Crunchy Apples

After a fascinating Sunday morning with the babies I decided it was high time to get my move on, so I cashed in all my sexual favors and played them out as moving chips. As it turns out, I had so many moving chips that I was able to bribe some individuals to drive across town and pick up my first real full-money adult furniture purchase. And I must say, it is beautiful and stunning and worth every bit of the two and a half years I spent searching for The Perfect Couch. It’s so perfect, in fact, that Pier One sent me thank-you note for choosing the Chocolate Flannigan Sofa. This is also known as a credit card bill but we are so not having that discussion.

Before I get into the full Moving Day details, I’d like to make a little announcement: Should anyone tell you that Hell has something to do with fire and brimstone you have my permission to call them a liar right to their face. Hell has nothing to do with an eternity of burning flesh and everything to do with third floor walk-ups.

That being said, I have wicked nice friends, some of whom have wicked nice boyfriends and brothers, who quietly agreed to move every piece of furniture I own and never once threatened to disembowel me, even when they realized I’d omitted that whole ‘many flights of stairs’ bit until the day of the move. I repaid them all with pizza and beer and still I think my debt has not even come close to being repaid. This of course means they can call in a Move Day Favor at any point in time and so the vicious cycle of helping friends move begins.

Move Day marks my transition from free-couch-having individual to purchased-couch-individual-with-an-extra-bedroom-JUST-CAUSE. It does not, however, mark any transition that has something with me being less of a dumbass. Please see the following example:

After moving an especially heavy piece of furniture, Lilleee came bounding down the stairs and flexed her muscles at Amanda and myself, stating she totally has tickets to the gun show. I looked at Lilleee and asked her why on earth she wanted to go to the gun show, thinking she had some previously undiscussed fetish for flying metal projectiles of death. Lilleee says No, the gun show, like, for my arms. And still I am confused. Why are you going to the gun show for your arm? Do you have a gimp arm that needs gun protection? No, they both say, the gun show one goes to for having strong arms, also known as strong guns, WHY ARE YOU SO SLOW. At which point I told them I would need a memo if they were going to make obscure references to muscle strength, jeez.

Last night was my first night in the new apartment and I have to say I quite like being so far off the ground. While those last five stairs are almost enough to make me wheeze in pain, the simple fact remains that should someone feel like breaking into my apartment, they better have a jet propulsion pack or really bad projectile burrito gas. Because short of setting up a trampoline outside the house, there is zero chance of my kitchen window being confused with the Burger King drive-thru.