“I’m sorry for all the times I left you standing with your dick in your hand.” Nancy, Weeds
Well its totally happening again. I’m moving. Like right now actually. And like honestly moving really has to be just one of the worst things ever. I mean I should know, I’ve done it 16 times in 25 years. Some within cities- others across states. I’ve moved from the farm to the country. club, and college campuses to city scapes. The longest I’ve stayed put in my adult life was the two years I spent in Hoboken. And just as I was about to get a really chic bed with solid footing, I decided to move once again. To Florida. We all know how that turned out. Me back in New York in 1 month and 1 week.
It’s kind of a family thing. It’s not that we’re
drug dealers gypsys or military freaks, my dad’s just always been searching for bigger and better. everything. Which is kind of why I’m always searching for bigger and better everything. My mom has this story where just as she put away the last of their crystal in the cabinet of their newly renovated kitchen in New Rochelle, my dad said it was time to move. Again. I think that time we ended up in Connecticut. Which was before Florida. I was a baby. ish.
And like, its not all bad. Where most people/parents still live in the homes they were brought to as babies, I’ve lived all over. In houses and studios. Fifth floor walk ups and high rises. Country clubs and a ranch with acres of land that Jason Bonham now lives in; and even a couple of hotels, condos and tents. Okay no tents.
While each move has become increasingly more taxing than before, there’s one in particular that stands out worse than the rest… One month shy of a year in New York my dad cut me off. Forcing me to move into my mom’s in Dobbs Ferry. Which although was a really chic home, wasn’t mine. Nor was Westchester. Completely confused, obviously broke and totally alone– I mistook moving an entire apartment myself for the mini road trip I desperately needed. Could be fun right? Wrong. I now know this awful decision was a manifestation of my need to prove capable of accomplishing something. anything.
That morning I got the Uhaul. Parked by my apartment. Hit 2 cars on the way. Oops. And started loading it up. Which, although not quite the seasoned mover that I am now, the boxes were no trouble at all. It wasn’t until I got to the furniture that I realized how fucked I was. Did I mention I was moving my sister’s shit too? Oh yea. Luckily, I can’t stress how lucky this actually was– a few garbage men posted up outside my apartment waiting for a job that didn’t start for a few hours, saw me and offered to help. At first I declined. But then I realized that I actually couldn’t do it alone. In the end I needed help. Ew. They wound up moving my entire fucking apartment though. In record time. And while they wouldn’t take my money, they haply accepted the 10 cases of beer I bought. Underage. To those men, you’ll probably never read this but I am eternally grateful.
After the truck was packed, a friend met me for the ride to Dobbs. Now, the directions my mom gave were to take Third ave north to the Deegan to the Henry Hudson Parkway, slash Saw Mill. Cake. Until Third never turned into highway, just harlem. I circled around like five times but it never produced itself. Deep breaths. Fergie singing in the background about big girls… Since we needed gas anyway I pulled into the station. Where I proceeded to lodge the truck onto a metal bar. You know those massive u-shaped poles that are like all over gas stations. Yea. Over shot my landing a wee bit. And like I’m talking, the whole middle of the truck was wedged onto the bar. The back tires, completely off the ground. A tow truck was just about the last thing I had planned. I had also not planned on getting out of the truck before reaching my mom’s, so I was dressed in next to nothing. Which in the ghetto is really not optimal. After a few whistles, panhandles and oogles I lost it. Like complete mental. emotional. physical break down. My friend just sat there speechless as I broke into thousands of tiny little pieces of me that were once, before this seriously fucked up mess, complete.
Basically useless at this point, my friend left me and found an auto mechanic not too far away. Who pretty much said we were fucked. Stuck. And the only thing to do was have the truck towed. I must’ve blacked out from the rage because the next thing I remember was driving away. Jorge and Co. went rogue, lifted up and dislodged the truck. Or maybe that was me.
Third Ave never did turn into the Deegan, we wound up taking Park, or maybe First, and aside from traffic which was bound to happen, we eventually made it to my mom’s. Where I proceeded to spend the darkest six months of my life. Which lead me to fall into a relationship with a complete pyscho. Which then brought me to my second least favorite moving out experience of all time. Fifth floor walk up. But, that’s another story for a different time. Perhaps in three weeks when I move to the new place on 73rd. Fuck. Me.
Images courtesy of imdb.com