Half of this post was written while I was smashed. September 5, 2007

Sunday, 1:35am. Drunk. 

It’s 1:35am and I’m drunk and I’m watching Big Brother After Dark on Showtime and because I’m drunk I’m not hesitant to admit that because really? Big Brother After Dark? (And no, there are no orgies, even though the words “after dark” seem to imply orgies. At least, they do to me. But no, only the late-night conversations of bored hamsters and did you know that they call the Big Brother cast hamsters? Well they do. I think it’s funny.) 

Moving on – since I’m clearly the only person in the universe who watches Big Brother and CBS should be sending me a thank-you card any day now – let’s talk about the move.  

Ladies and gentlemen, I have seen hell. AND HELL IS FULL OF BOXES.  

Seriously, I spend my time at home between the bedroom (cute), the bathroom (cute) and the kitchen (cute) because the living room? The living room is full of boxes. BOXES OF DOOM. The Living Room of Doom (ha, see how I did that? How that rhymed? Room/doom? I am apparently a mighty poet after four Magners and a shot with my best friend from college who is a HE and, no, we’ve never done it and yes, I think it’s possible for women and men to be friends and just friends.) 

What was I saying? Oh right. Living room. Doom. It should come as no surprise that the Patriots garbage can resides there (the “garbage can of victory” as M calls it as the Patriots beat the Giants in a PRE-SEASON GAME and I feel the need to capitalize PRE-SEASON GAME to further emphasize the point that PRE-SEASON GAMES are essentially worthless. I’m just sayin’.) 

You see, we took the apartment “as is.” Which means no cleaning by professionals, no fresh coat of paint by the super. Just M and me and $62.08 worth of cleaning supplies. 

Since the former tenant (the “hair whore” as I have taken to calling her because the hair? It is everywhere. The “whore” part is just an educated guess) moved out on Friday, August 31^st and M had to also move out of his old place on Friday, August 31^st, so we had to move in on Friday, August 31^st and there was subsequently no time for sprucing up. And the place? It needed to be spruced, people. Spruced UP. 

I mean, you haven’t truly felt disgust unless you’ve scraped other people’s caked-on food off of the tray in the microwave. WITH YOUR FINGERNAILS. 

But I just love this place, even if my fingers still smell like Soft Scrub. It’s ours. OURS! 

OH! Oh!  Except it was almost just mine, because M almost got killed. 

Ok, ok, he almost got mugged. But still. Same thing.  

Monday,3pm. Sober. 

The above was, clearly, written while I was drunkity drunk drunk and I’m kind of proud of the lack of typos and somewhat coherent-ness, not gonna lie. Just so you know, after typing “same thing”, I crawled into bed with M to hug him tight because he almost got killed/mugged and then I pretty much passed out. 

Continuing, I have always had a bad feeling about M’s (former!) neighborhood. I felt the quietness was deceptive and that something bad could happen at any moment. I’m not being prejudiced towards Queens, I’m just saying. I never felt comfortable there. I was always a little on guard. Well, it turns out that I had reason to be. 

As M unloaded boxes from his apartment and carried them to his car, he was approached by a few drunk thugs. They called him choice names, spit in his general direction and threatened him. They pushed him a bit, knocking a box of silverware out of his hands. They rubbed their money in his face, claiming they didn’t need any of his. 

Needless to say, when he told me what happened, I almost puked. 

But we’re not – LA LA LA – thinking about the fact that he could’ve gotten hurt or worse because he didn’t and now we have no reason to go back there, ever. 

So, it has been an adventure. A very expensive, very taxing, very box-filled, muscle-aching adventure.  

I’m not going to lie, between M and I we’ve had about twenty-three breakdowns. In fact, just the other night M attempted to hook up the living room TV (is it sick that we have two TVs and 2 DVRs in an apartment with only a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room? I sort of think it’s sick but it’s also unavoidable) and it WASN’T WORKING, just like our phone isn’t working, just like our internet isn’t working, just like four Diet Coke cans exploded in our fridge. The poor thing stood up, kicked a couple of (empty) boxes and then announced “NOTHING IN MY LIFE WORKS. Except for you.”

Dramatic, yes. But also sweet. And that’s the whole point. We can sustain a TV-, internet-, phone-less existence as long as we have each other. And we do have each other. Each other and boxes. Lots of boxes.  

Wednesday, 10:30am. Sober. 

I took pictures for you all! But my work computer won’t recognize my damn camera! DAMN IT. There is even a photo of M HOLDING the Patriots garbage can. Grr. GRR.

If any of you are computer-savvy um, please help. Because me turning the camera on and off and then on again and then off again in a futile attempt to get the computer to NOTICE THE DAMN CAMERA DAMN YOU isn’t working. 

Oh, and the new job rocks. I am busier than EVER and loving it, even if it means less blog-reading during the day (I’ll catch up at night! When, um, we have internet!) and more doing what I am paid to do.

Oh! I got it to work! Pictures!

First of all, the Patriots garbage can (puke, vomit, blehhhh):

And now, M holding his beloved Patriots Garbage Can of Victory:

Half of our bedroom:

And the other half:

More to come.