clothing has sort of gotten out of control. I got 3 wardrobe boxes, and I still had two more normal boxes with clothes in them. WTF? You’d think I’d have something to wear. In my partial defense, a gal’s wardrobe must span many occasions, from goth night to job interview and everything in between. In cold AND hot weather. And I really don’t have that many shoes. Can you imagine how much it would cost for Prince to move? No wonder he still lives in Minneapolis.
Anyway, everything got moved in OK. Later that night, I dusted off the piano and quasi-rocked out, an event which resulted in the decision to paint the bedroom rather than hang floor-to-ceiling fabric. The room is wonderfully reverby now, and I’d like to keep it that way.
The word about my move in must have gotten out in the crackhead community, as 3 different people came to the door to offer to cut my grass, 2 of which I’m pretty sure were crackheads. Honestly, crackheads, it’s really rude when talking to someone to ask “so, are you single?” I can’t tell if you’re trying to pick me up or trying to find out if it would be easy for you to rape and kill me. So, yeah. Rude. “I’m not married, but the boyfriend practically lives here.” You know, Bobby Fictitious. Of the Long Island Fictitiouses?
I awoke at 5AM (because I don’t have blinds yet) and every joint in my body was angry with me. You don’t realize how delicate your fingers are until you carry several heavy milk crates with them and wake up with them nearly frozen into a lobster claw. Or, when a new Guitar Hero game comes out and you wake up feeling like you’ve been strangling people all night. I did more unpacking while waiting for Comcast (who stood me up until Monday) and then went up to Sir Pizza with Jen and Elias for a surprisingly tasty queen’s feast. Or, as I call it, “Drag Queen’s Feats.”
Comcast may have stood me up, but it served them right when they had to install my ghetto cable and much-needed internets while Alarm Guy was turning stuff on and being loud. Ha! You stand me up? Here’s a loud, piercing squealy noise. Having the alarm activated seems a little excessive (after the cell unit to call the cops, it’s 35 a month), but I get a bunch of money off of my home owners’ insurance for it. Besides…maybe it’ll dissuade the crackheads?