Moving and Shaking (With Pure, Unadulterated Terror)

8:59 Today is moving day. I woke up at 8:00 and immediately yelled at Brooke. I may as well have said, “I’m tired and stressed and you’re not helping because my father never taught me that a girl doesn’t really ask questions so much as she thinks out loud, so that every single one of my “answers” will be nothing more than a springboard for her negative criticism!” But it came out more like, “Ugh.”

Brooke says: It didn’t come out like “Ugh.” It came out like, “Rooaarrr! Get in the SHOWER! I am mean!!”

9:18 As we speak, there is a man outside my window over my left shoulder. He is a mover waiting for the truck to arrive. Brooke made an attempt to communicate with him through the window – some sort of hand gesture that is meant to mean “cold?” or “coffee?” or “shitty job?”. But now he is just standing there, like a silent supervisor of the biggest change my life has ever witnessed.

Brooke says: What I was trying to communicate is “My boyfriend is yelling at me. Do you want to be my new boyfriend?”

9:29 The truck has arrived. A team of five men file out like a brawny clown car. I’m always a bit intimidated by blue collar workers. There’s something about the fact that they could punch you out that’s just off-putting. I mean, in a situation like this, social status means nothing. Holding up my blog in front of my face isn’t going to do much good. In fact, the two guys in front of me right now wrapping up my bed seem wholly unimpressed, indeed almost angry with the speed with which I type. In makes me feel strange.

Brooke: I, too, feel strange when confronted by two burly men and a bed.

10:00 We were screwed with the weather. The unusually mild winter has decided to take a day off. With our front door open, it’s about 30 degrees in the apartment. I posit that it’s a blue-collar tactic to make us sympathize with their harsh working conditions, leading to a bigger tip. Brooke thinks it’s a good reason to put some liquor in our coffee. Advantage? Brooke.

Brooke: It’s medicinal drinking, like in Russia or rehab.

10:51 I’ve been trying to look at the Lindsey Lohan pictures all friggin day, but every time I get them up on the screen one of the movers comes over to ask a question and I have to close it real quick, like I’m at work, or 15 again. Also, I just farted and one of the workers caught me. I gave him a knowing, blue-collar look. Advantage? Even.

Brooke: Yes, I was aware Dan was looking at nude pictures of Lindsey Lohan naked (her boobs are huge!). No, I was not aware he had farted.

11:02 I’ve always had guilt over people working for me while I sit by and watch. I made a few attempts to “help” but just got in the way. So to make the situation more comfortable, I’m sitting here on my laptop pretending to work. Every so often, I squint my eyes and pretend like I’m thinking real hard. The last time I did it, I was actually opening up espn.com. Unfortunately, the sports highlight video on the homepage automatically started playing loudly. So I squinted even harder, trying to convey something like, “Hmm, yes. Interesting. This will be hard work, indeed.”

Brooke: I assuaged my do-nothing guilt by continually assessing the situation, i.e. walking back and forth from room to room, drinking my “coffee.”

11:07 Fucking great. The first time that someone actually asks for my help, I fuck it up. The guy waves me over, and I move to get up off the couch, but apparently I’ve been sitting in such a weird position that my leg fell asleep. So I hop up and almost fall down. Then I limp over shaking my leg. It was like, “Everybody stop! White collar guy’s got pins and needles. Let him shake it off.” Embarrassing.

Brooke: HAHAHHAHAHA. Dan fell!

11:42 They’re all in the bedroom now – four guys packing up one dresser while the fifth stands outside watching the truck (sucker). The banter is off the wall. One guy’s cell phone won’t stop ringing, so another guy (with a thick Irish accent) comments, “Who’s that, ya girlfriend?”

“Yeah, she won’t stop calling.”

“Why don’t ya just marry her. That’ll shut her up.”

I have no idea what that means, but I’m pretty sure he’s right. It must be some Irish proverb I’m unaware of.

Brooke: Yes, Dan, it’s true. If you marry a girl, she shuts up. Try it.

12:22 I can’t believe that in just over two hours, all our worldly possessions (except one couch, one table and a weeks worth of clothes) were packed into one truck, with room to spare. It makes you wonder what it all means – why we spend so much time surrounding ourselves with an accumulation of possessions when all we really need is one couch, one coffee table, two laptops, stolen Wi-Fi, Sidereel.com, some nice jeans, a few cashmere sweaters, Chinese take-out, our cell phones, DVD’s of “Lost” and “Friday Night Lights,” and beer? Why? What void are we trying to fulfill?

Brooke: What he said.

12:25 The workers have left and the “manager” man comes back into the apartment to have us sign some papers. He also has a thick Irish accent. Brooke and I have already established that the accents, plus the gruff exteriors give the men an air of suspicion. So when we give him the sizeable tip, and he immediately asks to use the bathroom, Brooke and I shoot each other a sideways glance. Clearly, he is going into the bathroom to siphon off some cash before dolling it out to the workers. I would tell Brooke that she should accidentally open the door to the bathroom to surprise him, but she actually already did that once today and I don’t want everyone thinking she’s “that kind of girl.”

Brooke: I am that kind of girl. Seriously, I have to pee a lot.

4:03 Brooke: Well, they took everything. Except the couch, where Dan’s sitting. We moved it away from the window because it's cold. Which means our sole piece of furniture now looks out the window. Mailmen, neighbors, school children, to all that walk by, we look like some weird modern art piece. Alone. In an apartment. Watching.

Dan: Apparently, this whole experience has turned Brooke into a noir film director. I’ll let it play out until she turns the hose on an elderly woman outside our window for “ruining her shot.”

6:00 Lacking a proper bed, Puppy settles, begrudgingly, for a stack of clothes.

Puppy: Dude, where’s my stuff?