Just two months in from our last great move, The Fiance and I have already found ourselves relocating again. Sadly, it wasn’t because we have our own place now, or because we’ve snagged those jobs we’ve been desperately trying to find, but hey, this new place is cheaper, quieter, and closer to the bubble tea that is now ruling my life.
I hate moving. I have lost track of how many different places I’ve lived in throughout my life, but I know it’s enough to rival most of my military brat friends. Now that we’ve moved twice in two months, I’m hoping that Murphy’s Law will kick in and my phone will ring a week later saying “Hi, this is Blizzard, our bodies are ready” and we’ll find ourselves going for number three. It would be a welcome inconvenience at this point, because despite the local massage parlor claiming to be “upscale and discreet” I’d really like to avoid giving handies to strangers. I’m 99% sure it doesn’t look good on a professional resume for game design anyway.
That being said, we’ve settled in pretty decently, gaining a +10 square feet to living space and a +2 to privacy for the maritals. We should be finishing the kitchen set-up tomorrow, meaning that we can actually have home-cooked meals again instead of living on the fast food that is absolutely murdering the shit out of my aging stomach (poop joke somewhat intended). Also, I now actually have a farting balcony.
Because writing is currently standing between me and getting to level 54 in RIFT, have another helping of moving-related anecdotes in lieu of a real article.
The Unicorn Deception
Ever since we began dating, I have been trying to convince The Fiance that girls don’t poop. I’ve explained to him that all women (and some gay guys) are sacred keepers of the unicorns, and when we’re in the bathroom for an extended period of time it’s because we’ve used the portal to Narnia that appears to us under our bathroom sink to feed these majestic creatures. He seems skeptical for some reason, no matter how many stuffed unicorns I put under the sink for him to discover or how well I imitate their hoofbeats by smacking together two half-empty bottles of body wash while I am secretly destroying the toilet in ways that would make even the most bro-ful of frat boys jealous. Our new bathroom has enough space in it to actually hang up some artwork, so after ruling out a velvet painting of Richard Dean Anderson due to expense, I’ve decided to go with a bitchin’ unicorn poster from the 80s in a pink frame in the hopes that it will resonate with him on a subconscious level and therefore help my case.
The Fiance Knows What He’s Doing
Before we actually got into the new place, The Fiance and I disassembled our IKEA-purchased bed frame to make it easier for the movers to carry it up to the second-floor apartment. When the time to reassemble it in Apartment Remix (which I have never used to refer to the new apartment until now, and I think I’m going to try and make it a thing) came, the instructions I had kept for just such an emergency were nowhere to be found. I suggested looking for a PDF of it on the website, but The Fiance was adamant that he didn’t need such efforts. “I know what I’m doing,” he argued as he lifted the foot board, causing all of the pegs and screws he’d just placed so carefully to clatter onto the floor. Beat. “I don’t want to hear it.”
(The bed has not yet collapsed on us, so I’m assuming he did it properly.)
My Computer Chair Is Possessed (Or Possibly Just Broken)
Ever since the move, my computer chair has been making random loud hissing noises. Today I got up to switch around the laundry and the thing ratcheted itself up to the highest position; The Fiance noticed this and the accompanying demonic sounds and decided to help me out by lowering it back down. It slammed down as low as it would go, then started gushing oil all over the carpet. Domestic side note: dish soap applied immediately to oil or grease stains on carpet will bring that shit right out as if nothing had ever happened. Since the exorcism, the chair has been silent, but it is now stuck all the way down. I blame all 57 of my viewings of The Omen — the good version, not the crappy one with Julia Stiles.
I Have 48 Pairs Of Shoes
There’s no witty story to accompany this. It’s a sickness, I swear.
No More Asshole Neighbors
Three weeks before we left the old apartment, we got new upstairs neighbors. They seemed like a nice enough family — husband, wife, two little kids and a baby — but proved to be the neighbors from Hell. Their baby screamed every second of the day, causing the father to add in his own screams of “Dammit, take care of the kid!” or “Shut the Hell up!” The eldest child, a girl who couldn’t be any more than six years old, made it her personal mission to punch our bird feeder every time she passed our door. I think the middle child was a boy. I never can tell with kids until they’re like 10 or something because I have the maternal instincts of a hamster, but regardless of what lay within that proverbial tackle box, said middle child enjoyed playing a game of “open our door and walk right on in and start messing with our stuff because the parents are standing like five feet away and too involved in fighting with each other to pay attention to their children.” Every day, from 7 a.m. to around midnight, it sounded like a herd of elephants was running from one end of their apartment to the other. The constant pounding was so severe it actually caused our furniture to vibrate and pictures on the wall to tilt. It frayed all of our nerves to the point of causing fights, isolation, and an overwhelming desire to punch a toddler in the face. We put the last box in our car to a soundtrack of the kids screaming, the parents fighting, and what I can only guess was a re-enactment of this year’s WrestleMania matches thumping through the ceiling. There is none of that shit here, only dogs. Dogs are way cuter and less irritating than children.
Bubble Tea And Curry Will Be My Undoing
I’m pretty adventurous with food. I don’t know if I have enough expertise to consider myself a “foodie,” but as the size of my ass will attest, I love to eat. I’ll try just about any dish, because hey, for all I know chocolate-covered ants are the most delicious thing on the face of the earth. Except they aren’t, because that distinction is reserved for bubble tea. I’d never had the opportunity to try it until my stepfather and one of his work buddies took me out to dinner for my birthday. It’s like drinking tea and eating gummy bears all at once and I LOVE IT. I’ve also been introduced to Japanese curry, which has yet to be spicy enough for my tastes (a few years back, a Lebanese restaurant owner made me a dish using peppers imported from his homeland that were so freaking spicy nothing compares anymore — seriously, I can drink ghost pepper sauce without feeling anything) but is still amazing. The problem is that I had my first experience with these two delicious foodstuffs on the same night and now they are inextricably linked. I cannot have Japanese curry without following it up with bubble tea, and… okay, to be honest, it’s a one-way link because I will drink bubble tea any time I can get it, and when I don’t have any, I’m probably imagining that I’m drinking it. I haven’t been this excited about a beverage since Ecto-Cooler.
I Have An Etsy Store Now
The only thing I love more than writing is crafting. Since finding myself devoid of employment, I’ve started up an Etsy shop where I sell nerdy accessories, mostly Blizzard game-themed, to try and make ends meet. I’ll be adding more stuff soon, but anyone curious can check out Epic Lootz.