Once again I am faced with a gap of several days (well, a week, really) in which I have no entries recording my life. And I am faced with the onerous task of filling in that gap.
Here is the short, sweet version:
I FUCKING HATE MOVING.
Thursday was God, Why Won't You Kill Me Day. It was two hours of tracking down a truck at U-Haul, only to be told that we could not get a truck until 6 pm, going to Ryder, and finding that all they had was a van, the small size of which necessitated many more trips back and forth than a larger vehicle would have. Thirteen hours of carrying disgustingly awkward and vomitously heavy items up and down stairs and across streets and through small doorways. Did I mention thirteen hours yet? THIRTEEN HOURS. Another few hours trying to get a vague semblance of order to my room so that I would have somewhere to sleep. And the most blessedly wonderful shower I have ever taken in my entire life. I was so hideously filthy and drippingly sweaty, the clothes I stripped off and plopped down in exhaustion ended up leaving a STAIN on my HARDWOOD FLOOR. I sweated out entire people-weights of sweat. I was bruised, I was cut, I was scraped, and I think I developed an allergy to cardboard boxes, purely out of instinctive self-preservation.
Before this move, I had the (supposedly) noble thought that I would never pay for a professional mover, based on principle. The flaw in this notion is that I have never before had to move such a tremendous volume of CRAP, and I am now of the school of thought that I will never ever again move my household myself. I will pay someone to move things for me while I sit back and drink iced tea. Maybe the movers will even be hot college guys. You never know.
Friday was God, I'm Serious About This Killing Me Thing, Or At Least Get Me Drunk Day. I somehow managed to ooze my way out of bed, returned the van, and stumbled my way to work where I was thoroughly useless. Friday night I drank large amounts of wine on my bed and sang along as the Shiv and Art played some gee-tar, much to the amusement of several passersby.
Saturday was Fuck Da Police Day. I went BACK to the old apartment and spent another three hours moving still more CRAP from one domicile to the other. I even got a ticket!! For what? you may ask. Well, I got a ticket for "improperly using a trashcan." Huh? you say. Yes, I got a ticket for putting a TRASHBAG in a TRASHCAN on the corner. Apparently these trashcans are not actually to be used. Of course, it was probably primarily because I was throwing tremendous amounts of attitude at the bitchy cop who was yelling at me for putting trash on the curb -- yeah, like I had the time or energy to placate her -- and so she gave me a $100 ticket. I took great solace in the fact that as soon as she turned the corner, I tore the ticket up and threw it...in the trashcan.
Sunday was Outlet Shopping Day, and all I need to say about this is I now officially own my very first piece of Versace clothing. I feel delicious just knowing I possess these dreamy pants. And my Estonian-bound friend got to play dress-up doll for me, which was a tremendous amount of fun.
Monday was Company Outing Day, and basically involved me getting sunburned, eating a mountain of crab (which was strange in that I really dislike eating food that has a face), floating down a river, gossiping with the girls while all the boys played soccer (big shocker there) and finally actually talking with some of the people I work with about topics other than web pages.
And finally, Tuesday was Vaguely Returning To Normal Day, made less normal than one might expect by a meeting with this one, who was just as lovely as I had suspected, and this one, where I got to see the marks left by the pit bull.
Today does not yet have a name. All I know so far is that Swoon.com's horoscopes give today four stars, which has not happened before, as far as I am aware. Hopefully today will be labeled Winning Millions in the Lotto Day, but more likely is going to be Having Lunch At McDonalds Day. Wish me luck.