home again, home again, jiggity-jig

Well, I’m back from my Week of Terror in DC and despite my initial anxiety about the laundry list of moving my mom and finding an apartment and securing a moving company for our own move, things have turned out pretty well. In fact, I consider this last week nothing less that a big fucking success. Here’s why:

1. I rented the very first and only apartment I looked at. I know, I know, it sounds really dumb, but I’d done my research. I’d scoured the newspapers and craigslist, called several places beforehand, and even made a three-ring binder with over twenty places that I was planning to scope out during my gigantic apartment quest. But then none of the places I called the first day panned out, except for this one—and it was cheap, and clean, and close to my work, and included all utilities, and air conditioned, and the management was competent. I won’t pretend that I wasn’t more than a little nervous to sign the lease right off on the first and only place I’d seen, but my mom’s and brother’s assurances (‘this is divine intervention’ and ‘SCORE!’, respectively) and the fact that the rent is the same exact amount that we are currently paying in San Diego soon won me over. It seemed like a sign that this apartment was ‘the one’. So I sucked up my nerves, signed the lease the following day, thanked my lucky stars, and gave an imaginary high-five to Jesus. Done.

2. My mom delayed her move by two days, just in time for my brother Bear and his naïve friend to get back from their trip and help out. This circumstance was especially fortuitous because my mom has waaaaay more stuff than she’ll admit to. By the third day of her insisting that ‘there’s really not that much stuff, really there’s not’ I was shoulder-deep in boxes of knick-knacks and fortunately too exhausted to do her any real violence. All I can say is, God bless the construction crew foreman for lending me Carlos and his two hombres for an hour. They saved us from certain failure and solved the conundrum that we’d been trying to resolve all week: what to call the levels of my mom’s new three-story house that begin on the ground floor, but not with a basement. Thanks to the exhausted yet good-natured Hombre #1 who had to haul the double-wide dresser up two flights of stairs, they are now christened: ‘downstairs,’ ‘arriba,’ and ‘arriba arriba’. I rewarded them with ice-cold Cokes, cold hard cash and effusive thanks. I had originally intended to pay them with booze and loose women but they still had a full day of work ahead of them and the whorehouse didn’t open ‘til noon. Whatever, they seemed satisfied.

3. My mom picked the two hottest days of the year to move. It was nearly one hundred degrees outside and extremely humid, which made it feel like one million kajillion degrees. Add a bajillion boxes, heavy furniture and a quadrillion stairs and you get a pretty miserable result. I’d forgotten what it was like to sweat like a hog from the moment you wake up until—well, actually you just sweat every second, except for the few minutes spent in a cold shower. Anyway, it was awful, but apparently I lost two pounds in the process, so whoohoo! Screw dieting and exercise, all weight loss really takes is abject misery. This revelation has tempted me to launch the most unpopular dieting movement ever, but I’m busy so I’ll resist for now. Besides, salad and celery is almost as good.

4. And last but not least, we’ve found a moving company that will load, transport and unload all of our junk for a reasonable price. Also, certain unsuspecting friends of ours will be arriving next weekend, just in time to help us pack boxes and sleep on our bare hardwood living room floor. Haha, suckers—bring your own pillows!