Move B*tch, Get Out Da Way (Part II)

Sorry for the dispersed blogging this week.

I have been going through my own personal mini-hell, otherwise known as moving.

While even thinking about my relocation sends me into immediate heart failure, I am lucky enough to be going through my move with my best [equally neurotic, equally anxious] friend, so a majority of my whining/venting/ohmygodhowwillImoveallofthisstuffbymyself anxiety has been communicated to her, luckily for you.

Before jumping into my list of why I hate moving, I would like to ask this question to my group of friends, family, and peers:

Why, on God’s good earth, did you let me sign a lease that ends on Halloween?

We already know that Halloween is my most stress-inducing holiday of the year where I over obsess, plan, re-plan, diagram, and ohmygodwhatifnoonethinksmycostumeisfunny until I am down to the wire, left with some really great ideas and nothing to wear. Humph.

This year, however, I decided that it would be a good idea to move [my actual least favorite thing to do] at the same time.

Thanks for stepping in and telling me that this was a good idea. When your Christmas gifts get lost in the mail, you will know why.

So without further ado, here is my list of why I hate moving:

• packing, knowing you are going to unpack
• unpacking, knowing how much time you just put into packing
• elevatorless buildings. Girlfriend needs to work out, but carrying a queen size mattress up three flights of stairs a la narrow isn’t my ideal cardio situation
• Realtors. They are like bad boyfriends. At first, you play hard to get, but then once you have made a commitment to stick with one realtor, tracking them down becomes a temporary hobby until you no longer show interest in an apartment to which they then call/email/text/smoke signal you in any which way possible, only to have them drop you like a bad habit once you have handed over your money. Need to sign your lease? Sure, your realtor will be in her hard to find, inconveniently located office between 4:39PM and 4:42PM [sorry! She will be on the road with much more important clients during any normal hours].
• Where did I put the screws so I can re-assemble my bed frame?
• Those awkward bruises you get all up and down your forearms that remind you of your move when you are typing at work, or even putting on a jacket.
• New landlords. Please write down any damages you currently see in the apartment here. Thanks.
• The overwhelming realization that I am not nearly as organized as I thought I was.
• What do I do with all these awkward boxes once I am done moving?!
• Physically signing a lease. Why do we have to all go somewhere to sign a single document? This is 2010, can’t this be done electronically, or at least in a location where I don’t need to dedicate my entire evening to signing it?
• Forwarding address. I am fairly certain that despite my attempts at forwarding my mail with every move, the majority of it still goes to my first apartment in Brighton.
• Breakage in general. This includes glasses, lamps, bulbs, bones, mirrors, and/or pieces of furniture.

Caff "Fiend"

I have a confession to make.

I have been drinking coffee daily for the last week or so.

Why? Because I have spent my entire young adult life avoiding caffeine addiction, and doing very well at it.

When I needed caffeine? I would have the healthy alternative: green tea.

Sigh. I blame my new addiction on my recent habit of getting less sleep per night [I would like to dedicate this particular life change to all of my girlfriends of Charlestown.] as well as trying to be an over-productive, multi-tasker in the hours where I am awake.

The obvious solution is more caffeine.

I feel guilty about it, to the point where even writing here doesn’t seem to be relieving me of said irresponsible feeling in my gut.

With my new love of coffee comes my new list of why I shouldn’t drink it

1. Self, your teeth will turn brown. Um, hello, your dentist told you that you have one of the most perfect sets of teeth he has seen in a long time, virtually stain free. Why are you jeopardizing your flawless grin for your new caffeine addiction? This is why the next coffee you have will be your last coffee.
2. Self, coffee will make you retain water. Tea is the healthier option. Why did you switch in the first place, are you just trying to create problems for yourself?
3. Self, I think coffee makes you fidget more so than you did prior to consuming the caffeinated beverage, if that is even possible. People most definitely think you have some sort of genetic defect where you are unable to sit still for more than twenty minutes, or those who are not creative will think you have ADD. Either way, not a good look for you.

Well, tomorrow is the last coffee I get. I hope.

Sass:5, Kristin: 0

My morning in self dialogue:

6:30AM: “TGIF. Its not raining and I’m not hungover. Yesssss”
7:00AM: “I was ready early this morning, so I will have time to stop for a starbucks treat en route to work. Going to need it for the crazy night that is sure to ensue” [should have known then, all car problems occur when I am overly optimistic and once I decide to reward myself with calorically rich goodies. Hi, car accident.]
7:10AM: “Did the valet guy just tell me that my car wont start? This is one of those situations where I can’t giggle and pretend to understand what he said. Maybe this is an opportunity for me to practice my Spanish?!”
7:10:30AM: “okay so he is definitely saying my car won’t start. Silly valet-driver-guy, of course it will start. I will show you, Jose [yes, that is his name, not an incredibly stereotypical self assigned nickname.]
7:12AM: “This car better start or I am going to look like an idiot”
7:13AM: “This car is definitely not going to start. Excellent.”
7:13:30AM: “No Jose, the car isn’t broken, the car battery is just dead, which means that somehow after the evening valet-driver-guy parked my car, the battery magically drained. Yet another special shout out to the night valet guys [also guilty of popping my tire(s)], who seem to treat my car with complete respect. Although I want to say this to you Jose, you are the morning valet-driver-guy and you are my buddy. I will not place blame on you, since you are merely the messenger, not to mention that you call me ‘mamacita rubia,’ which I thoroughly enjoy.”
7:15AM: “Oh, we can totally jump start the car. God, I am so smart!”
7:16AM: “I think valet-driver-guy is saying he will help me jump it, which is excellent since I don’t even know where the battery in my car is, never mind how to jump mine using another vehicle, nor would I have another vehicle to jump it with without the permission of said valet-driver-guy. Overall, I am helpless.”
7:17AM: “Last time I jumped a car successfully, the car had started by now, and that annoying clicking had gone away. I’ll take this as an unsuccessful attempt.”
7:17:30AM “Really Sass, really? Can we not get through one month without having some crisis involving me calling AAA and asking for a truck that will fit into my low clearance garage?!”
7:19AM “Um, where is my AAA Card? Oh, it must be in the apartment, looks like I have to trek back there…and I’m putting on Uggs and no one can stop me.”
7:26AM: “Okay, so my AAA card isn’t in my apartment, maybe I left it in the car?”
7:35 AM: “The friggen card is most certainly not in the car. Oh, that’s right its in my other purse. That makes complete sense.”
7:45 AM: “AAA will be here so fast, it probably makes no sense for me to go inside the apartment.”
8:25 AM: “On second thought, maybe I should have gone inside.”
8:27 AM: “Kristin, thank you for picking last night to be the one night you decide to not charge your phone. Lets hope AAA calls prior to my phone dying. Just incase, better call them and give them a secondary number since we know I’m not lucky enough for my phone to last.”
8:30 AM: “I wonder if I should tell the valet guys that I can understand Spanish, and know exactly what they are saying? Nah, its more fun eavesdropping.”
8:32 AM: “Well, way to blow your ‘I don’t speak Spanish, I am just a blond ditz” cover. Maybe next time you should avoid laughing at jokes when they are in a private conversation in a different language.”
8:40 AM: “AAA called before your cell died. The day is starting to look up?”
8:45 AM: “Self, you just approached a truck and awkwardly waves and pointed toward the garage. Said truck was not the AAA truck you thought it was. You now look like one of those people who talks to themselves in an animated matter on the side of the street. New life low.”
8:54 AM: “Kris, if you are really nice to Chris, the repair man, maybe he will fix the battery for you without you needing to purchase a new one.”
9:00 AM: “Fail.”
9:10 AM: “well, at least they recognize my voice when I call Sullivan Tire, and can immediately squeeze me in and shuttle me to work. Why is it that I get VIP treatment in all the wrong places?!”
9:30 AM: “Kristin, please abide by the speed limit, if you get pulled over, you will be unable to turn your car off without it stalling. Further, the police will find you to be a threat because I’d be refusing to turn my car off and acting recklessly and screaming that you can’t shut the car off. This would trigger the defense training in the police officer, and next thing you know my hands are outside my driver’s side window, where the police officer can see them. In summation, don’t speed.”
9:50 AM: “Self, did you really just justify to the Sullivan-Tire-shuttle-guy that his Sunday to Monday weekend is legitimate because you can watch all of the football games on Sunday, including the night games?”
9:51 AM: “Um, I think that my obvious love for football has increased Sullivan-Tire-shuttle-guy’s interest in me substantially. So noted.”
12:00 PM: “My eyes are rolling into the back of my head. I’ll go to Starbucks during lunch and get myself a little treat….wait….”

Move B*tch, Get Out Da Way

Its official.

I am not moving home.

Insert your “Kristin, why is your life always full of moving drama?” reaction here.

Instead of moving home to the metropolis that is Sudbury, Massachusetts [famous for Babe Ruth and his piano, a recent accused terrorist, and, well, nothing else], I will be staying in the town that has become the hub of my 20-somethings, Charlestown.

This top of the ninth plan came about when a friend of mine decided to pick up and move to Vail (we will miss you, Clark!), leaving her room vacant and completely and totally available for me. Needless to say, this directly correlates to my not saying “rabbit rabbit” this month.

Moving in completely removes my fears of social isolation, what I like to call the “I don’t want to trek all the way into Boston” syndrome [which would most certainly set in Week 2 of living at home with my parents.] This also completely does away with my need for a storage unit, but more importantly eliminates my newest phobia: storage unit bed bugs.

This is great! Right? I mean I no longer have anything to obsess over!

Please, like that was actually going to happen.

Now instead of googling “how to bed bug proof a mattress” or “techniques to help you fall asleep when you are up thinking about all of the awful things that could be happening to your possessions whilst in said self storage unit,” I have now resorted to googling “small space storage solutions.”

Yes, my new room is tiny: positive because it gives me less room to crap up, but negative because ohmygodIhavesomuchstuff anixetyanxietyanxiety.

The obvious solution? Measure said closet of a room, obsessively mentally place, re-place, and re-re-place my furniture in my mock room so I can be ready for move-in, and learn everything I can about cute/trendy/incredibly practical storage solutions.

This goes back to my whole problem of unrealistic expectations.

Kristin, your small space is not going to look like the examples shown on the Pottery Barn, or even Ikea, website. Should you try to recreate it, you will end up with an expensive, awkward looking mockery. You would be one of those girls. The same girls who wear way too much Lily and pearls.

My new approach? Use what you have, and attempt to not over plan. Right, we will see how long that lasts.

Lets try to not scare off the new roommates before I even move in, but stay tuned for the morbid/stressful/anxious details that make up moving anywhere.

TGIT

Good: Fajitas and Ritas serves margaritas in a pitcher.
Great: I like margaritas, especially when the are served in large quantities.
TGIT: my friends agree with my “never let anything go to waste” mentality, even if it does mean drinking margarita remnants off our table with a straw.

The Sweatshirt: The Novel

Yesterday's post, which by the way didn’t post until this morning [I never said I actually remembered to hit post] left me stuck on the idea of the sweatshirt, namely my personal sweatshirt phases throughout my life.

As a kid, I spent much of my time in sweatshirts that were either way too big, way too small, or way too tacky for my liking. There was never that Goldilocks of a sweatshirt that fit just right. Don’t get me wrong: I will absolutely be dressing my children in the same god-awful sweatshirts I was forced to prance around in, but I know that I will be doing it because they look cute, not because they are fashionable. Regardless, I will forever be scared by sweatshirts with giant, goofy, puffy-penned faces plastered on the front in the same way that I will always be scarred by the vest-turtleneck combination. Thank you Christmas photos of 1992.

Middle school was the covering-up phase. Things were changing, and no one needed to see my body morph itself into something new. I was going for the before and after look, no one wanted to see it during construction.

High School had three phases. The first being high school sports gear. You either had a letter jacket, team pants, team shirt, team hat, team windbreaker, team mouthguard, team underwear and team spirit, or you didn’t. The younger you were to receive a letter jacket and/or other cool varsity apparel, the cooler you were. It is relatively simple. For us dancers, we pranced around in our dance team gear, so that people knew we were dancers, and not just plain old lazy and/or geeky. [Side note: we weren’t allowed to have letter jackets as dancers, but chearleaders were? And further, now pretty much anyone at LSRHS can get a letter jacket because no one should ever feel left out, right Mrs. O’Neil?]

The Second High School Phase was bragging rights. Did you get into Duke? You wore the sweatshirt. Didn’t get in to UVA, but wanted people to think you were smart enough to visit and buy a sweatshirt? You wore the sweatshirt. Huge Penn State football fan, but also wanted people to think you might go there on full scholarship? You wore the sweatshirt. Applied to a state school as a safety school? You wore the sweatshirt. Are we sensing the trend here? People defined you based on what letters where sewn onto your sweatshirt. All of a sudden wearing a sweatshirt isn’t the easy way out anymore, is it?

The last phase of high school was college pride. You have been accepted to St. Lawrence University, and damn, were you proud. Everyone else should be just as proud of you as you are. It is time to advertise. Not only did you buy the SLU sweatshirt as a way to celebrate your amazing in-person interview on campus, but once you were accepted, you also purchased half of the online bookstore’s clothing selection. You now find it appropriate to wear your SLU sweatshirt, sweatpants, shorts, hat, sandals and t-shirt anywhere, and choose to accessorize my ensemble with a SLU water bottle, koozie, keychain. There is nothing abnormal about this, since every one of your peers did the exact same thing with their future university, but don’t worry, your school is much better than theirs.

College also had multiple phases.

The freshman phase is very similar to the last phase of high school, only now you are on campus and wearing everything you own that says St. Lawrence University. To top it off, you decide that since you love college so much, your entire family will love a Christmas gift from the SLU bookstore, because they also want to associate themselves with such a fine institution. You bring a couple sweatshirts from high school so that all your potential new friends will know that you played varsity lacrosse and were popular in high school. Also, if you joined an athletic team in college [ahem, dance team] you started to prance around in order to form your collegiate identity.

The second phase of college continues with greek pride. You rushed and pledged and are now a member of a greek house. You collectively order everything from lettered sweatshirts, tshirts, skirts, sweatpants, hats and belts in order to distinguish yourself as a member of your house, God forbid anyone associate you with the wrong house [which they won’t since you are fashionably toting around your custom vineyard vines sorority bag.] Conversely, if you didn’t go greek, you either hated or were jealous of the people who were decked out in sorority gear. This is one of the many Greek to GDI battles that occur while in college.

Third phase of college was the "I don’t care what I am wearing, I just want to be comfortable when hungover and freezing in class" phase. Usually, you didn’t care what it was you were wearing, so long as it wasn’t on inside out or smell of anything you drank the night before. This phase is fairly simple and easy to understand.

The most recent sweatshirt phase, which I believe I am still in, is the “I am too poor to purchase anything, besides produce and alcohol, so I will continue to wear the sweatshirts I already own until I wear straight through them” phase. Right out of college I still insisted on wearing my Tri Delt letters, because frankly they were the only sweatshirts I had left after three years of constant purchases [I mean a girl can only have so many sweatshirts] but I slowly started to wear my SLU sweatshirts again, with the obvious exception being when I am hungover, and then everything is fair game and non-judgable.

Does anyone have other sweatshirt phases they went through?

Free Fallin'

On Tuesday, I went to California, wearing yoga pants and a short sleeved sweater. I would define the weather as Indian Summer [not too hot, not too cold, no need for a light jacket] and green.

On Sunday, I came home from California, wearing yoga pants and a full long winter sweater. I define this weather as ohmygodwheredidthewarmweathergo Fall with different colored trees.

Very different. Very unhappy. While I was gallivanting around the [fairly un-sunny and foggy] California coast, Mother Nature decided to switch seasons without me, foliage and all.

As I am sure you have learned, I am not very good with change. I require a lot of prep and hand holding prior to a big change. Summer to Fall is one that requires a good amount of preparation. Clearly I hadn’t had enough time.

In five short days, New England changed seasons without me, inadvertently leaving me behind. While every other Massachusettian was able to slowly transition into the freezing cold, I was forced to change seasons at the Terminal D Departure Exit. Thanks for that, Mother Nature.

As if last evening’s airport exit shock wasn’t enough of a wake up call, I decided to fall-ize one of my summer work outfits by simply adding black tights to the ensemble [per Glamour Magazine’s request.] I looked adorable. Adorable, that is, until I hit the morning Massachusetts freeze that kicked the “last minute hope for a heat wave” spirit right out of me. Welcome to Boston, Kristin. We have seasons here.

At any rate, being that I am now completely aware that it is in fact Fall in this great state, I have compiled my list of fall must-haves.

Victoria Secret Yoga Pants [extra long, for the very leggy people like me]
Hungover, freezing, rushing to work, and/or just too lazy to pull together a suitable outfit? Black yoga pants go with everything: dress them up, dress them down, or just plain dress in them- yoga pants have been a staple in my wardrobe since freshman year at the tundra. Similarly, yoga pants serve as a great day to evening to night staple. From work, to karaoke, to bed- they seem to due diligence at each venue.

Starbucks Caramel Apple Cider
If you pretend they are calorie free, these little treats are a direct path to heaven. You are welcome in advance.

L.L. Bean’s Wicked Good Slippers
Yes, that is what they are called [take that, all you hella California people] and, boy, do they live up to their name. L.L. Bean has created a shoe that not only survives, but excels, in almost every environment.

Sunglasses
Just became the warmth went away, doesn’t mean the sun did.

Hooded Sweatshirt
With the cold months comes more time for fires, hangovers, and other cuddly occasions.
All of these situations equal an opportunity to snug up inside an overly large, super comfy, wicked warm sweatshirt. Snug up, make some hot chocolate, spike it with some baileys if you are feeling frisky, and you have yourself a pretty wonderful evening.

Ugg Boots
The socially acceptable version of a slipper. You may call them ugly, but I call them practical.

Four Wheel Drive and/or A Great Car that You Can Handle In Snow
Before Sass, there was my jeep. She was a powerhouse in the North Country. I barely had to clean her off when I needed to get anywhere. I felt pretty much undestructable in that car, except for when she started to fail me. Then came Sass. Sass doesn’t have the power of the jeep, but boy does she have the willpower. She fights snow well, except for that one time when she got stuck during the halftime show of the 2008 Superbowl (wooopssss!)

High Duck Boots (yet again, another L.L. Bean product)
See that frozen piece of ice about 20 paces in front of you? Yes, well in about 20 paces you will realize that the piece of ice you just walked over wasn’t completely frozen through, and you will be standing in a cold, slushy dirt puddle in shoes that are not waterproof. You will then spend the rest of your travels feeling your wet shoe sole press into your wet sock with every step you take. Invest in duck boots, you will thank me later.

Pashminas
Any color goes with any outfit, and each can be used as mittens/hat/ear/neck warmers in the case of an emergency.

A Hooded Jacket.
While they may not be the most stylish article of clothing you have, you will be extremely happy when the wind driven rain doesn’t chill your ears through, turning them bright red.

tgit!

Good: I like tic tacs.
Great: I like grapefruit.
TGIT: my inadvertent donation to breast cancer awareness. In my purchase of these tic tacs, I have single-handedly donated more to breast cancer research than anyone who noted where they like to put their “purse” collectively. Please also note my pink cream cheese [yes, I like strawberry cream cheese]. While Philadelphia didn’t donate based on my purchase, they sell something pink. They are a-okay in my book.

I Like It Anywhere But Your Status

Breast cancer is a fatal and very real disease. Since the beginning of this year, 207,090 new cases of invasive breast cancer have been recorded, 40,000 of them being fatal.

Your chances of having breast cancer in your lifetime (if you are a woman)? Less than 1 in 8. The chance of dying from breast cancer? 1 in 35. These are real, cold stats from the American Cancer Society. I didn’t just make ‘em up, people.

As I sit here, my grandmother continues to fight her battle with breast cancer, and may I add she is doing a fine job at doing so. Go Grammy, Go!

I admire those who dedicate their time, money and energy to Breast Cancer awareness and research. Thank you, angels, for your role in the saving and enrichment of the lives of those who have been touched by such a toxic disease.

Moving on.

Want to know what really burns my toast [shout out to you, Clark]?

Young girls who are using breast cancer awareness as an excuse to post sexually suggestive facebook status’.

For those of you unaware, there is a guerilla marketing program on facebook promoting breast cancer awareness, where women are updating their status to explain where they put their purse once arriving home.

Examples?
“I like it on my table.”
“I like it in my car.”

How does it work? Those who aren’t made aware of the tactic begin to question why their newsfeed is suddenly overflowing with places people “like it,” they google it, learn its for a good cause, and then re-post to their status, continuing the cycle. It snowballs.

Usually, I am all for guerilla marketing, especially when it is for a good cause. Some of you may remember last year’s initiative where women posted what color bra they were wearing in the name of breast cancer awareness. Shamefully, I admit to participating in that, seeing it as more of an innocent way to jump start the beginning of breast cancer awareness month.

This year is much different for me.

Now, I am seeing status updates like this:

“I like it on the couch, in front of the window, where everyone can see.”
or even better,
“I like it on the floor, next to the lit fireplace, with my socks on.”

So you are trying to tell me, Miss 15-year-old-girl-I-used-to-babysit-for, that you like to leave your purse out in the open, for anyone to see? Is that the safest decision? I mean if you leave your purse in plain view, there is a much greater chance for someone to take it or for you to forget where you put it? Similarly, Miss-girl-who-used-to-date-one-of-my-friends-so-I-couldn’t-reject-your-request, I highly doubt that you leave your purse on the floor near the fireplace when you have a fire lit. This is an extreme fire hazard. Propping your purse up against any warm surface is quite an idiotic motion, as your purse and all its contents could melt. Duh. Also, how is your sock wearing relevant to the location of your purse?

Analysis: What started as an attempt to raise awareness has now become an excuse for young girls to post sexual innuendo all over their facebook walls. It has now become a sexual joke, which seems counterproductive to its original intent.

Maybe you should think twice about your “I like it in the back seat of my car” posting. I know I did.

Mad Dog, Mad Dog, Whatchu Gonna Do When I Come For You?!

This is a Mad dog and I have been on the hunt for them as a gag gift for my sorority sisters at our friends wedding this upcoming weekend. (Congrats Alicia!)

The word “Mad Dog” has been used as multiple parts of speech throughout my collegiate and young professional life.

As a noun, a Mad Dog is a low-end fortified wine, often used as an easy, cheap and quick way to get sufficiently drunk, extremely fast. As a verb, to Mad Dog means to suffer through one of these neon beasts with friends as fast as possible, fully knowing that you will be completely obligerant (please refer to my list of 2010 made-up words) after consuming the entire thing.

For the normal 20-something, a Mad Dog is something that is only consumed once, maybe twice, in your collegiate career and, no matter what part of speech it is used in, you usually remember more negative things about the next morning’s recovery than you do about anything that occurred the night before. Woops.

Needless to say, we weren’t planning on completely and fully Mad Dogging each other this weekend, but it certainly would have brought back some good memories and laughs.

Regardless, here I was in the middle of our hometown liquor store, staring at a 55 year old man, explaining to him why I needed Mad Dogs.

The conversation went something like this.

Me: “Hi there, you wouldn’t happen to carry Mad Dogs, would you?”
Man Behind Counter (lets call him Ralph- seems appropriate): “Mad Dogs?”
Me: “Yes, Mad Dogs, you know those neon-colored fortified wine bevys [insert nervous ramble because of how embarrassed I am to be standing in front of a man holding a $300 bottle of shiraz, ready for check out, and me asking for the food stamp equivalent of wine coolers.]
Ralph: “No, I know what they are- you are just the first person who has ever asked if we carry them. We don’t”
Me [still recovering from aforementioned nervous ramble, phasing into my polite, young professional banter]: “Ah, I see. Well, do you know where I can find any in the area?”
Ralph [removes glasses, leans in to offer me his wise, Mad Dog advice]: “I am going to be honest with you dear. The only places you will find Mad Dogs are in the dangerous parts of Dorchester [ghetto], Roxbury [yet another ghetto] or Mattapan [most recent location of a tragic mass murder, in yet another ghetto].” He continued on, just incase there was any chance I somehow thought it would have been a good idea to risk my life to buy 6 Bling Bling Mad Dogs, saying: “I owned a liquor store in Boston for 20 years and never carried the stuff. Further, I would strongly hope that you wouldn’t go into any stores that might sell Mad Dogs without some form of protection.”
Me [now wide eyed, and in some form of shell shock]: “Ah, understood. Thanks for the advice.”

As I got in my car, I locked the doors and just sat there listening to the rain hit my windshield. I proceeded to have a minor freak out.

Why is it that Mad Dogs were only sold in the ghetto here when they were placed in a pretty, lit display case in college? Did I go to school in an unsafe ghetto? Why did I feel such a false sense of security? Why didn’t I know that I lived in a ghetto? Shouldn’t I have known that the sale of Mad Dogs indicated that I was in an unsafe setting? Why did I feel confident enough to walk alone anywhere? Why was I never shot? How did this happen?

I proceed to text the bride, feeling extremely defeated, and got a comforting “bahahahah, basically what I was told,” which was a nice way of bringing myself back to the “you went to college with a bunch of pretty wasps, and never did get shot” reality.

I will see you Saturday, wedding, but alas, I will be Mad Dogless.

Stop Bed-Bugging Me!

My newest mission?

To find myself a [clean, flood proof, bug proof, fire proof, thief proof, option to use as a studio apartment in the event of an emergency] storage unit for when I move out of my apartment and back home to save for a few months. Sigh.

Luckily, I love my roommates, I mean parents, and so I am sure this will be a smooth transition.

At any rate, this storage unit situation is causing me much anxiety [like you are surprised.] The whole situation is just one giant anxiety attack waiting to happen. Lets forget for a moment that I have an extreme phobia of strangers touching any of my furniture, and think about how I am putting all of my belongings into a random, dark closet.

Inner monologue occurs as follows: “Self, what happens if you get a sketchy storage unit, or if you get one that doesn’t have moisture control and all of your prized possessions are ruined? What if it gets really hot and everything melts? What if a homeless man breaks in and sleeps on my bed and uses my dishes? What happens if there are bugs?”

Bugs. My ultimate fear. My fear of having bug infested possessions is enough for me to move everything home with me. If it were up to me, I would put everything in my room if only to reduce the risk of my lying away at night, wondering if there are tarantulas mating in my underwear drawer.

The recent bed bug epidemic in the country further escalates said fear of mine.

What if my stuff is invaded by bed bugs? My life would be over. I could never recover from that. I would perpetually itch for the rest of my life.

My solutions?

Well, clearly my bed is no longer going to the storage unit. That just is not going to happen.

So, I came up with the following ideas so that when challenged by my parents, I mean roommates, I was ready for battle.

• Put mattress under my existing bed. This is something I thought of while falling asleep worrying about whether I contracted bed bugs from the movie theater I had just been in. Obviously it was important for me to measure, right then and there, if my mattress would fit under my bed. As expected, I deduced that the mattress wouldn’t fit [based on my in-the-dark, roll-to-the-floor, and blindly-eyeballed measurement.] Plan 1 status: fail.
• Stack my mattress and box under my existing bed. Sure, it may look silly and I might need a forklift to get in and out of it, but my spare mattress will be bed bug free. Plus, it pulls out into a guest bedroom fairly effortlessly.
  Put the mattress in the basement. While this may sound counter productive, our basement, affectionately called Man’s Land, is actually remarkably clean and, more importantly, bed bug free. Knowing that this argument was one that I was sure my parents wouldn’t agree to, I prepared to present this option last as a backup, shortly followed by tears.
• If the mattress had to go in the bed bug farm, I mean storage unit, then I would insist that I protect my mattress from the elements in some way. Airtight, ain’t no way those bugs are getting in, vacuum sealed mattress cover [maybe double bag it just to be safe] seemed to be the most logical choice. At the end of the day, I would still need to get my mattress de-bed-bugged before ever touching it again. This options seems to be getting progressively more expensive. Lets push for the more economical options, I mean we are in a recession.

Ultimately, when it came down to discussing the options, I had vastly over prepared [gee, shocking.] My parents gave in to my “mattress needs to be protected” argument rather quickly, I think fully knowing that I would rather leave my mattress leaning up against the exterior of our house, than have it resting in a potentially moldy, bed bug infested, breading ground. Thanks but no thanks.

The final decision? To the basement she goes. No princess and the pea for this princess.

What My Child Needs To Sound Like

Remember how I told you I love babies the way most people love puppies?

This is why.

You are welcome. Happy Friday.