Apparently I’m Helpless

I guess its my own doing – admittedly I’m a little flaky, a little scatterbrained, and I write things down in 15 different places and still forget what I’m supposed to be doing, but…

I’ve slowly been putting my apartment together. It’s a lot of work! I can’t even imagine what owning a full blown house would be like. If I ever buy anything, now I’m leaning towards a condo. Or something with maintenance. Or, living with someone extremely handy (I’m partially Misogynistic, not in the whole “I hate women sense” – cause I’m a chic – but I think that we tend to have gender specific skills – with exceptions, of course. I’ll get into it later, you might hate me after reading what I think. My friends don’t see eye to eye on that point of view all the time, but we’re entitled to our opinions. I make a mean lasagna, but have no desire to put up shelves, that’s a mans job).

ANYWAY. So we all know I’m not good with a screwdriver. I’ll get the job done at the end of the day, but it’ll take all day. Literally. It took me 8 hours to put up blinds (they’re straight though!), another 8 for my curtains (they’re straight too!). I’m not talking, like 25 windows, I’m talking 5 sets of blinds, 2 sets of curtains.

I’m proud of myself though! My FF friend came over the other day, and started poking around, looking at my accomplishments. “YOU did all this? By yourself! They’re straight! And they’re even the right size!”

I can’t tell if he was being a d!ck and mocking my lack of handiness, or if he was seriously that surprised I’m not entirely handicapped.

And thinking about it, I really don’t know which is worse.

Advertisements

The Moving Chronicles: Part One

Boxes Packed: 10
Boxes Moved: 8
Recovered Items: 4.5
Beverages: 3 beers, 1 martini
Broken Items (as of 10:30 PM): ZERO

Today was a wild success, especially considering the first time I moved I was doing 85 down the Cross Island Parkway with a mattress sticking out the back window of my ex boyfriend’s barely-street-legal Durango (I’m pretty sure I took it without him knowing), hung over, and the last time I moved I spent the 4 days up to it watching tv and drinking beeeeeeeehas, smashing (at least) 11 pint glasses.

I had boxes this time. Boxes! And tape. AND a marker.

Granted, it took me 3 hours to even get started – 2 hours to find a home depot and 1 hour to remind myself if I was tipsy by the time Mom swung by to help me out, she’d kick my butt.

I didn’t kill my landlord, not even when she disturbed my packing groove to show the apartment to an unsuspecting woman (who she’s planning on over-charging), or asked me to stay another year.

I found 3 remote controls, 5 nail clippers, a broken digital camera (that’s the half), and 5 rolls of Christmas wrapping paper. I made friends with my new Super, and the lady a few apartments down invited me over for wine when I move in.

I don’t know if it was one of those “I’m just being polite and don’t really mean it” invites, but I don’t care. I’m going anyway.

moving moving moving

Some people HATE moving.  Me, I kinda like it.  Its almost like a fresh start – and each time I move I say to myself, “Self, you are going to pack your stuff up nicely this time, you’re going to label it, and you’re not going to leave it in boxes for 6 months after you move in”. 

Of course, that hasn’t happened – last time I moved I took two days off work to “pack” and I essentially sat on the couch, watching television and drinking beer.  When my mom and sister showed up to help, I had moved all of my belongings into the middle of the living room next to a stack of bags.  The U-Haul was a friggin disaster, when we opened it in front of my new place, bags came careening out of the back, smashing some of my beloved pint glasses.

In any event, THIS time will be different.  I’m even getting boxes – real boxes – from the store.  And I have a marker, and tape, and I’m going to start this ish tonight. 

Why tonight? Because the new land lord has a creepy crush on me and is letting me move in early (apparently I “brighten his day” over the phone.  And he texts me.  Texts me!  WTH).  I’m going to start boxing things up and sneaking them into my car tonight, tomorrow night, etc. in the hopes that I won’t have to spend too much time talking to my current-soon-to-be-ex-a$$hole-landlord.

She’s literally insane, and I might kill her.  I told her I was moving to a completely different boro, not across town, so if I ever run into her, I’m just going to pretend I’m my twin, Regina.  I don’t have a twin, but maybe she won’t know that.

This weekend will be…interesting.  At the very least, I might have some stories to share when it’s all done.

…so I’m moving…

My current land lord is a raving lunatic. My neighbor – raving lunatic. After 3 years of living among the lunatics, I decided to pack up the apartment and move.

Now, I live in a beach town. It’s approximately an hour away from where I work so I was planning on moving a little closer to my job when I realized that would simply mean I had no excuse to be late anymore.

not that my current excuses are anything good, but sometimes they’re warranted.

Part of the moving process is the “showing of the current apartment” to potential renters. I’m okay with that – it doesn’t really feel like home now, and lessbehonest, I’m not Rockefeller. The most important thing in that apartment to me is my dog and my pint glass collection. Unfortunately, I’m 98% sure that my dog would happily go off with a complete stranger if they scratched her ears…leaving me with the pint glasses.

In any event, I told ole Gerty upstairs to just give me a ring before viewings – if I was at the house, I’d stay out-of-the-way, if I was at work, well…alright, alright, that’s not really an option.  If I was at the bar – I’d happily tell her not to judge me based on the dishes in my sink (I was microwaving marshmallows the other day.  Absolutely hilarious – trust me and try it, but do it on paper plates cause it’s a b!tch to clean up after)

She agreed, however, she’s a filthy liar. Rewind to a few days ago, I’m sleeping on the Big Easy in my drawers, covered in tissues and a pit bull, messy hair, with Days of Our Lives blaring in the background (I don’t ALWAYS look a hot mess, I was sick, I swear), and in walks Gertie, potential renters in tow.

Did you see that I was in my drawers? I’m talking under-roos, panties, undies, grannie panties, whatever you want to call them – so it’s not like I could jump up and hide in the bathroom without further humiliating myself.

At least the potential renters got a glimpse as to what they might have to deal with if they decide to rent from her.