Posts Tagged ‘moving’

Finding the Floor

Friday, September 3rd, 2010

I recently moved, and I have yet to find the garage. No, that’s not a misprint; I can’t find the interior of the garage. Someday I’ll have room to actually move things into the house where I live. In the mean time, I’m walking around boxes. Every time I move it’s a brand new challenge as to where to put everything. The problem here is that I keep moving into progressively smaller homes, and there’s always too much stuff. Every move means I have to shed more things.

Someday I will be able to walk through this, then, hear me roar.

Now, I do have my priorities. First thing I did (as I always do when I move) was find the toilet paper. There’s no point in even being here if I can’t use the facilities.

Never let it be said I don’t know how to set up house.

Other things aren’t so simple. The bookshelves that fit comfortably in the last home don’t quite fit in this one. We had to downsize the couch and now space in front of the TV is at a premium. I had to give up the desk I waited ten years to get because there was no room for it. Once again, I’m stuck at the kitchen table or a built in work station made for somebody a foot taller and with arms roughly the length of King Kong’s. I’m still trying to figure out a reasonable place to put the wine cellar. I’d say there’s no point in having a wine cellar if there’s no place to put it where you can successfully open the door, but that simply isn’t true. An inaccessible wine cellar works in your favor because you can put all the good stuff in there and make it too damn inconvenient for anybody else to tap it. Don’t worry about me. If I really want to get my drank on with something vintage, I will go through the effort of moving the table to get to it.

It drinks the same right out of the box. Quick disclaimer: These are not the original boxes it came in. The need to adjust bottles to the proper temperature may apply.

Even though I’m a scientist, I’m not without my superstitions. One of my priorities was to make sure the family was properly looked after in my absence among the boxes.

This is the tikki on the mantle. Not exactly Martha, but I wouldn’t dream of striking out to a new place without him.

In the mean time you’ll find me lost among the displaced possessions in the garage. It’s such a pain in the ass having to move every year or so. I sure as hell hope the rest of the pinko commie liberals manage to help people keep their homes. Oh, who am I kidding? That won’t happen any time soon. Meanwhile, I’m left to deal with this.

That sheet has pee stains on it and holes. I used to use it to cover a chinchilla cage. It now serves as a moving blanket.

I can deal with boxes. I never bother to unpack some; it’s just not worth it. I don’t think I’ve hung a picture in the past six years. As I get ready to spend the holiday weekend working (as usual, but it doesn’t bother me), there is one last thing I have to take care of. I never, ever forget to hang up my favorite door decoration.

That sums up everything.

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Coming Back To Life

Friday, August 6th, 2010

Okay, for anybody still left tuning in, I’ve returned. I know it’s been a month, but a lot has happened since then. I’m no longer living in Chateau du Cul, I’ve have a brief trip back to the east coast and I already had a toilet and one major appliance repaired. I also got sunburned. So, in my own defense, it’s been a busy, busy three weeks.

Right before I moved out of the Hotel Hell one of my numerous landlords decided to help with the blighted landscaping by spraying the entire yard with Round Up. Round Up, for those of you who aren’t familiar with landscaping, is the most commonly used weed killer in the U.S. It kills all plants indiscriminately, with the exception of those genetically modified to resist it. The stupid asshole landlord did me the kind favor of spraying my rose bushes with Round Up a couple weeks before we moved. I’m sure I don’t need to belabor the results.

Not my actual dead plant, but you get the general idea.

I worked like a motherfucker to save those bushes. I have cultivated the one bush for 12 years now, and I’m in no fit mental state to let it go. The others just added insult to injury. I swear, if I ever see that boozy old pepaw’s ass again, I’m dunking him head first in a vat of that shit. Of course, knowing my crummy luck, it would only succeed in giving him super powers.

He’d look like this, only a lot less cut and holding an old bong he fashioned out of recycled aluminum foil.

I struggled for months to not lose my sanity in that place, and struggled even harder not to lose those rose bushes. I flushed them with water, fertilized them with Miracle Grow, lovingly administered worm tea and finished with a beautiful cocktail of fresh brewed black tea and sludge water taken from my very own aquarium. You have to love your plants to suffer the stench of old fish shit, believe me.

I came back from “vacation” on the east coast, and what should my wondering eyes behold?

Look at that! It’s come back to life, just like this blog site. Wonders never cease.

That’s not all. You see, another one of the many mortgage holders of the Mold Motel used the place as a trash heap. One of the many things he dumped there were three mostly dead rose bushes. Before I left, I took a critical look at them. I broke a few branches, dug into a few pots and realized there was no saving all of them. I picked the one I thought would have a fair shot at it. I would say I trimmed it back aggressively, but the better term would be “brutally.” It received the same TLC as the others. Now, it’s a sight to behold.

I took it. Hey, the bastard owed me a rose bush. Anyway, you would never believe that it probably needed nothing more than a body bag a few weeks ago. Damn I’m good; I only wish I had before and after shots.

See, it’s never too late to start over. So, after a month of NOT resting with my feet up, I’m returning to a house full of mystery boxes and a lab where I have not done anything useful in three months. That’s okay, because if these guys can pull it together and overcome a deadly toxin, I figure I can overcome a little lost time.

Just look at it, will you? That’s 12 years of dedication. I’d like to say that it’s fairy jizz on that leaf, but unfortunately, that’s insecticide. Just for once I wish I’d remember to take the picture before I do anything to the plant.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, and even if you weren’t, the new place is working out great. Here’s another little slice of horticultural wonderment:

My amaryllis. This thing has not sprouted or bloomed since I moved into the other place. I’m gone for a week and the bulb has grown a stalk. If I believed in omens, this would be a good one.

I’d say that all’s well that ends well, but I’m never one to be optimistic about anything. That having been said, it never hurts to prepare for disaster, or even aphids for that matter. That’s advice to grow on.

Look at that shit. After all that hard work I get fucking aphids. Sometimes it just works out that way I guess.

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Moving Violations

Friday, July 9th, 2010

Well, it’s just about that time. The professional movers are coming on Saturday, and so I may not be able to chat with you for some time. In the mean time, I’m scrambling to get the remnants of my life packed and on the road. I’m not moving far this time, so there’s no great pressure to get everything packed right now. I can take some time. I’m at the end, so I’m running out of boxes.

But why are all the boxes gone? I don’t really own that much crap, do I?

I could always unpack something that already resides at the new place, but that would take some effort, and I don’t have any to spare right now. It’s almost kind of depressing walking through this place right now. Now, the place is still a total shithole, but it’s taking on that strange, hollow sound that reverberates around an empty building. We’re definitely getting down to the wire.

I own way too many books. They’re chemistry and physics books, so they are numerous and extremely large. At least I saved some random mover a pain in the back.

Moving is not without its hazards. For one thing, you can’t find the forks and plates for about a week, and are forced to use sporks stolen from local restaurants as a last resort.

Spork! For those of you tuning in who don’t know what I’m talking about.

Bruising is a big issue. When you move, you end up looking like you jumped out of a moving vehicle and tried to hit the ground running. I have bruises everywhere right now. No, you can’t see all of them; this isn’t that kind of blog. But I’ll share the oddest with you:

These are my actual toes. It was a rushed self-pedi, so I beg your forgiveness on that one.

See the purple mark? Seriously, who besides me can bruise a toe?

That’s my toes. The faint red mark you see on the second toe is a bruise. It’s interesting to note that I was wearing steel caps for the bulk of the move. Lesson learned. No matter how damn uncomfortable those bitches are, do not take them off. EVER. Now I’m down one toe. I also have a bruise on my hip right next to a festering spider bite. I guess I’m just naturally sweet with a tendency to bump the old love handles. Where does that term come from? I sure as hell don’t love them.

Thor! is not helping. Not in the least.

My cats love the move. There are lots of boxes to play in and papers to mess up. They think this is the greatest toy I’ve ever gotten them. Unfortunately they’re just not helping. They claim the packing tape keeps getting stuck on their fur. I think they’re just being lazy.

You know it’s time to leave when the booze selection has slimmed down.

There’s slim pickins here. Maybe we should just haul ass outta here and go somewhere where there’s some actual booze.

There’s no point in sticking around when there’s only some cheap margarita mix, no tequila and about a quarter ounce of four-year-old rum. I say we blow this taco stand and go somewhere with a better selection, like, Safeway. I bet they also have some un-smashed pretzels to have with the tequila too. I have to send somebody else in as a scab, though. I’ve been kicked out of too many grocery stores for starting spontaneous parties in the snack aisle. I’m pretty sure they would frown upon me fondling their beer section.

The problem is; I can’t get my nightly medicine at home anymore. I decided to forgo alcohol poisoning and pack my wine collection. I moved it myself. Look, the wine is just like the comic books. You can’t trust just anyone or some random day laborer to move that shit and not dip in. Man, there just has to be something worth digging into somewhere around here. Let me look…

Aaahhh. Our most recent Pinot Noir Rosé. Thank God people who were smart enough to hide their hooch in the toilet tank raised me right.

Cheers.

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Onigoroshi

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010

The Demon Slayer. True Dat.

Your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you, unless of course you’re already three sheets to the wind. This demon has four eyes. Now, for those of you tuning in from an English speaking country, or somewhere in the Western Hemisphere, I need to point out that in Eastern religions demons aren’t necessarily a bad thing. They can be either good or evil depending on their actions and intentions. Demon is a generic term for any supernatural being. We tend to not be so lucky in the Western world. Our demons and dragons generally do NOT bode well for us. That having been said, my focus right now is not on the odd looking dude on the front of that bottle. My focus is on what’s in the bottle.

You see, this is Onigoroshi Sake. Onigoroshi is a brand name; I’m not sure which particular variety is in this bottle. I guess I could attempt to read what little English is there, but it hardly seems worth it. No, I’m focusing on the overall purpose of this bottle. You see, this bottle of sake is the “Demon Slayer.” At first I wondered how sake could end up being the demon slayer. Then I realized that sake, like all alcoholic beverages, kills a lot of demons.

Except for that bastard. Seriously, he’s taking full advantage of being immortal and completely incomprehensible. Douchebag.

No, I’m talking about the demons that alcohol can kill. I always joke about how alcohol is the sacred tears of heaven. I wish it wasn’t. On a side note, why can’t cake, pie and ice cream be the things that ease awkward conversations, kill pain and make you forget that you have an asshole landlord? They would be completely omnipotent if they could do that AND have no calories. Damn that cake.

Fuck you, you useless, calorie-laden bastard. Can’t you at least have some anesthetic quality?

I think about the demon haunted world often. No, you’re absolutely right. I’m not a religious person and don’t think about demons in the traditional religious sense. However, every day I’m confronted by various demons. The demons tell me that I’m not smart or talented enough to compose an intelligent thesis. The demons in the media that tell me I’m not thin enough, beautiful enough or young enough to be of worth to society. The demons of regret, fear and self-doubt plague those hours of insomnia at night. These are the real demons. We should fear them. These are the true destroyers.

Yes, this is what the interior of your mind looks like. The only thing that’s missing is your greatest fear painted right on the front there.

There’s nothing like a full bottle of the demon slayer to shut that shit right up. It also helps with the pain of severe arthritis, which is more than you can say for ibuprofen or Tylenol. What’s in the bottle kills the demons lurking in your mind. This is absolutely true. You lose brain cells with each binge drinking episode you engage in. Lose enough and you won’t remember a damn thing. Drink long enough and you end up in rehab or the Alzheimer’s ward. Of course, if you lose just enough brain cells the doubt just slips away quietly in the night. That’s the problem. Right now I don’t have doubts so much as the overwhelming feeling there is too much work to be done between the lab and the move.

Ever have a day where you just feel like that? Well, try it for over 20 years then call me.

I’ll be relying on the demon slayer from time to time. There’s over a liter and a half in there, so it could take a while. That’s fine; I’m in this for the long haul. Not the actual move really, that’s just a few blocks away. No, I’m talking about finishing my lab notes, writing up a thesis, moving my house, re-folding an unknown protein, testing the results, getting my family through yet another medical crisis, playing full-time aunt and babysitter and taking the time out to walk the dog twice a day.

This little bastard can pretty much take care of himself, except for the box. I wonder if it’s possible to teach him how to use the toilet.

Thank whoever’s out there for small favors. Cats are pretty much self-sufficient. I just have to throw some food at them and hope for the best. They’re pretty grateful little bastards. They even bought me a present at the liquor store the other day thanks to their fake ID’s. Now, I know what you’re thinking, because I’m curious too. Who the hell sells a cat a fake ID? I don’t know, but I need to hook up with that bitch. In the mean time, let me take a look at this…

Now that’s just wrong, man.

I guess it was one of those, “I bought it for you, but if you don’t like it, I’ll gladly keep it,” kind of things. Damn cats. Hey, furbags, hand your old lady that big bottle over there. I need a little demon slayer to wash the taste of that shit out. Cheers!

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Packing For a Long Trip

Friday, June 11th, 2010

I know I haven’t actually secured a new place yet, but I can dream, can’t I? In the mean time, I’ve decided to start packing. I became quite the packing expert over the past couple of decades, and I know that there’s no point in putting it off. It’s gotten to the point where my friends always ask for my help with packing and moving. I am the packing virtuoso. Unlike a “professional” company, I give a shit whether my friends’ things break. I don’t load trucks anymore. I can no longer lift ridiculously heavy boxes, but I am a GOD at packing boxes and trucks to maximize space and increase loading/unloading efficiency. I thank all those years of playing Tetris. Sometimes I think, hey, if this chemistry thing doesn’t work out, there’s always a career in the service industry waiting for me.

Yep. I couldn’t have said it better myself. So unprofessional.

Have you ever noticed the strange shit that turns up in your house when it comes time to move? Oh, no, that stuff wasn’t there before, you and I both know that. If it was, you would have gotten rid of it by now. I’m going through all my possessions wondering if it’s time to have a craigslist.org yard sale. I know it’s time to have a craigslist yard sale. Let’s face it; houses aren’t getting any bigger, and I have way too much stuff. Whenever I look around this old shack, I get the feeling that I should have started throwing stuff out ages ago. I mean, take a look at this:

Where the hell did this come from? A Polynesian whore house? Seriously, who was drunk when they bought this shit?

That’s okay; I’ll just leave that in the house. After all the shit I’ve had to deal with in this place including a half-assed kitchen, no ventilation, a dead front lawn, a toxic waste dump and mushrooms growing from the baseboards, I think my landlord deserves this. Of course, there are always some things I wouldn’t dream of leaving behind. For one thing, there’s my wine cellar.

Who’s the damn alcoholic in this place? Because, well, they have some fucking good taste, that’s all I can say.

I’m not moving it. I’m not joking about this. The week before I move, you can all come to my house for the biggest fucking party EVER, and we’re drinking all of it. I will not move this again. The movers hate it, and I just can’t stand the thought of letting it all go to waste.

When I move, there’s always the question of what food to keep and what to toss. I think the refrigerator becomes some sort of vast wasteland or ubliet where everyone secretly hopes somebody else will take care of it. The frozen chicken nuggets and French fries can stay. So can the condiments. Everything else, well, there’s no time like the present to get a culinary fresh start.

This is what my refrigerator looks like on the average day, as does yours.

What? What is that I see in there? Is that some Pabst Blue Ribbon? Shit. Somebody better get that shit out of here before I go nuts. I don’t know who bought that, but they are totally fired. It’s micro brew or nothing in this house, and I don’t touch anything in a metal can. Whoever put that in there is going to be paying a significantly higher portion of the rent once we get to the new place. They say you can’t put a value on taste. I just did, so there.

Now, I mentioned before that I am a packing virtuoso. No, I am the Grand High Mistress of All Packing. I am a packing demi-god, and if you have to move in the near future, I think you should probably make an offering to me. Offer me enough money, booze, or other objects of value, and I might even help you. In the mean time, I’m on my own over here. Sometimes I have the occasional friend offer to help me pack. It’s not that they feel charitable, it’s just that they’re curious about what exactly I’m hiding in all those drawers. I’m not saying. However, I need to point out that I never ask my family to help me pack.

I think I'll just pack that in the box marked: Do NOT open under ANY circumstance.

You know that box/drawer/bag/shelf in the closet that you don’t want just anyone to look at, let alone pack? Yeah, well, I have a few of those. I don’t judge and neither should you. Let’s just say that I can’t sell it at a yard sale, and I want it disposed of in the unlikely event of my untimely demise. It’s the box you don’t want your parents to find, and your friends will probably look at you in an entirely different light if they just happen to stumble upon it in their efforts to help.

Just…leave that there. We’ll pack it as a 'bulk' item.

I have some mundane things that I just can’t leave behind or part with. I mean, for one thing, this economy sucks, and nobody has the money to pay for what it’s worth. I won’t even think of parting with these:

The lighting sucks, it was an awkward time of day. This is what I like to call, “Why my friends never help me move.”

They have to go. However, there are many, many things that are not welcome. They either end up in the trash, or at Goodwill, or on craigslist. You can’t take everything with you, particularly when there’s no room for it on the receiving end. (There is always room for long boxes; I can shed a roommate or two.)

Sorry, bro, but you’re just going to have to stay behind. It’s not like you pay rent, after all.

Some things are better left behind. The landlord can keep the faulty smoke detectors and the cat puke stains on the carpet. I have everything else covered. Now, if I could only remember where I hid those bongs. After all, the movers won’t touch some things at all. The other “unique” items in my house are fair game, and I have much work to be fun keeping the day laborers from licking the merchandise.

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House Hunting

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

Well, here I am in the middle of another foreclosure. I personally have never had a home that was foreclosed on, but I’ve rented about six. The investment property I currently inhabit is in the long, slow process of re-finance. Ha ha. We all know how good Chase has been at helping homeowners stay in their houses. Well, guess what happens to local slumlords? Yeah, there’s about as much mercy as the Inquisition.

So, to save myself a bit of sanity, and perhaps get into a home worth inhabiting, I’ve decided to move. Here’s the problem. So many people have lost their homes in California that I’m now competing for living space. A few years back, during the land grab, nobody wanted to rent. It was actually possible to find a home, sign a lease and move in one month. No kidding, I’ve done it every year for the past few years. Now I’m having no such luck. Back when everybody qualified for a loan, it was easy to pick and choose your locale and features when renting. Not anymore. Now there’s stiff competition for available rental space, and my magical ninja powers have no effect on my competitors. So, I decided to search early in order to avoid being rushed when the notice of sheriff’s sale appears on the door.

All the warning you get. If you’re lucky, you live in a state where the bank must give you 90 days notice rather than just find yourself padlocked and on the street.

I’m house hunting again, and I want to point out that the California real estate market is cut-throat and strangely attuned to the taste of those who live here. I don’t think anybody else in their right mind in America would be willing to pay $2500/month for approximately 900 square feet of living space. Well, maybe in Manhattan, but that’s about it. If you’re wondering how much 900 square feet of living space is; it’s not much. Picture a house so small the cockroaches are hunchbacked and the shih-tzu can barely stretch out. You and your significant other can’t sleep in the same bed because you can’t have a bed big enough to accommodate the both of you.

That should be just big enough, provided you don’t want to move. That color scheme is just *Fabulous*! by the way.

You have to be careful when looking for housing in Northern California. The real estate agents speak their own language, and the ads on www.craigslist.org and other sites are in code. Don’t panic if you’re not used to this. I’ve been doing this for almost a decade, and I can translate the gibberish for you. Let’s start with location.

Real estate is all about location, location, location. Just be wary of any property advertised in Norcal that claims to be on a “sizable lot.” Anything over .000001 acre and it’s worth investigating to see if it’s a Superfund site.

Those signs don’t mean that it’s okay to plant flowers. In fact, you may just want to put on your lead panties before entering the house.

“Cute,” “Quaint,” “Adorable,” and “Cozy.” This means “smaller than the roach motel” in Norcal real estate speak. The house or apartment will be small, REALLY small, as in, “I hope you want to live in the cabinet under the stairs like Harry Potter” small. If you want to rent this property, be prepared to give up a few luxuries, like a TV with a visible screen and your sofa. No kidding, the one house we rented required us to give up most of the living room furniture at the time. Couchless living: not very Martha (Stewart), but I’m sure it will catch on in some circles.

Well, you have to look at the positives. I’m sure the shadows being cast by those houses probably keep it nice and cool in the summer!

“Fixer-upper,” “Needs TLC,” “Needs work,” “Handyman’s dream,” “Willing to adjust rent for those who want to do some work.” The place is a shithole. I’m not joking about this. Chances are really good that it will collapse around you. The kitchen and/or bathroom may be non-functional and you may just fall through the floor at any moment. The roof probably leaks, and the shithead landlord wants at least one coat of paint out of you. You won’t be able to choose the paint, and it becomes obvious that the landlord has no taste in interior design whatsoever. You may as well just install a leopard print rug, disco ball and velvet Elvis while you’re at it—Klassy!

It just needs a little love and “sweat equity.”

Another type of house you want to avoid is the “unique” house. Any feature described as “unique” should be avoided at all costs. Unique covers anything from bad plumbing to faulty appliances, to doors that don’t open to a bum living in the basement.

Unique, newly constructed garage. Perfect for one car or storage.

“Classic layout,” “Unique interior design,” “Victorian styling.” A drunk designed the layout. Of course it could just mean that somebody built the house in the early 1900’s and didn’t have a concept of modern architecture. The current landlord left the design alone sans remodeling because s/he wanted to capture the quaint feel of days gone by. Then again, you may just have to deal with random fuckery the landlord won’t fix because that would require him/her to pull a dollar bill out of his/her ass and deal with the actual problem.

Yeah, it’s quaint alright. Just…don’t take a deep breath, you’ll be fine. Now that’s what we call a classic layout.

Value added features. Kitchen is unique with plenty of storage and accessories.

I’m still looking. I’m avoiding all those unique properties, though. I’m also avoiding new construction, because that’s the type of house that usually ends up in foreclosure. I don’t really want to get stuck in an apartment, because there’s no telling who is going to end up above and below you. The problem with houses is that they are generally owned by private landlords, who tend to be going belly up these days. Who knows what’s going to happen. In the mean time, I’m keeping my eyes peeled for that notice. You never know when it’s going to turn up. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll try squatting in a freshly foreclosed home, just…not something that’s “quaint, unique and classic.”

Oh, yeah, they're all 'klassics.'

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