Giant Dwarf vs. Moving

Apparently, it's been so long since I've posted a blog that they've changed the whole set-up on this site and I have no idea if I'm doing this right.  In any case, I first want to apologize to my six loyal followers who have (not likely) been anxiously awaiting a new missive from the Giant Dwarf.  A lot has happened since I fell on the ice only six months ago, and my only excuse is:

I have been SO. Stressed. Out.

Seriously.

So let's go back to my healing ribs....shortly after I experienced the singular pain of breaking my ribs purely by my own doing, the Spazz gave five months' notice to his roommates to move out so that I can move in.  Subsequently, the Spazz and I went on our annual Valentine's Day trip where he proposed to me during a particularly grueling hike while my coworker left us alone on a mountaintop and I panicked because the sun was setting and I had no idea how we would find our way home. 

According to the Spazz, my exact response to his proposal was:  "Are you kidding me?"

I'm pretty sure that he has misquoted me.  I would place money on the fact that I likely responded:  "Are you fucking kidding me?"

In any case, I said yes and the wedding planning ensued (different blog:  stay tuned) and then it stopped and then I started packing and now I have one week left in my cute apartment with the pink kitchen and pink bathroom (and the POOL in the courtyard) before I move into a huge rent-controlled apartment that bears the signs of at least 20 years of neglect and is in one of the ugliest buildings I have ever laid eyes on.

And so....

I am stressed out.

When we first talked about moving, the Spazz insisted that we move ourselves.  I pointed out that after people turn 40, they are no longer in good enough shape to move themselves.  I spent my 20s and part of my 30s moving myself and other people.  My theatre years were spent helping people move, helping people paint, and then drinking beer and eating pizza afterwards.  It was romantic back then (not really) and an opportunity for team-building and camaraderie (which often bred resentment and resulted in scratched floors). 

The dirty secret is this:  I hated every minute of it.  I hated moving.  I hated moving my ex-boyfriend's 1500+ record collection up 30 steps in San Francisco.  I hated painting the theatre technical director's apartment for a fucking slice of pizza, only to find out he and his wife moved out less than six months later.  And I'm pretty sure my friends really hated moving my giant book collection and the 7 foot leather couch that, for the life of me, I cannot get anyone to take now that I no longer need it.

Here's the other problem:  I no longer work with a bunch of theatre people who are used to moving things.  I work with social workers, mostly small women, and doctors and nurses who actually HIRE people to move things for them.  The only person who has a truck is the Spazz, and I almost ruined that when he helped me move into my soon-to-be former apartment nine years ago.  So, having my friends move me is no longer an option.

At one point, my cousin offered to help me move.  He was laying on my aforementioned couch, half-asleep with his toddler daughter crawling on top of him and said, in his usual haze:  "Hey, my friend and I can help you move.  He has a truck!"  I thanked him for the offer and thought about it after he left.  My cousin is a good guy, but his friends kind of freak me out and I really didn't think I could rely on this friend-with-the-truck.  And if the friend craps out, we're stuck.  His wife is pregnant and both of his daughters are under the age of 3.  Not the best moving team.

During this time, I have been packing.  I'm not sure if you were paying attention earlier, but I've lived in my apartment for NINE years.  I was thinking about that recently and that is actually longer than I have lived in any one place my entire life (even in my childhood....I lived in our house in Philly for only 8 years).  Now, some of you know that I am the offspring of a dyed-in-the-wool packrat.  My mom keeps EVERYTHING.  When my sister-in-law visits, she gingerly wades through various items in my brother's room and calls it "excavating."  This apple has fallen away from the tree, but not far enough.  I've got a lot of stuff and the only comforting thought is that I am moving into a bigger apartment.  But that is no reason to keep everything and so there has been a bit of a purge going on.

First emotional obstacle:  getting rid of things.

Second emotional obstacle:  packing the still too many things I am keeping.

Third emotional obstacle:  realizing that oh-my-god-I-am-getting-married-and-moving-in-with-my-fiance-and-losing-whatever-single-life-freedom-that-I-had (especially living alone the way I wanted to live and not having a roommate or a family member or a husband getting all up in my business).

That last one is kind of big. 

And it just hit me this week.

And it's a doozie.

I'm leaving my cute apartment with the pink kitchen and the pink bathroom and the great light.  I'm leaving my incredibly unbelievable (but true!) shortest-commute-ever (I've walked 3 blocks to work and back for the last nine years).  I'm leaving the pool that I almost never used.  I'm leaving this neighborhood that I've grown to love.  I'm leaving some of my favorite restaurants and some of my closest friends.  I'm leaving my 98 year old neighbor who is so hard-of-hearing that I know what she is watching on television (she watches the Jimmy Kimmel show every night) and can hear her phone ring while I am watching television.....with the volume turned up really high.

I was so not emotionally prepared for this.

So I have to say that the one thing that is helping to relieve the stress is this:  I called Nice Jewish Boy Moving & Storage several weeks ago and made arrangements for someone professional (I hope) to move my stuff.  The Spazz wasn't happy, but I made the executive decision with some unconscious knowledge that I would not be in the best mental state to handle this on my own nor to be nice to my loved ones who were willing to help. 

And, if you are a Member of the Tribe like me, you'll understand that I was happy to receive a call back from Nice Jewish Boy Moving & Storage's manager, Tony Ortiz.

(By the way, this may be the end of this entry, but don't worry.....there's more to come.  Stay tuned for Giant Dwarf vs. Painting.)

Giant Dwarf vs. Ice

Okay, so, if you read my last post, you will recall that I have a particular aversion to cold weather which then extends to winter sports. We all know I don't ski. Or snowboard. Or toboggan. But I did write that every year I think about going ice skating but never do, which is good because I hate the cold and am at risk of bodily injury.

So I get through the holidays without killing anyone or jeopardizing my relationship and January comes around and we get this round of very warm weather. Thanks to my new and unimproved schedule-designed-by-Attila-the-Hun, I have varying days off during the week, so the Spazz and I were spending a nice Monday together. We decided to go to Santa Monica and hang out on the Promenade (I haven't done that very much since I moved here and for good reason: once they threw Midnight Special under the bus, I resented the whole lot). As we drove toward the parking lot, I noticed the ice skating rink and remembered my blog post. Wouldn't it be romantic, on this 75 degree day, to skate with my honey in Santa Monica?

So I suggested this activity. Yes, the just-had-my-knee-fixed Giant Dwarf asked the Southern California-raised Spazz if we could go ice skating. And he appropriately responded: "are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, for your knee?" And I responded (rather flippantly, I may add): "why not? wouldn't it be a good test to see how well the surgery worked?"

(Spoiler alert: the surgery was successful. The knee fared quite well during this ordeal.)

So we headed on over to the rink and rented our skates: we were the only ones there at that time. Having the whole rink to ourselves was a mixed blessing: there was no one to bump into but also, being the only ones on the ice, we were highly visible to passers-by. We both gingerly started skating, but the Spazz was quicker to pick it up: I attribute Spazz's natural talent for ice skating to his lifelong pastimes of surfing and skateboarding. I have to. Because I could not master the balance portion of teetering on thin blades on frozen water, despite the fact that I took figure skating lessons as a kid.

The Spazz kept warning me not to fall backwards and I was successful in following this advice. Rather, I took the less-followed path of decline: I fell forward.

On my front. On the ice. And while the upper half of my torso was somewhat protected by the two mounds of fat that have been oversexualized and worshipped for centuries, the area directly underneath my breasts hit the ice with a force so strong that it knocked the wind out of me. So there I was, splayed on the ice, barely breathing, and feeling a pain I had never felt before.

Once I got my normal breathing rate back, that pain started to intensify. Taking a deep breath caused a sharp pain in my ribs; coughing and sneezing caused excruciating pain.

I had rather successfully cracked my ribs while participating in a leisure activity.

But, being the offspring of my frugal father, I was not about to let my $12 rental fee go to waste, and so I continued to skate. If that's what you want to call it. But the Spazz and I continued to go many laps around the rink, even as more and more people joined us on the small surface and young children did triple axles around me as I shuffled forward.

We finally decided we had enough and left the rink as the workers there reminded us that our entrance fee will allow us to come back anytime until midnight that night. I cannot believe I even briefly considered doing that, but I knew in my heart (and in my ribs) that we were not returning that night....or possibly ever.

Cracked ribs hurt. A lot. Breathing hurts. Sneezing and coughing are full-blown assaults. And when a week later I was nauseous and about to vomit, I quickly took a Zofran before I risked upchucking my actual ribs. Thank goodness I didn't just eat oatmeal on a Virgin America flight (see my post from 5/13/11).

So, once again the fates proved to me why snow and ice is antithetical to my existence. Okay, I guess it's really more accurate to say that I was not blessed with a natural athleticism. But let's just say that snow and ice only make me even more of a klutz. Oh, and in regard to my brother who thinks I'm a pansy-ass for not skiing or participating in otherwise winter-y activities: he and his girlfriend just went skiing in Utah a few days ago and she tore her ACL on her first run.

So it's not just me.