Hilarious Story of Why We Should Just Friggen’ Live in a Bus Already

Oh man, it’s been almost a week since I last posted.  UNACCEPTABLE.  Tomorrow is the day we’re supposed to get the internet hooked up in our OWN APARTMENT!  Which would be fantastic except that Green’s parents have hired us to watch their four thousand pets for the next two weeks.  Which means we’ve basically moved back over here, to this gigantic house, for two weeks.  So we’ll FINALLY have the internet in our own place but it won’t friggen’ matter because we’re here.  Which has the internet, so that’s awesome, but we sure could have used it for the past two weeks instead, so maybe his parents should have just gone out of town two weeks ago.

As it stands, we’ve basically moved a third time <i>back</i> into this house (we’ve brought the computers and the cat and we’re going back for our mattresses), and we get to move a FOURTH time back into our apartment when they come back home.

If we lived in our lovely house bus, this would hardly have been a big deal, because we could just drive our home to their parking lot and be done with it.

That story wasn’t all that hilarious, I’ll grant you.  I’m sorry.  At least it was short!


Hahahaha, No Internet

So I made all this noise about making a blog post every day for a billion days and then promptly proceeded to move into an apartment that won’t have the Internet until Thursday*. You can tell that I truly THOUGHT THIS THING THROUGH THOROUGHLY.

EDIT:** We found out today that the Thursday prediction was a BRAZEN LIE, we will not have Internet in our new place until the 20th. So rather than stress myself out over finding a connection every day until then, I’m just going to put the blogathon on hold until we’re set up.**

Hopefully we’ll get somewhere with Internet access soon so I can post this. I’m writing it in Notepad on my Internetless computer at home. According to my connection information, ten of my neighbors have wireless networks in range. A couple of them even named them clever things like “Unicorn” and “Juicebox”, but did a single one of them leave their network unsecured for me to piggyback off of? No. None of them care.

I remember the days when it was no problem whatsoever to borrow someone else’s connection. It’s how I used the Internet for years. But these days, everyone’s all hip to folks like me and locking that shit down. I’m on to you, people cleverly locking your Internet connections. I know what you’re up to. And I don’t like it.

In other news, moving has been quite the adventure. We officially signed our lease on Friday, after loading most of our junk into our cars and driving over to the new place. We still had our mattresses and a handful of other stuff at Green’s parents’ place, and we planned on spending a final night there, but we wanted to get as much stuff as possible in our new home so we’d have less to worry about the next day.

While we sat in the office waiting to sign our lease, Green made the mistake of invoking demons of mischief by uttering the following comment: “Once we sign the lease and unload all of our stuff, we can just go home and do nothing for the rest of the day.”

FANTASTIC. WAY TO TOTALLY SUMMON SOME STUPID AND INCONVENIENT OCCURRENCE. I didn’t tell him that, though, I continued to think positively, because it was really hot out and I was more than happy to get in and get out.

Things seemed to be fine as we did the actual signing, the office manager was all helpful and polite as we initialed forty-seven times. Then, she handed us our keys, and we were ready to visit our new home.

Which would have worked out fantastically if the keys she handed us actually unlocked our new front door. But they didn’t.

So we walked back to the office (passing, as we went, our four hundred new neighbors, all of whom seem to enjoy spending their copious free time hanging out at the base of our stairs), and informed the office manager of our dilemma. She promptly called maintenance for us.

Maintenance is a long word, so from now on I’m going to call the Maintenance Man “Mr. Lou” because I don’t know his real name and “Mr. Lou” is short.

Mr. Lou insisted on trying our keys himself, because obviously we might not be able to tell if our own efforts to use them on our door had, in fact, actually unlocked it without our knowledge. Needless to say, they didn’t work any better when he tried them.

So Mr. Lou grumbled and bitched a bit, then went back to the office to get the master key.

Which also did not work.

So Mr. Lou informed us that he needed to install a new lock on our door, and he would be right back.

Meanwhile, we’re waiting outside our new place, peering through the blinds in an effort to see what it looks like in there. Green was able to see more thanks to his lack of glasses, which allowed him to tilt his head at a sharper angle.

“Look, we have some of those hanging blinds to separate the living room from the sleeping area!” He informed me. “Oh, and we have saloon doors on our closet!”

Saloon doors were indeed exciting. I couldn’t wait to see them from inside the apartment.

We hung out, exploring the outside of where we would soon be living, waiting for Mr. Lou to return. I might mention at this point that the day ended up being the hottest day of the summer thus far, at 105 degrees. By the time Mr. Lou came back with our new lock, we were beginning to wilt.

Mr. Lou attacked the lock with wild abandon, drilling it madly, whacking away at it with his handy man hammer. The lock, however, remained stubbornly in place.

“It’s reassuring to know it’s difficult to break in,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Well, sometimes it’s really easy and they just fall right off,” Mr. Lou said. “Not this one, though.”

I wasn’t sure if Mr. Lou’s comment made me feel less reassured about possibly being robbed, knowing how easy it could be to break off a lock, or more irritated that this current process was taking so long, knowing how easy it could be to break off a lock.

Much struggle by Mr. Lou and a few tweets by me later, Mr. Lou finally defeated the lock, and we got to take our first look at our new digs. We ran around investigating, speculating where we would put what and what we would do where. Mostly, we were just grateful to be out of the heat, however briefly, and to begin the process of unloading the car.

And I’ve gotta tell you. The saloon doors ARE, in fact, awesome.

A Story About A Toothbrush

Green and I are currently in a holding pattern. We are, in a manner of speaking, “in the process of moving”. However, our last day in our old apartment was June 30th, and our first day in our new apartment is July 8th. In the meantime, we are staying at Green’s parents’ house. Luckily for us (and probably also for them), they are out of town until the 9th. All of our stuff is presently sitting downstairs, in the living room, in boxes, waiting for us to relocate it once more.

By the way, I briefly considered writing a post about how to approach the process of moving if you are like me and get easily overwhelmed by the concept. But on the Big Day when the most stuff got moved, it also happened to be my third day without sugar, and I proceeded to have breakdown after sobbing, snotty breakdown and concluded that were I to actually make that post, the content would consist of nothing more than “GET SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT FOR YOU (PAY THEM IF YOU HAVE TO)” in giant letters that filled the screen. After the first round of bringing crap from our old place to the temporary place, Green very sweetly suggested I stay here, chilling in the AC, while he went and gathered the rest of our belongings.

Have I ever mentioned how incredibly lucky I am to have landed this guy?

But anyway, this isn’t a post about MOVING, this is a post about a TOOTHBRUSH.

Since Green did the bulk of our packing, one of the things he packed was our toothbrushes. For a while, I didn’t bother asking where he packed them, because by the time I remembered I wanted to brush my teeth, he was already in bed and I didn’t want to wake him, then in the morning, I forgot. So I have been without a toothbrush for, oh, seven days.

This morning, however, I awoke and was feeling it. I wanted my mouth to taste like delicious, refreshing toothpastey mint, not like feet and old garbage. So I poked Green as he played diligently away at his video games.

“Hey, where did you pack our toothbrushes?”

“In that box.”

“In which box?”

“That box where I also packed my razor.”

Side note: This razor thing is significant because yesterday, while we were out for the 4th of July, he mentioned how he really wanted to shave his stubble because it was starting to itch, but the razor was packed into the bottom of some box and he didn’t want to dig it out.

So I said, “Okay, where is that box?”


ALL of our stuff is downstairs. In boxes.

“Well, what does that box look like?”

When you read Green’s answer, I want you to realize that this was his response to the question, “What does that box look like?”

GREEN’S RESPONSE: “When you open the box, it’s got shoes crammed on top.” He then made a gesture to indicate the cramming of the shoes.

I stared at him momentarily, then said okay, and proceeded to travel downstairs with the only real clue to the toothbrush box being that it had shoes crammed on top. I told him I would also procure for him his razor, so that he might end the stubble misery.

The box turned out to not be too difficult to find, given that I could narrow it down to boxes I didn’t already know the contents of. Since for the most part we’d hit every box at least once, I found the shoe box and dug out my toothbrush, the toothpaste, and Green’s razor.

I brought the razor back to him and he told me I’d grabbed the wrong one. “I wanted the electric razor!” He said.

I stared blankly at the razor I currently held, which had a long cord hanging from it, ending with two prongs that I’d imagine you stick in the wall to provide it with electricity. “Is this not an electric razor?”

“Well, yes, but I wanted the one I shave my face with, not the one I shave my head with!”

“I didn’t realize they were different.”

He assured me it was okay and didn’t really matter and would I put the razor in the bathroom and not on his computer okay thanks. I carried the thing with me and my toothbrush to the bathroom.

Where I proceeded to brush the ever-living crap out of my teeth.

When I went to spit, the toothpaste spit gunk was a terrifying greenish-brown color, and I briefly panicked that in the seven days of not brushing my teeth, some alien race had grown in my mouth and I’d just killed off most of them and now they were most likely plotting how to destroy me from the inside out as vengeance for murdering their leader (because I’d gotten their leader in this terrible massacre). But then I remembered I ate pistachios yesterday.

I brushed again anyway (just to be sure and to kill off any of the remaining freedom fighters). Now my mouth feels oodles better, and I am ready to begin my Tuesday.

How was your morning?