Moving Sucks

I am living in the land of boxes. Literally. My hole is stacked floor to ceiling with boxes. (Michael, you should be ashamed for thinking such dirty things!)
(As soon as I unpack said boxes and find the cord to my digital camera I will post photos of the mess I have created the last four days.) It's quite the little fire hazard I must say, I'm really kind of proud.
Actually, I'm a little disappointed in myself. I've been on vacation since last Wednesday and I don't feel like I've had much of a vacation. So far my vacation has consisted of taking a hard ass test, visiting my mom, finding out I'm being furloughed (i.e. losing my job on May 1), and packing. What sort of sick vacation is that? And to top it all off, tomorrow, on my 29th birthday, I get to move! I hate moving, I mean I REALLY hate moving. Granted, the end result will be orgasmic, but the actual moving sucks.
So, today I get to add to my list of fun vacation festivities. I get to clean out the refrigerator! Yeah! And bathe the dogs! Yeah! And go to JFK to pick up the car! Yeah!
Did I mention that moving sucks?

Cats in bags and smoking boilers

Look closely at the sign and you will see why it really wasn't any surprise when firefighters ran through the halls of our building last night ordering everyone to evacuate because the boiler was on fire. The intelligent man who wrote the sign is also the man who is in charge of said smoking boiler. A man who can't spell "machanic" and "coaporation" is allowed to use power tools around a piece of machinery that could potentially burn down an entire city block. And what is the response of our management company? "Well, we can't fire him. It's so hard to find good supers in this city."
This is an example of a good super? What's a bad one? One that actually lets the building burn down?
Meanwhile, my cat would argue that the man should be put in front of a firing squad for the ultimate humiliation he had to suffer when Michael shoved him in a suitcase to get him out of our apartment. Poor kitten. He's so traumatized that he won't even come down from our bed to stalk the pigeons on the fire escape. I'm so going to sue the Croman bastards that own this piece of shit hole we live in for the next 10 days. My cat will never be the same.

Vegas allnighters and little green men

The Vegas all-nighter is one of those trips that flight attendants covet and hate at the same time. It's fabulous in that it signs in at 6pm and is worth 11 hours(most turns are only worth 6) but it's hell because you work a 5 1/2 hour flight to Vegas and then turn around and work right back, no break, no sleep. But you're back in NYC at 7am with the entire day to re-coop. This is good for most, but not me. I don't function on no sleep, in fact I'm kind of a grump if I'm not in bed by 10pm. So, this morning at 7 am when we landed at JFK I was not looking forward to my 2 hour commute back to my hole. That is until I sat down on the E train with all of the little green men. Now, at first I thought my lack-of-sleep haze was causing me to hallucinate but then I realized that the fifty other people on the train couldn't possibly be laughing at my insane vision which involved 5 midgets dressed and painted head-to-toe in green singing Irish diddies. Apparently, hopefully, they were on their way to the St. Paddy's Day parade, and me without my camera...

Escape from Hell

Finally, after 13 months of living in a closet Michael and I have found a new apartment. As of April 1 we will be the proud renters of a one bedroom with a BALCONY on the Upper West Side. Yeah. It's still small by normal world standards, but by New York standards we are as the Jefferson's said, "movin' on up." We've managed to add 100 sq feet to our living space and a "yard" (that's New York for balcony.) It's in a beautiful brownstone on a quiet residential street just four short blocks from Central Park. My dogs can shit on grass! And! The owners live in the building so that means we will always have heat and hot water (the slum we live in now has yet to provide us with either.) And it's the same stinkin' price! Granted we will be paying double rent for the next three months because our lease on our hole is not over till June 30, but savings be damned, it is so worth it! I am so stinkin' excited I think I might wet my pants. Oh, and did I mention the balcony? Having a balcony in New York (even if it does overlook an alley) is like having multiple orgasms while eating chocolate mousse in a bubble bath with Matthew McConnaghey. It means flowers and grills and Coronas under the stars. It means my kitty can actually catch those nasty pigeons that he stalks from behind our barred windows now. It means "fresh" air. Oh and this apartment has a kitchen! It's the size of a closet, but it's still an actual kitchen. Yeah. Here are some photos of what we are not so sadly leaving behind, when we move I will post some of our new 2 year lease apartment(which is also fabulous.)


See why we want out?

Growing up

When I was a little girl inquisitive adults liked to ask me, "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?" Me, being precocious and well, pretty damn cute, would say, "I want to be a teacher. Then I can have summers to do what I really want to do which is be a fire fighter during the day and a ballerina at night."
Wow. I was so sure of myself back then.
Now I'm all grown up and I haven't a clue as to what I want to be.
On a flight last week I had a man tell his girlfriend not to listen to me because I'm "just a stupid stewardess." Really? Stupid? I thought I had done pretty well in school, but apparently he has a copy of my super secret transcripts. Maybe all the constant pressure on the planes has lowered my IQ without my knowledge.
I used to wear my title of Flight Attendant like a badge of honor. I liked the looks of wonder I would get. I liked people asking, "So, what's your route?" I liked the air of mystery surrounding flight crews. Then I poured tomato juice down my boot mid-flight and had to squish around for the next 12 hours and the job really lost some of its glamour.
Michael says "Do whatever you want, I just want you to be happy. Go be a server for all I care."
Really, a server? Is that all my husband thinks I can do? His answer to my dreams quandary is, "Do you think I dreamed of being a compliance specialist when I was a little boy?"
No, but I also don't think you dreamed of marrying Clark Gable either. He means well, it's just hard for him to understand. He's so confident and stubborn that even when life is hard he barrels through and makes it easy again. But he can't do that for me.
And, it's not that I want the dream, although I would look pretty cute in a tutu, it's just that I want to do something I'm proud of. I want to leave my mark. Make a difference. And I am so obviously not going to leave it in the form of a child, so that leaves my job.
I do know that I want to leave behind more than a full passport and a storage shed full of travel photos and postcards. That's just a fire hazard.