Tag Archives: moving

1.17 Unfortunate Roommates

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So while the shadows grew long and the light turned orange, red and gold outside the Lavender Lady, inside her walls finally held all my earthly possessions and most of my closest friends. Filled with satisfaction and surrounded by the physical manifestation of our labors – disassembled furniture and boxes – we sprawled eating pizza and drinking beer (which again is the traditional “thank-you-for-helping-me-move-house-even-though-we-are-past-the-point-in-our-lives-when-this-is-fun” fare). Feeling free and breezy under the influence of nostalgia (the beer helped) we reminisced about all the horrible hovels we resided in during our twenties, and the peculiar people we shared them with. 

Here are the highlights:

Me (slowly picking off layers of pizza toppings): The guy who made up his own religion declaring the name Pete all powerful. Wednesdays were his sabbath and he wouldn’t do chores if he happened across the name on any day of the week. Meaning if someone said Pete, if he saw it in print (which was a problem since there was a giant billboard down the street advertising Pete’s Potato Chips) or a picture of a famous Pete popped up – he’d hunker down in his room to “worship”. Which entailed smoking a lot of weed and listening to jazz records featuring Pete Fountain. We never saw that security deposit back, a tornado couldn’t air out that room.

Sarah (a still mortified co-worker): My college roommate’s boyfriend decided to pee out the window one evening because Julie, his girlfriend, was taking too long in the bathroom….unfortunately someone was sitting next to the open window below and got a real surprise. They both fled when the shouting started – which left me to plead ignorance and then innocence by trying to demonstrate the leverage and physics required for me to perform said feat through a screen. Could have wrung their necks.

Beatrice (rolling her eyes at the memory): I roomed with a girl who loved my curls so much she snipped a few off one night while I slept. When I woke up and she was sitting at the kitchen table bobbing them up and down like some kind of demented fishing lure. Her defense? She only cut a couple off at the nape of my neck – not the really good ones around my face. Wasn’t that considerate? I can’t swear she didn’t made a voodoo doll from them when I moved at the end of the month, but I did sprain my ankle a week later…

Dourwood (laughing and poking me in the leg): I roomed with this girl who would get into constant arguments with the fridge, toaster, house plant, door…then would try to pass it off as “rehearsing lines” for her improve group!

I felt compelled to hit Wood in the shoulder at this point and everyone laughed (I was in an improv group…). With an air of dignity, “I no longer tread the boards.”

“Tread the boards! Ha! You just don’t want to admit you talk to yourself!” Wood laughed (as did everyone else, he easily avoiding my second punch). His phone buzzed. Looking at his watch he got to his feet and drained his beer, “Well I am off. Laney’s out front.” Getting to my feet I started to invite her in when Wood shook his head, “She can’t come in. Her Mom’s with her.”

When one person sets out, others usually follow and soon after our cozy pizza party broke up. When I’d seen the last of my friends out (I will not recount their giggled reminiscence of me doing “improv”, apparently I am caught talking to myself more than I knew) I shut my new front door. Smiling I turned and leaned against it, surveying my new living room (the upstairs of the Lavender Lady may be too stately to incorporate such an ordinary room, but the basement is not) when I spied a bit of macabre in the corner of the room…

A wood framed box with a glass front sat propped up against the wall at the end of a line of bookcases. I simply couldn’t believe my eyes, how did I miss him? He watched while I approached his box. While I scanned his bones nestled in the forest green lining, finally meeting his eye sockets – I blinked first.

Beatrice: “His name is Harold.” 

Me: “Harold? Looks like he had a rough life.” All but five ribs were cracked, broken and/or splintered. His left eye socket was scored and broken. The rest of his bones sported a number of unusual nicks and gouges, which didn’t look organic in origin.

Beatrice (unsuccessfully in keeping a straight face): “I won him.”

Me (rolling me eyes): “Where? From where, eBuy? Did a test crash dummy get tired of a human stealing his job?”

Beatrice (laughing now): “No, a publisher raffled him during a convention, for a historical thriller – a find clue to the killer in the bones – sort of thing. Harold came with an advanced copy of the book.” 

Me (still inspecting his many extra bits): “Harummph. So they really let you walk off with a real skeleton?”

Beatrice: “I liked him. I don’t think they expected anyone to really want to take him home – but they couldn’t really object when I did. Hey let me help you clean up.”

With that she walked down the hall towards my room, I followed my attention divided between Beatrice and the many parts of Harold.

Just this once I don’t think I am the weirdest roommate in the house.

1.16 Pizza With Indiana Jones

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I blame Indiana Jones.

A ten year old me wanted nothing more than to roam the earth with Professor Jones (as I called him because I’d be a student, not a love interest) finding idols, grails and such things. So to prepare I did my best to research archeology; books, techniques and principles. Since Aunt Pearl could not be persuaded to take the annual family vacation to the Amazon (too many bugs), Egypt (too hot) or Ireland (who wants to see a bog?),  I started excavating locations within my proximity – to help hone my “critical eye” (I was ten and this made total sense). I dug holes in the back yard, beaches, parks and occasionally at school – cataloguing everything I found buried and at what depth. When the authorities (parental and otherwise) figured out it was me digging – and not a rogue band of pooches – my work was curtailed.

My ambition didn’t even break stride.

I went to work with food. Nothing that wasn’t labeled a scramble, hash or came from a crock pot was safe from my analytical examinations. Lasagna, sandwiches, pies & cake – no meal featuring these items escaped my painstaking attentions (my Aunt forbade the use of a magnifying glass at dinner when I started telling everyone what her secret ingredients were). The food which drove my Aunt Pearl to distraction, however, was pizza.

I was meticulous and methodical. Starting with the top layer, meat – which if it was good – I would announce to everyone that there was something here worth digging for (didn’t matter if anyone was listening, I was to focused on my “research project”). Even if it was bad, I could continue on – I was a hungry ten year old kid and this was pizza after all – but I would narrate it a bit less. I think Aunt Pearl tried for a while to order pizza from Don John’s which wasn’t as good as Don Pedro’s, but my Uncle put a kibosh to that “nonsense”. I would pick the veggies off next, then I would then peel the cheese off (extra points if it came off in one sheet), then I licked the sauce off the crust, and finally finishing off the slice by rolling it up like a sleeping bag and gnawing on it. I did this with each and every piece – every time we ate pizza – dinner achieved new levels of obnoxiousness only a naive ten year old kid can muster (really, it only bothered my Aunt; my Uncle thought it was funny. I think this is why he started bringing a pie home every Friday). I wasn’t trying to be obnoxious. I was simply honing my scientific skills as best I could since my spade had been taken away (Uncle also didn’t mind my digging either, since it meant less lawn for him to mow).

This weekly event finally spawned a rare compromise from my Aunt. I could excavate my first slice to my heart’s content without her commenting – IF – I ate the rest like a normal person. This compromise quickly devolved into bargaining session which spanned an entire dinner (where my Uncle sat back trying not to burst a seam) until I did agree to limiting my scientific pursuits to the first slice. I also won my spade back! I could dig in the garden provided I helped weed it – with supervision (btw I think it is why my Aunt lobbied for a pool – less yard for me to dig up). My cousins sat awestruck at my audacity.

So why are my dinner time shenanigans important?

Pizza. Pizza is the key here.

Because when friends help friends move house they are fed pizza and beer as the reward for their extra effort.

It’s the law.

Some people swear by Chinese food, others go for giant sub sandwiches and some provide liquor and chicken wings.

I am a traditionalist.

(Above Pizza Photo Credit)

1.14 Ointment Meet Fly…

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(A very civilized contract signing!)

I couldn’t hide the grin spreading across my face. The relief at landing in such unexpectedly pleasant surroundings was palpable (with this many books and the promised freedom to borrow would help save a tremendous amount of money – up side? It will keep me from actually acting on any impetuous impulses – in my defense I haven’t ever actually stolen anything – just keeps the mind limber to think how you might try). We both knew she had me, so why act coy? “I would love to move in!”

We settled on terms:

Money: a very reasonable amount.

Move in Date: as soon as I wanted – in fact I left with a set of keys.

Parking: In the alley where it was acceptable.

Schedule: Beatrice’s travel dates.

No fuss, no muss.

I couldn’t pin down the nagging sensation that I forgot to ask Beatrice something, but relief overwhelmed all other emotions quickly. If it was important I would think of it again.

One interesting fact, Old Town where the Lavender Lady resides is only a few minutes from my previous employer. Driving up to the cemetery I spotted a knot of Residents hovering just inside the wrought iron gates.

Right – ointment meet fly.

Pulling over to the side of the drive a bit farther down the lane from the gang (I didn’t want the Princess dinged by the inattentive bereaved) I flexed my toes and waited for the pins and needles to recede to manageable levels and for them to catch up. While I waited I stuck my hands free device in my ear and pulled my phone out of my pocket. When I exited the Princess the Residents started peppering me with questions.

“What is going on?”  “What’s Little Ben doing to the cottage?”  “Why are your things in boxes?”  “Why aren’t you  working in the utility shed?”  “Why did Ben make the rounds this morning?”

I leaned against the pink door letting them slowly peter out. Trying to talk over them would only mean I’d have to repeat myself (I found most people couldn’t talk and listen at the same time). I’d intentionally put this adulting step off; they don’t take change well and I didn’t know how best to sugar coat the news for them. So I just followed my Aunt Pearl’s example and pulled the bandaid off fast, “Ben laid me off last week and I have to move out of Nevermore.”

Wind whipped around us, blowing my hair into my eyes and stray leaves around my knees. Shouting above the noise, “We will work this out. Now stop!” Immediately the wind died down to a persistent (if annoying) breeze and another round of twenty questions started.

“Why?”  “Will you still visit us?”  “What will happen to Nevermore?”  “What is Little Ben going to do now?”  “Can we visit you?”  “Will he hurt my squirrel?”

We stood and talked, and talked and talked – me reassuring them I would not be far away. Yes, I would come and visit them. Yes, they could visit me. Yes, I would explain any changes Ben made to Nevermore. By the time they dispersed, only a gentle breeze blew and dusk settled in around us – I longed to take out my camera, the left-over light of a Fall day made for excellent pictures. But my heart wasn’t in it. I retreated further from the idea when an orange hybrid pulled up next to the Princess.

This should be entertaining.