We're Staying Put

This weekend was more difficult than any of the three marathons I've completed. This was the move weekend. The first time I've ever moved with another person. Not just another person, but a person who owns 20 winter coats and 50 pairs of shoes. All of which are big and bulky. A person who would not participate in the actual packing process until the morning of the move, only to be surprised when the movers refused to take anything not boxed. (He sorted it out, but I had my "I told you so moment" regardless.) A person who, when it finally came time to unpack, couldn't do it without shouting out "Tracy, where is my (fill in the blank)?" "Trace, have you seen the windex/scissors/tape?" "Tra, how do I (again, fill-in-the-blank)?" In addition, my mother-in-law was there asking just as many questions. I was omniscient. I knew it all. But in addition, he would follow me around, making sure I didn't scuff the newly painted walls, Windex in hand. So I have never been more tired in my life. Or more bruised, scratched, cut up.

My poor husband (said with sarcasm) tirelessly set up his music equipment and proudly called me into the room. Again, having had plenty of roommates, but always having my own space to set up to my liking, the second room was turning into "Eric's Room" and I didn't like it. Too much equipment out - amps, speakers, guitars - so it looked like a teenaged boys room. He thought it was cool. I thought it needed a lot of help and I whined to make that point. Like I said, I was tired. And I put up with all of his neuroses for the past three days, so he has to put up with mine. Mainly that things should look GOOD and be aligned and centered, except when it's artistic not to be. The decision of which is purely mine.

But he was out all day yesterday, so I took control and made the place into a home. His equipment is still out. I'll give him that. But it flanks my laptop and once I add the curtains, it will be "Our Room", not just his. And we'll be happy and able to say that we survived our first move together. Just barely.

Need Work? Apply Here.

It's decided. I need a personal assistant. I cannot keep up with my full-time job (albeit, it's a bit slow these days), my doctor's appointments (rotator cuff problem requiring physical therapy, an MRI and another meeting with the osteo), my moving-related issues (landlord, cable, gas, electricity, movers, and PACKING), my vacation planning (Portugal/Spain in October, Jamaica in January), my hp printer problems (no, the printer problem is not yet fixed, and now I have a tech guy visiting my house at 8:AM for the second time next week), family phone calls (jeez, those people can talk! oh, wait, that's just my hubby!), hair appointments, shopping for things for the new apartment. Oh, the list goes on.

The bigger problem here is that I sit in a cube with three other people. They do not listen to music without headphones, and they do not talk on the phone very often at all. It is obvious that my phone is always ringing and it is always connected to me ear lately. Anyone who knows me, or who reads this blog, knows how much I hate talking on the phone. It makes me crazy. In addition, it seems that whenever my boss walks by or pops in, I am on the phone. And I have to desperately try and cut off the person on the other end who is in the middle of a 45-minute diatribe (yes, probably the hubby again though my sister is beginning to show her chatty side and when she gets going, there is no interrupting) and not even pausing to breathe. It has gotten so exasperating at times, that I've just had to hang up.

So, a personal assistant would be so fabulous. Their job responsibilities, besides what I've already mentioned needing help with, would also include grocery shopping, making my bed, watering my one plant, shredding my junk mail, accepting any packages from UPS that may arrive but which I can never get since I don't have a doorman, letting in the cable and printer guys. If I had a dog, she could walk it. If I had a car, she could alternatively park it. Pay would be minimal, but the perks, oh the perks! All the cheese you can eat (my fridge is always stocked), access to a lovely apartment all day long with internet access (high-speed!), use of a car (if I had a car, but please refill the tank!), and I promise not to beat you up a la Naomi Campbell. Any takers?

Faking It

I am obsessed with a site called Pop Sugar (thanks, Debbie!) and the latest news is that Pamela Anderson is marrying Kid Rock. I have to state how I feel about this woman for once and for all. I don't understand why men are attracted to this fake blonde, fake boobed, Hepatitis-carrying Barbie doll. I just don't get it. Even raw sexual attraction doesn't make sense to me. She's like a cartoon character. Her boobs are ridiculous. I mean, she is so little yet they are so big. Her face is looking more aged by the day and what is up with her lips? She used to be cute, back when she was the Tool Time Girl on Home Improvement, but now she's just gross. Dirty. And the men she's slept with? Double-dirty. So, please, someone explain why she is so appealing to the masses. Don't men like natural boobs? Don't they want to giggle when she's naked in front of them? It's just so bizarre to me. I would never be attracted to a man like that... one with a cock so gigantic that half of the time it doesn't even fit in his pants, much like her breasts are rarely hidden from the light of day. Now, wouldn't that be disgusting. Mr Big Dick-Implant, tan, white teeth, hairless... nasty.

Wow!

I had a very bizarre experience today. I got a call from a UPS delivery man, telling me he was at my apartment but I wasn't answering the buzzer. I explained to him that I was at work and that there is no super or neighbor with whom he could leave the package. Usually, I get home to find a yellow slip on my door and then I change the address online to have the item shipped to my work address. I told the guy that I would end up doing that, and he asked for my work address. A minute later, I got a call from the UPS dispatcher who relayed the entire story to me and then he too took my work address. I told him I leave the office at 5:PM and he said not to worry, that it would be there before then. I got another call at 4:10 from the dispatcher saying that the delivery man is on his way and two minutes later, the delivery man called to ensure he had the correct address. I offered to come down to pick up the package from him directly so we didn't have to go through the mailroom, and he said that would be perfect. The item that I am receiving is a replacement part for the printer that has been causing me so much trouble. In addition to all of these phone calls, an HP technician called explaining that parts were on their way and we worked out a time for him to come by and install the new parts. He even gave me a cell phone number in case the parts didn't arrive in time (he's coming tomorrow morning).

I have gone through hell and back trying to get my printer fixed and think this is the customer service gods way of appeasing me. I have never had such considerate service from any company. They do not normally contact me, and never has UPS been so keen on following through or tracking me down anywhere in the city to make sure I got my package on time. At first, I thought I must be being served legal papers or something crazy like that, b/c this was just too good to be true. But it really happened. I'm just waiting for the delivery man to call and then I will have my parts, and tomorrow morning my service man (Wayne) will be at my doorstep bright and early ready to fix my printer. Can life really be this good? Stay tuned...

UPDATE: I got the package, but it was delivered by a nice guy in a red van. Not a UPS truck. Though the package had a UPS sticker... very strange, but what great service!

UPDATE 2: Wayne was running late, but didn't make it this morning.

It's Good to Have Breasts

Being a woman does have its perks. We get more free dinner and drinks than men do. We can wear pretty things and amazing shoes. We can be bitchy and blame it on PMS. We can admit we like a Kelly Clarkson song (not me, of course, but I could if I wanted to). We don't lose our hair or have to shave our faces. But along with all the perks, comes the responsibility.

I don't know why men don't feel the urge to clean. Or to take care of paperwork. Or pay their cell phone bills on time. I have started packing for our move. My hubby says I'm doing a good job. Which is great, I suppose, since he isn't. I tidy the apartment, I make sure we don't run out of toilet paper or deodorant. I put stamps on the bills that need to be mailed. When he asks me where his flip-flops are, I know exactly what he's talking about and where they are. Sometimes I even go grocery shopping and I buy the things that he likes.

I guess all of this will be worth it when I decide to get pregnant and stop working.

This Tree Now Grows in Brooklyn

It's time. It's really happening. What I've been blogging about for the past month is coming true. The hubby and I are moving to - gulp - Brooklyn. Park Slope, to be exact. I can hear the collective groan as I type this. "We'll never come and visit you...", "Next will be the suburbs...", "WHY???" I have had a slight stomach ache since I found out. Why? I know it's a good thing. We'll have another room, laundry in the building, an elevator, a view of the Empire State Building. And for not much more money than we pay in rent now.

But it's not Manhattan. I've been living here, in Manhattan, for over 10 years. I like telling people where I am from. Manhattan is a statement in and of itself. It will be hard to say that I now live in Brooklyn. It would be easier to say that I am living in Oklahoma. At least that's a legitimate move... out-of-state. This is an in-state move to a lesser borough. I guess at least it's not Queens. Or Staten Island.

Maybe Brooklyn is more me. I just heard that the average cost to buy an apartment in Manhattan is 1.4 million dollars. I'm no millionaire and I don't have mommy and daddy paying my rent. I can't afford this city that I have loved for so long. Maybe I belong in Brooklyn, with the earth shoe wearing families. But I feel dissed. I feel like my city has let me down, has forced me out. It's broken up with me (with a Post-It), threw all of my belongings out onto the lawn and changed its number in one fell swoop. And has already moved on.

Well, I may not be over Manhattan yet, but maybe I will be. Maybe there will be a little more peace in that other borough. Maybe the hubby and I will fall in love with it and upon wandering through the diverse neighborhoods, will find our dream home and end up raising our children as Brooklynites. Perhaps it holds a charm that I don't know of yet. After all, I went to college with more than one kid named Brooklyn, but have yet to meet a Manhattan.

Old is as Old Does

33 is the year it is happening to me. I am getting, and feeling, older. Reasons I know this is true:

• One day of watching what I eat and doing crunches does not make me feel slim.

• One beer and going to bed late makes me wake up feeling hung over.

• I worry less about owning the right pair of jeans and more about whether or not my husband has disability insurance.

• A slice of pizza for dinner does not make me happy. A balanced meal does.

• When I get a pimple on my face, I think I am getting a rash instead.

• Everything little kids do I find to be so cute, I could cry.

• When my manicure/pedicure starts to chip, I feel dirty.

• I need time to unwind.

• I don't get carded when walking into bars or liquor stores anymore.

• I save money all year for the end-of-year holidays.

• I feel slightly silly when I put on a graphic tee, especially when I wear one to work.

• I check my online bank statement daily.

But I still have a hard time taking a mid-day nap and I get a little rush whenever I pour myself a glass of wine at home to enjoy while sitting on the couch watching crappy tv. So, I'm definitely getting older, but am not old yet.