Too tired to write. Moving day photos here.
Love is when you spend an hour on your hands and knees scrubbing off the dried-up cat puke left by your fiancé's ex-girlfriend's cat, the puke that was so caked-on that the cleaning crew told you to clean it perfectly would take, yes, an hour but that they righted the picture that was face down on the mantle and oh, that baby is cute and you think what baby? and you pay them and leave to discover your boy and a smiling ex-girlfriend holding someone else's baby, and looks like she doesn't smell like fossilized cat vomit.*
Time to shower. And finish packing.
(Edited to add: I am not angry nor upset, as Mr. Boy did not leave the photo out there intentionally. It was just a case of Previous Relationship Indigestion, where things sometimes have a way of coming back to haunt you. The only thing he's guilty of is Poor Housekeeping.)
I move in with Mr. Boy on Tuesday.
His plan was to spend the week previous naked on the couch with a six-pack watching Assmasters 14* while mine was to watch as many shows about primordial dwarves while eating peanut butter straight from the jar.**
Alas, the reality is more a maze of boxes and bags and newspaper and paint that smells like microwaved baby puke (don't ask). Change of address forms have been filled out and utilities have been scheduled to be shut off and roommates and their donkey-sex partners have been put on notice. My back hurts and my hands cuts and my legs are covered in bruises. The Mini, while adorable, doesn't have a ton of interior space, and while the movers will handle the big stuff, it's all the detritus that's the true nightmare. Unlike previous moves, I haven't spent any time studying each piece of paper, each photograph reminiscing, wondering if I really need it or want it or will miss it. It either gets packed or tossed, as my brain is already focused full-steam-ahead.
It's a move like any other move except that it's not like any other move, and the clicking of my ring against the tape gun, against the kitchen counter, against the suitcase handler reminds me of that. It won't be the last time I ever move.
But it'll be the last time I move alone.
*This wasn't really his plan. Well, not specifically.
**Oooh! Dwarf show on right now!
When I was in high school, my dad would occasionally take us to Greektown for dinner on Sunday nights, to place called Diana's Opaa. Diana's was owned by a guy named Petros, who until about thirty seconds ago, I didn't realize actually had a last name. The line on Sunday nights would be down the block, but SlackDad would walk up to the front and Petros would wave him in. Petros was part Ricardo Montalban and part Willy Wonka; his hair was slightly too long and his skin looked like it had spent slightly too much time under the sunlamp. He wore a bushy fur coat that could have been made out of Falkor, and part of it would end up in your mouth as he grabbed you in a big bear hug and kissed you on both cheeks. We'd be whisked off to a table and a bottle of Roditys would be waiting. One outing we were lucky enough to spot younger slackbrother j.'s principal at the back of the line. j. was having some problems in junior high, but the minute my father plucked that guy out of line was the minute that junior high got a whole lot easier.
It pays to Know People.
I like to eat out almost as much as I like making food for people. It's not just about the meal, but the place that you have it. Any place where the owner makes to point to come over and greet you is a place that I go back to. Since Older SlackBrother J's is in town, we're heading out to Carmine's II. The restaurant is small and loud and tucked away. It's the sort of place that doesn't belong in LA, where just 'cause your famous means that you get to cut in line, but if you know Carmine, you do.
Like any good restaurant, Carmine's has good food and good service, but it has one fixture that few - if any - can boast. And that fixture is Frank Stallone. On any given night, Frank sits at the bar and strolls from table to table, accosting regulars. Any time we stepped foot in the joint, he'd grab a chair and pull it up to the table. You see, Slack S-i-L M. had worked with him on a short-lived show called MovieStars, which also featured brothers-of like Joey Travolta and Don Swayze. The trio adored M., and one of her first dates with Older SlackBrother J. she took him to see Don in Man of La Mancha at some dinner theatre in Simi Valley. What she didn't tell him is that they were carpooling with Frank. He soon became BFF with Older SlackBrother J.
J., M. and I would hit Carmine's once a month. Sometimes friends were in town, sometimes relatives, but the one thing that was always there was Frank. Each new guest we had brought had the same reaction.
First 15 minutes: [awed] HOLY CRAP! Frank Stallone!
After 30 minutes: [annoyed] Holy Crap, Frank Stallone?
After an hour: [exasperated] Holy crap, Frank Stallone.
Tonight we bring Mr. Boy into the fold. For food and fun and maybe, just maybe, a little Frank.
I hate whining. But I hate not posting daily even more.
Soon I will post something other than mutterings about moving and marriage, je promis. It's just that betwixt that and the fact that my entire world view is colored by Queen Menses, and you get a small taste (um, ew) of what it's like to be me these days.
Paint Extravaganza 2007! (Part One) is over. The walls have been returned to generic white, so the next inhabitants of Casa Fabuloso can revel in their blankness. Part Two will commence when Mr. Boy's Roommate takes his leave of us, which hopefully will be soon.
This hasn't been the best week, what with me stressed out and oversensitive and exhausted, I've found myself engaging in some Typical Female Behavior that isn't a normal part of my character. I haven't exactly been a stellar girlfr--fianceé. I've been jealous and snippy and I can recognize that I'm doing it, even point it out as I go. This makes me crazy, because my thought is that if you're cognizant of a behavior, changing it shouldn't be difficult. Mr. Boy told that I have a right to my feelings, and that's true, we all do. But let's face it, plenty feelings are unfuckingreasonable.
Again, I know that this is a good change, this is the right change, that when it's all done that it will be amazing. It's just getting there that's the bitch.
To counteract the above, I present to you a picture of Daisy:
Yes, Older SlackBrother J. met Will this evening. We ate pizza and discussed porn, the Butterscotch Pony and Gloryholes (I think that should be two words; Mr. Boy insists it's one. Either way, it was younger slackbrother j's contribution.) Also, there was talk about wound fetishes and everyone's first experience with video booths.
I think everyone will get along splendidly.
Also, confidential to SlackMom: when SlackDad asks you how it went, please do not refer to this entry. Simply say Will loves Bad Lieutenant.
Everyone can stop checking my blog obsessively. If, y'know, you want.
I'm a pretty high-functioning adult. I'm reliable, I'm responsible, I'm calm in a crisis. When I have a mind-boggling amount of work to do, I square my shoulders, put my head down, and wade through it minus whining, complaining, or any other sort of nonsense.
However, when I get exhausted to the point of falling down, I have a tendency to cry.
A few years back, my ex didn't have anything to give his crew of his show for Christmas. I suggested that I bake cookies, and he agreed. Although I had done large batches of baking before, it didn't occur to me until about noon the day before he was going to hand them out that I had seventy-five dozen cookies to make. He came home to find seventy-five neat little packages tied up with string, and me coated in flour, weeping on a bean bag in front of the fireplace.
Years later, and while I'm managing my time better, the amount of work that I still have to accomplish is mind-boggling. The house will essentially be painted three times in three days: one coat of primer, two coats of paint. I'm about halfway done and already my arms are leaden and my low back is filing a complaint. I'm stretching and maintaining good posture and doing all of the things that you're supposed to do, it's just that I'm not built to do this amount of physical labor in this short amount of time. I'm exhuasted because I lie awake at night making lists of things I have to do in the next seven days.
I just want to crawl into bed and sleep, so I guess it's a plus is that there's nowhere to sit or lie down. My furniture is all shoved into the middle of the room. Dishes are piling up in the sink, tarp is everywhere. My once-picture-perfect abode is a mess and while I know that these are the necessary steps to getting out of here and starting anew with Mr. Boy, it just makes my brain hurt to see the total disarray.
Seven more days.
And then we can start painting his place.
Excuse me while I cry. And paint.
It's 8:39am on a Monday morning and instead of feeling rested and ready to face the week, I'm sitting crosslegged on my couch in a mess of blankets, trying to clear the sleep from my eye and making myriad checklists of things so I don't forget, knowing all the well that I'll lose the actual lists before I'm ready to do anything.
I spent Saturday priming the office and my bedroom, six hours of messy, shoulder squinching work. I couldn't sleep in the fume-filled bedroom, so I left my belongings in the middle of the room and packed up Daisy and we stole off to Mr. Boy's (soon to be The slackmistress and Mr. Boy Detective Agency), where Mr. Boy made me dinner.
Sunday Mr. Boy got rid of junk and then the three of settled in for the Bears game (Bears win!) and then I returned home to discover that the house was cold and the fumes were still, well, fumey. I didn't start in on the living room as I'd realized that I'd have to spend the night on the couch, as Mr. Boy was out having dinner with friends. Couch + girl + dog = some circuslike contortions. My body feels like a Picasso painting. I have boxes to purchase and one more room to prime, then painting and packing and possibly something else that I know I'm forgetting.
I'm sad to leave here but not sad about where I'm going. I'm just overwhelmed at the amount of Stuff To Do. After the move there's the putting together the new place. There's the spec pilot I need to finish by March. There's the wedding to plan. There's a job to find, or if not, there's the fact that I will have to start temping in a few months, realizing how absolutely silly my resumé will look to someone looking for a $12/hour typist.
There's so much to do, so I'd better get to doing it.