Get a Move On

If I ever again decide to move from a fourth-floor apartment, someone please run over my left foot with a lawnmower, because it will serve to remind me how much fun this process has been.

Here's a simple equation: Moving + Middle of August + Heavy Shit THAT I DO NOT NEED ANYWAY x 75 Stairs = A Grumpy 123Valerie.

We can throw another element into the mix. Somewhere between my third trip up the stairs and fourth trip down, a kindly neighbor lady who had too much to drink decided that our stoop was a good place to take a little nap.

I am somewhat ashamed to say that I spied her as I was walking down the stairs with a supremely heavy box of books, and so I dropped those off at the car first. But, to redeem some karmic points, after playing Tetris with my crap, I immediately rushed over to rouse her.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?" I asked as I tapped her shoulder.

Her eyes fluttered open, but like a scared clam, she saw me and her eyelids clamped back down.

"Ma'am? Are you okay?" Surely an intoxicated person with a complete loss of mental and physical control wouldn't ignore me a second time.

Fortunately, her mouth moved, and I could hear her tongue flopping about inside, searching for a little bit of liquid. "What? Carol?" She reached for the empty cordial glass next to her.

"No, ma'am. I'm 123Valerie, and I live upstairs. Are you okay?"

"No," she said. Well, huh. What do I do now?

A little prodding revealed . . . well, not much really. I couldn't understand what she was saying except that yes, she had had too much to drink, and that she missed someone named Carol. Then she started to cry.

I asked her where she lived because I wanted to help get her home, and she said, "I don’t want to live anymore."

I gave her my hand and tried to be as supportive as possible when sitting in a really awkward position on a set of concrete stairs in 98 degree weather with a mountain of crap that desperately needed to get packed into the car.

But, I've recently been exploring my capacity for patience, and so I listened as this poor drunk lady's head bobbed and weaved and she apologized to Carol for indeterminable wrongs. She finally told me that one day Caril ("C-A-R-I-L. Everyone always spelled it wrong." Sorry, drunk lady! My bad!) laid down on the floor and died.

Oh, my.

She began to sob with the last admission, and the snot flowed. She asked for some tissues. Of course, I had already packed the box of tissues, so I felt tacky and silly, but I told her I would get some toilet paper.

I made another trek up the stairs and had a serious ethical debate with myself about the appropriateness of schlepping another box down along with the toilet paper and a glass of water. Decency prevailed and I returned to find an elderly gentleman at her side cleaning up shards of the now-broken cordial glass.

"Do ya'll know each other, sir?" (Please, oh please, oh please, Dear God, let him know this lady and help her get home.)

"Sometimes," he said. Hmm. I understood. "I hope she wasn't any trouble."

"Oh, no. We all have sad days, I guess." I mean, what do you say at a time like this?

He led her up the stairs to their apartment, and I noted the address in case she wondered off again. Roommate Jeremy and I are 416 and she is 218. A good piece of information to have on hand.

The rest of the day's moving came off without a hitch except for an evil attack of the IKEA bookcase that my dear friend Megan Jane and I rescued from the curb. The ungrateful piece of plywood nearly clobbered me on the way down the stairs.

Other than that, I made it to new Roommate Jenny's house with out incident. Once there, however, I confronted Roommate Jenny's old domestic partner, Lea. (That takes on a different meaning when you remove any trace of lesbianism, which makes me sad, because, on the whole, I'm a big fan of lesbianism. But whatever. They were just boring old roommates who, to the best of my knowledge, never made out.)

Hello New House! With 115% More Pets!

Lea is going to medical school in Wisconsin, which is why I get to move in with Roommate Jenny and Wonder Dog Bean. I added the Wonder Dog. Most folks just know her as Bean.

But, while I was moving in, Lea was waiting for a ride.

Lea is what I like to refer to as a "selfish baby incapable of empathy." I don't think that's a clinical term, but once she graduates from med school, I'm sure she'll be in a position to let me know for sure.

The details of why she is a selfish baby incapable of empathy are inconsequential except for the fact that as I moved in stuff, she literally sat and said things like, "Wow. That looks heavy."

Um, yeah. It is.

"Well," said Lea in attempt to help, "I'm going to the pool so I don't get in your way."

And she did, folks. She really did go to the pool. I noted that the bathroom hadn't been cleaned or the room vacuumed, but I assumed after she was done sunning herself, she would attend to these basic items of hygiene and responsibility.

After unloading the first round, I headed back to Roommate Jeremy's for Round 2. Add water. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. No fun, but this time without drunk old ladies. A plus, methinks.

Back at Roommate Jenny's again, I found that Lea vacated in the meantime, but thoughtfully left her soap scum and mystery smudges on the bathroom mirror, as well as a stray flip flop in the bedroom. What? Christmas already?

Roommate Jenny was noticeably upset and apologies were flying everywhere.

"No worries, Roommate Jenny. Not your fault," I said. And I meant it.

It's not her fault that Lea is a selfish baby incapable of empathy. But, Roommate Jenny, being a beacon of awesomeness, deducted two days of rent for 123Valerie, who for reasons still unknown because she helps write newsletters so people can get super rich, has not really acquired any wealth and hasn't yet learned how to behave responsibly with real, actual money. What I'm saying is: 123Valerie is currently a broke ass.

So, after a quick tidying of my room and a sad attempt to make the bed (a memory bed. Yum. Have you tried these? They're nice. It's like sleeping on a pile of pudding.), I cleaned out the bathtub that contained Lea's actual dirtballs, because I needed a soak to recover from the Evil IKEA Bookcase Attack of 2006.

Thank you, Mr. Yuengling for your lager. Thank you Ms. Bath and Body Works for your Eucalyptus and Spearmint bath gel.

It's funny how everything seems better after a beer and a bubble bath.

Tell me about someone in your life, via the Comments section, who is a selfish baby incapable of empathy. If you list their full name and address, we can organize a T.P.ing mob.