Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Movin' On Up

We have done it readers. We have moved. And not just moved, but moved on up, to a deluxe apartment, not exactly in the sky, but one story higher than before.

The move is behind us. Shipped the children off to their grandparents for a weekend of non-stop fun or if not fun, at least guardianship (“Mommy, Nana is like the Redcoats, she is always telling me what to do and I have no freedom!”)

Meanwhile David and I packed like fiends. Emphasis on “fiends.” The night before the movers came, I was a mini Mephistopheles, hissing at David to GET MORE FUCKING PACKING TAPE AND HURRY!!!!!!!!!! My neatly-labeled and impeccably-filled boxes became haphazard, desperate. I threw my meat tenderizer in my Uggs and stacked those on top pf David’s CDs and threw in a handful of stray Legos on top. Seconda’s potty went in with the toaster which went in with my wedding album.


The movers came with dollies and bins and they transported our goods speedily, carefully, a marvelous job. In three hours we had changed houses.

Then David wanted to have sex. But guess what was the only thing I hadn’t packed?

“How it is that you packed the juicer we have never used but you didn’t pack condoms?” he wanted to know.

“Those are your responsibility!!! I had to pack the rest of the whole house!!!!!”

I don’t recommend this level of bickering as foreplay.

So we decided to drive back to the old place and load up the car with a whole pile of shit we hadn’t taken the time to pack, including the air purifier, bundt pan, iron and condoms. And the broken alarm clock. By the time we’d packed that stuff and filled the car and unloaded it all, it was dinnertime and we hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch so I had to break the news to my husband that before I could engage in anything resembling sexual activities I need victuals. I am a human, after all, and not a Stepford wife.

So off we go to grab a burger at the pub. And then, filled to the brim with fries and cheeseburger, and safely armed with protection, we blessed the new home.

Now I don’t want this shit to end up on STFU, Parents. In the event that you are thinking, “TMI Nicole, TMI,” let me share why I reveal these gems of personal information with you.

In the movies, couples move into a new place and still sweaty from their manual labor, heady with the thrill of their new residence, they fall to the floor and rip each other’s clothes off, Then they lie around afterwards and regard the haphazard piles of boxes and unassembled furniture and smile and make plans for the future.

This is a big ole’ steaming load of bullshit. Or at least, it is after you have kids. Because once you have two children that are two years apart, nobody is having any kind of carnal relations without some protection. That’s one. And finding a condom in a post-move maelstrom is like finding a needle in a haystack. Unless you keep one in your wallet and I thought we all learned in high school that that’s the worst spot to keep a condom. Though I should point out, a potentially distressed but conveniently-placed condom is significantly better protection than no condom at all.

Number two: once you have two kids in two years, you’ve got no time to dream of the future. The future is now and you have 10 hours and counting down to get the furniture right side up and the toothbrushes unpacked before the Jabberwocky and the JubJub Bird get back from their grandparents. So what that all boils down to is a quick burger and a quick roll in the hay and then marathon sessions of Ikea assembling.

But when the wild things did return, their room was fully configured and I swear it looks like some bedroom from a spread in Cookie magazine. Outer space themed. Walls painted ogre-faced green (that’s what Primo calls the color), Silver blackout blinds. Alien decals. And a hanging light fixture which shines little multi-colored moons and stars and plants all over the room.

David and I have room envy/ If our big asses could fit in the twin bed, we’ve trade with them.

The moving is done. Expect a slight decrease in the complaining. But only slight. I’ll be unpacking, after all.