September 13, 2011
Harder than the Oregon Trail
I think it is a truth universally acknowledged that moving is the worst thing ever. Yes, that includes genocide, famine and just general…jackassery.First you have to put all your shit into boxes. How does one accumulate so many hair products and towels? And why do I have “Thank You” cards? I’ve never thanked anybody a day in my life. I also discovered that I own, like, four Allen wrenches. Which is weird, since I don’t own that much stuff from Ikea and when else do you get an Allen wrench? Unimportant.
But you never throw away any of this. Oh no, you bought it, so you must really need it. And I do. I’m sure I do.
Eventually there is the actual hauling of the shit to another place. I’m a cheap bastard whose furniture has the cumulative worth of about 300 dollars, so I wasn’t about to spend 50 dollars renting a van. That’s insanity. So instead I haul whatever you can haphazardly fit into my hatchback back and forth like 40 times, praying to God or the Great Atheismo that my futon frame doesn’t fall out of the back window while I’m driving down the highway.
Then there’s the daunting task of unpacking your shit. I just put it all into boxes a few days ago, and now I have to take it all again. Take it all out while keeping a general floor/organizational plan in mind. The motivation at this stage is generally lacking. It’s been over a week and I still haven’t managed to put sheets on my futon mattress. My futon mattress that is lying on the floor. Lying on the floor with a lamp and blu-ray player sitting on the corner, for whatever reason. I am essentially a hobo. A hobo with a blu-ray player, which is a very special kind of hobo. A hobo with a lack of priorities.
Case in point: I was watching Hoarders with the new roommate and she said, “I noticed that with these people the bed is always the first thing to go. They don’t put on sheets and it gets all nasty,” and my first thought was a panicked, “She knows.”Which brings me to the most awkward part about living with a new roommate: the slow process of marking your territory. In all my roommate endeavours, it’s been me moving into an empty room of an already-furnished apartment. So, like, there’s the first night where I don’t do anything. The second night I’ll leave my toothbrush out. The third night, I’ll put food in the cupboards. The fourth night, I’ll use the stove. And so on, until eventually the place screams, “Lisa lives here too, bitches! AND SHE COOKS WITH A LOT OF GARLIC AND CINNAMON!”