(Well gawd damn, look at that. My Aunt Cookie taught me the word "defenestration" some 25 years ago and I just used it practically for the very first time in this here journal entry. Until now I've just casually brought it up as cool word trivia in the company of strangers in lieu of talking about the weather, but now that word's time in the spotlight has come. Thanks, Cookie!)
I digress. Back to one week ago: We arrived at our new home in the moving truck, parked it, and barreled across the street to the Realtor office to obtain our keys. As we unlocked and entered the main entry door to the building we live in, we realized that the stairway we remembered as being only 8-10 steps to our apartment door was actually more like 20 steps. Thank GAWD we'd hired movers just days prior. We were on borrowed time with the rental truck as well as mental/physical energy. Hauling 800 cubic feet worth of boxes up those "bonus stairs" we somehow didn't remember after being on the road for so long would not have been pretty at this juncture. Let me just say that those movers were by far the best $130 I’d spent since that hooker in front of the Popeye’s Chicken on Fulton Street (sorry, I’m saving that story for the grand kids).
The movers were due to show up in an hour so we decided to get some of the more fragile items up and out prior to their arrival – cats, guitars, picture frames, and our massive glass sofa... okay, I made that last one up but you’ve got to admit that would be pretty cool, especially if it had some sort of built in neon green lava lamp effect.
At any rate we climbed the Stairway to Heaven and unlocked our apartment door for the very first time. It turned out that just like the stairway, the version of the apartment in our memories differed a bit from the real thing, mainly due to the fact that it was a tad bit less spacious than we remembered. The bathroom, for example: it does not allow one to comfortably sit on the john and read unless you sit at an 8 o’clock position on the seat. Evidently this is a rather common NY apartment idiosyncrasy. I’ve managed to sit on it in the traditional 6 o’clock position a few times, but only after some ample stretching and careful planning in regard to which leg goes where and when whilst mounting ass upon seat. We are quickly learning that walls aren’t just for hanging pictures on anymore… in a small apartment they seem to double as flat closets; same goes for the ceiling. I'm finding myself looking at things like a blender and thinking Hm.. with a couple of S-shaped hooks I’ll bet I could hang that sucker from the ceiling… and probably fit a frying pan, my Etch-A-Sketch and that rolling pin in there somewhere as well. Alas, it’s our apartment, and although it’s a little bit smaller than we remembered it’s awesome and we absolutely love it as well as the city which surrounds it.
After the movers came and lugged our stuff up for us the place was wall to wall cardboard boxes with a narrow path to get from the front door to the bathroom and through to the bedroom. It was time to celebrate our official move-innance with a beverage. I cracked open a beer, Bryn made a cocktail, and we sat on the half of the couch that wasn't blocked by boxes to bask in the glory of what we'd just accomplished over the past three weeks. There we were, home at last.Our lips didn't even make contact with the delicious celebratory beverages. 20 minutes later we both woke up still sitting upright with our drinks somehow still in our hands and filled to the rim, the glasses just as sweaty as we were when we sat down with them. Unfortunately the box spring and mattress were tilted up against the wall because the floorspace needed to lay them down was occupied by a graveyard of boxes. I remember thinking Awww HELLL maaaaaaaaan, I juss wanna duct tape maahself sideways onto that muh-fuggin bed and sleep for two days! Not an option.
We somehow stayed up a few more hours to dig out the basics we needed to get through the night and went out for our first meal at a fine Italian dining establishment two blocks down from our door. The meal consisted of spaghetti and meatballs accompanied by a glass of wine with which to wash said bawls and pasta down. I was quite fried by that time, but I recall it being rather delicious. Although I really don't remember much aside from the "OHMYGAWD WE LIVE HERE NOW!!" euphoria, I have a barely noticeable dime sized oil stain on my green pants from a piece of meatball that fell on my lap. I don't see that stain as a bad thing, it's more like a clothing tattoo. Every time I see that stain I'll remember what it took to get to that stain.
Now it's just a little over one week later and it's finally starting to look like an apartment when we walk in rather than a gigantic cardboard origami orgy gone wrong. We still have a ways to go with unpacking but honestly I don't give a rat's arse anymore. We're Home and it fucking ROCKS here.
