Mr. Wong did it again. He moved all of my worldly possessions (of which there are many) in the blink of an eye, driving away from the job as I stood in my doorway with my mouth open.
Let’s start from the beginning. The last time I moved (from Harlem to Battery Park City) I spent 3 weeks packing. I was so excited to be moving to downtown Manhattan that I started putting everything into boxes the moment my lease was signed. Unfortunately, this meant that I lived in chaos, without the day-to-day items I needed, for the better part of a month. Boo.
This time I decided I could surely get everything packed in a week. Afterall, I was moving out of a studio this time, and I’d downsized a bit. But then life got in the way and packing was put on the back burner. So in the end, I packed in only a few days. Thankfully, my friend Amber helped me out one night, and since she is a super-focused organization freak, shit got taken care of. The final odds and ends always end up piling up more than you expect them to, though, and the night before moving day I was up until 2:30 AM squirreling things away.
A few moments after I’d groggily gotten myself out of bed the next morning, I got a call from Mr. Wong. He had arrived at the entrance to my apartment complex, and the security guards wouldn’t let him in. Why? Because he was an hour and twenty minutes early. The building won’t let trucks in before 9 AM, as I’d mentioned when I scheduled Mr. Wong for the earliest available moving slot. But at 7:40, he was already duking it out with the guard in the booth. I went downstairs to play peacekeeper and Mr. Wong reluctantly drove down the block to wait after being promised that he’d be the first one allowed in the complex at 9:00.
Once 9:00 finally arrived, the move-out went as smoothly as I thought it would. In 52 minutes, Mr, Wong and his partner had moved everything out of the apartment and into the truck. Mr. Wong moved everything from the apartment into the elevator, and his partner retrieved the elevator loads and moved them onto the truck. The most mind boggling moment was when the partner guy picked up my couch and carried it to the truck, single-handedly. WTF?!?!?!?!?! If you google the phrase “brute strength”, I swear a photo of these two men will pop up.
I wrote down the address of the new apartment, and off we all drove to Brooklyn. I thought that the stairs at my new place might throw my miracle movers for a loop. My new apartment is one flight up, which means you can’t just load things into an elevator and roll them in the door. But I was
Wong wrong. Stairs are no obstacle. The move-in was completed in a little over an hour. Ridiculous.
And so, by noon, I was on the road back to my old apartment to clean up, paint the walls back to white (the existing cream and tan walls were not acceptable; they had to be Arctic White), turn in the keys, and have my last round of Battery Park City halal from my cart guy. With the help of my parents and Aunt Betty, it was all done by 4:30, and we headed back to Clinton Hill to unpack and grab some dinner.
My parents always insist that the first thing you have to do in a new apartment is set up the bed. That way, when you run out of gas in the late evening, you can just go straight to sleep. Smart? Yes. So, that’s what we did.
By the time my friend (and new neighbor), Biscut, came by for dinner (pizza from Not Ray’s – don’t even get me started on this pizza; I’ve eaten it 4 times in the last week), the bed was made, the kitchen and bathroom were unpacked, and half of my clothing pile was put away. Boo-ya.
And then I crashed. The sheer exhaustion from packing, moving, cleaning, painting, and unpacking knocked me out instantly. I hate to go to sleep before the full un-pack is done, but I just couldn’t function any longer. And so this post has to crash, too. Yup, that’s all she wrote for one day….literally. HA, I crack myself up!
Tune in over the next couple of days for furniture arrangements and more on Not Ray’s Pizza. Oh yea, and you’ll probably get a rant about Time Warner somewhere along the line, too. A week after moving in, I still have no cable or internet. Not a good look. So in order to blog tonight, I’m here at a random cutesy coffee house near my house with the rest of the neighborhood’s 20-something white girl population (maybe TWC f’d them over too?). It’s a cute place with good food and outdoor space, and at the moment they’re trying to funk-i-fy it with some Fugees tunes. White girls gotta have their jams. Ah, gentrification, you bastard.
Anyway, if you’re reading this, you probs have internet and cable, so say “wut up” to reality TV for me. Oh, how I miss you, HGTV and Bravo!