Barb by Proxy

Background Noise: Holiday
Random Thought:This here's the dawning of the rest of our lives...
Mood:melancholy

I just got done watching the HBO look back at Six Feet Under, a show that I'm distictly sad is going off the air. There's something odd about mouring a TV show, but there you go. I like TV a lot. The end of Buffy left an indelible hole, and the ends of both Sex and the City and Six Feet Under are undeniable loses. I miss other shows, too, ones that I didn't connect with as much but wouldn't mind having a magic TV that showed them--La Femme Nikita, 90210, Higher Ground, Eyes. Anyway, I think that some of these shows just speak to the audience in a way that will be missed. It's not that I feel I know these characters, they're fictional. But I feel what made BtVS, S&tC, and SFU so beloved was their ability to pose real situations in ways that were funny, or fantastical, or macabre, but still get the emotion right. The characters felt pain, did disreputable things, were mean to each other, were irrational and fragile and screwed up--in a word, real. I'll miss that.

Background Noise: The Best of You
Random Thought:gotta work out more
Mood: shamed

It's official, I've been body shamed by people old enough to be my parents. But, that's not really my point. I was wondering of some of the celebriites on VH1's Hottest 40 Over 40 are slightly insulted. I mean, the age qualifier is kind of unneccessary. Don't you think that Brad Pitt, Teri Hatcher, Heather Locklear and George Clooney would make a list of the Hottest 40 anyway?

Background Noise:Mona Lisa
Random Thought:All who wander are not aimless
Mood: Eh?

I'm watching Mona Lisa again. Not really by choice, but whatever. And I realized that if it didn't beat you over the head with the pseudo-feminism of Julia Robert's character, it could be a good movie. When it isn't over-stating her point that to be a modern woman you have to be independent by eshewing all established traditions, there is a fabulous interplay between the students and nice, messy growing periods for each. If left to their own devices, they could come to their own decisions about where they fell in the world. The character of Katherine Watson could have lived by her own standards and encouraged them to do the same. It could have been a statement all the same, but a more subtly crafted one, one that gave credit to the audience. Something like Dead Poets Society. Honestly, most movie-goers would have probably got the political intent anyway and been happier that they sussed it out rather than choking on it. Instead of being a bland film, it could have been one that people really talked about. Another gem obscured by ostentatious accoutrements. Sigh.

Background Noise: Lions/Jets Game
Random Thought: Why won't it rain?
Mood: lethargic

It's makeing to be the 3rd hottest day of the year here in NYC (yesterday was the second) and tomorrow's actual temperature is supposed to be 101. Yippee.

On a fab note, however, by blog looks great! Anne did a superb job creating just what I wanted out of a direction that went somwhat like "um, I don't know. Clean, crisp, not overly girly, me-like?" She's working miracles. Thanks again!

Background Noise: Just the Way You Are
Random Thought: I like Billy Joel. Uplifting fella, that one
Mood: Nostalgic

So, more thoughts on being old (give me a break, I only have 6 more days until I'm a quarter-century old) and friendships. Old hat, but suck it up.

Anyway. I just finished Girls in Pants, the third book in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series. Go ahead, laugh. But Ann Brashares gets better with each book, perhaps partly because her characters age and enter that world where everything is up in the air, relationships are changing and they are realizing that they have to examine who they are and who they want to be. It's a book of lessons that aren't neccessarily lost on those over 17, who waved mythical good-byes and headed off to college. Because in the end the message is simply to take stock of your friendships--they survive everything. A true friend love you when you are selfish, mean, stupid and teary-eyed. They hold you hand, buy you a drink and threaten to beat up whoever made you sad or angry or hurt. The other lesson to learned is that sometimes situations can be solved by eviciting the poisonous people from you life, telling the honest truth, being your ugly self in front of people you like and facing your fears head on. As we get older it becomes so easy to overanalyze. We avoid confrontation because of messed up childhoods, and think of all posible outcomes before settling on a course of action. In younger days we didn't think that far ahead, we went with our guts. Maybe we had less to lose. Or maybe we just weren't so afraid. There is nothing that says by the time you get out of college and get a job that you have to be a concrete you. There is room for error, gray space that can be filled in or erased. Perhaps when facing a daunting task, we can just let out what first comes to mind. No worrying. Just being the kid in all of us, who blurted without fear of reprisal and expressed emotion without filers.

Background Noise: I Speak Six Languages
Random Thought: is restless legs syndrom for real?
Mood: serene



You are smart and sexy!

Background Noise: Seasons of Love
Random Thought: How do you measure a year?
Mood: Love me, love my blog


"You must remember this, a kiss is still a
kiss". Your romance is Casablanca. A
classic story of love in trying times, chock
full of both cynicism and hope. You obviously
believe in true love, but you're also
constantly aware of practicality and societal
expectations. That's not always fun, but at
least it's realistic. Try not to let the Nazis
get you down too much.


What Romance Movie Best Represents Your Love Life?
brought to you by Quizilla

Background Noise:Billy Joel--The Stranger
Random Thought: why doesn't anyone listen to me?
Mood: grr arrgg

let's see the new me!

Wow. I was never this talented with sand. Watch him in full screen with sound. I'm mesmerized.

Don't get me wrong--I love summer. I love flip flops, weeks at the lake, and sunshine. There's nothing better than flirty summer dresses and outdoor eating. Except maybe cute-boot wearing, snazzy blazzer-toting fall fun.

Just as I get the summer itchies around the middle of April and long do ditch real shoes and take up life in the sweltering heat of summer and the delight of overly-cool interiors, mid-August brings a desperate longing for autumn--snuggling into a throw while you read, winding a scarf around your neck and breathing in crisp air while luxuriating in the arm colors.

Fall has two distinct stages for me. The first is a pretty concrete urge to be productive. I saw a commercial fo JC Penny the other day and lapsed into nostalgic memories of back to school shopping. The one big shopping splurge of the year. The casing of stores, wavering between the more expensive sweather with beads or the two sweaters with cowls. Weighing options, hoping to get a conclusive wardrobe so you could mix and match the new with the old and carry yourself through the school year. There were the inevitable additions--holiday presents, the super deal you couldn't pass up, replacements for worn or ripped items. But nothing compared to the singular experience of leaving the mall with your fall identity in bags, silently urging toward productivity. The real world is a myriad of "needs" shopping--bulking up for a trip, selecting outfits for a special night, eyeing pieces you love until they hit the sale rack. Slow accumulation. But the back to school rush coincides with an inert pull in me to get back to work. This year, literally, but every year in general. Being the child of a teacher, there was that definite separation between the September-May portion of the year and June-August. Shifting to a reality where a year begins January 1 is odd, something I still haven't quite grasped. But hopefully this jet of nerves will make me more productive.

The second sign of fall comes later, with no specific date. It's the feeling when you wake up on a Saturday and go outside only to exclaim "This is football weather!" Not everyone gets this. But in Michigan there are traditions. Weekends are spent throwing yourself into the love of the game--football. There are Friday night high shool games with hot cider and youthful exuberence. Saturday dawns to college rites, rising stars and watching games to do your own scouting so you can be uber-knowledgeable whey you yell at the TV and wax poetic on the fate of your own team. Sunday is a day for pizza and beer, watching the NFL. But football weather comes when you breath deep and the air is a smidge too cold that morning, and you know you'll need hot chocolate. It's a tempature that hits about 3 pm and demands that you drag out that team hoodie and allows you to be the perfect balance between warm and cool while outside. It would be too cold if you weren't surrounded by other screaming fans, but too warm if the wind didn't whistle in over hte end zones every so often. It's a state of mind, I guess, but as soon as I feel it I get butterflies in my stomach because it's so connected to my past, present and future. I spent my entire life of fall Saturdays tailgating and rooting my team to victory. It's pretty impossible to attend a Big Ten school without getting into that spirit, and to this day Saturdays are a sacred day. I've been know to use precious vacation days to take off the Michigan/Ohio State game, have delayed all plans when a game runs long.

So, here's to the dog days of summer leading us steadily toward fall--productivity, fooball, and all.

I've had a rough two days. On Monday I called the 800 number on the back of my USPS slip and scheduled an appointment for my package to be delivered to me. Yesterday morning, I hear a loud band, throw on some pants and head to the door. No one. I open it to find a small box, a book that I had ordered. Great, but the package slip is for a box of stuff that parents are shipping me. So I decide to head to the post office to pick it up and avoid confusion. I go to leave, and my door comes off in my hands. Well, not the whole door, but the entire lower hinge, leaving me with a door swiveling on one upper hinge that won't close and two cats dying to see what's outside. I call the super, to find that he's in the Bronx who says to call the management company, who refers me to the one guy who rented to me, who tells me the door guy in in DR on vacation. Wonderful. So he dispatches two constructions guys who arrive 5 minutes later to shore up my door. Now paranoid that my door won't actually close or that when I come back I won't wrench it open, I call the USPS again. This time, the guy rattles off my local stations phone number, sans area code. I make a stab at it, get a lady and explain that I scheduled a pick up and got the wrong box. She goes to look, comes back and asks where the package should be coming from. I tell her Michigan and fear that the box has mistakenly been returned to sender. She leaves again, comes back to say that I've got one box from MI and two packages od books. Fabulous, I wondered why I only got one the first time, and had bemoaned the idea of backorder. But she mentions this in a way like, which one do you want? First of all, why check which one I'm calling about, deliver them all, or I'll just keep calling. Second, why the hell didn't you just send them all to me when you had hte guy bring the book? Arrgh. Next, I got to talk to every employee at AOL in trying to cancel an account I didn't set up but an being charged for. Finally someone gives me the fraudulent claim number--once again with no offer to connect. Isn't that part and parcel with their job? Then lets talk about the Cablevision lady who told me yes when I called to see if I would get F/X if I swapped plans. See, I was worried because a section of 60 or so channels was marked with an asterik that corresponded to a small footnote proclaiming 'not available in all areas.' So I switch the family plan for the cinema plan (basically less nickelodeon and more IFC), love my new channels, and go looking for F/X only to not find it. I call back to ask the number, figuring that I simply bypassed it in the 895 channels that I get. The nice gentleman who answers my call informs me that I don't actually get that channel because of where I live. I keep the new package because I do like the 55 or so stations that I do get now better than my old ones. But I'm pissed at the woman who tried to upsell me a new package and glossed over the fact that the station I really wanted didn't beam itself to Bushwick. She's got a much less satisfied consumer because she lied about that than if she hadn't tried to shoehorn me into getting the new programming. Hmfph. So this morning, approximately 9:30 a loud smack jolts me straight up and sends me running once again to the door--I see no one, and no packages at my door step. I assume the postal guy has gone to get them, crack the door and wait. I see the truck pull up outside and wait. Finally, I go outside. The guy is just getting back into his truck, and gives me one of those exasperated sighs. Then proceeds to have this conversation with me:

USPS: You're really lucky, lady.
me: Yu have packages for 1C?
USPS: Let me as k you a question, who'd you talk to ?
me: no idea, whoever answered the phone.
USPS: because you didn't set up a time.
me: no one asked, I just said today.
USPS: 'Cuz this isn't how you do this. What if you weren't home?
me: I was gonna be home all day. It didn't matter.
USPS: Usually you talk to the driver, arrange a time after his shift.
me: But you're already here and I'm home, so isn't this easier?
USPS: But you don't have a bell.
me: Riiight...
USPS: How am I supposed to deliver it if you don't have a bell?
me: my apartment is right next to the mailboxes.
USPS: You're lucky to be getting these at all (finally opens the back of the truck)
me: okay
USPS: Because you don't have a bell.
me: well, I can't always go down to the post office, and they didn't say anything when I called.
USPS: People without bells always have to go pick them up.
me: It's not my fault I don't have a bell.
USPS: how am I supposed to get it to you, if the building doesn't have a bell out here.
me: uh, you have a master key that lets you in to the mailboxes.
USPS: that's to do my job.
me: um, these got sent to me USPS, this is your job.
USPS: I deliver the mail.
me: (having climed into the back of the truck to get my 3 big boxes, while he yammers on)
And this is my mail.
USPS: You should send these Fed Ex
me: I don't get a choice (not for the books)
USPS: well, you're lucky you got these.
me: (by this time on my stoop,carring 3 big boxes, juggling keys to unlock and open the door
that swings out) They get sent by post office, you bring them to me.
USPS: If you don't have a bell---

at this point I've pushed in my second door and allowed the outer one to slam, effectively drowning out his overly profuse announcement that I don't have a bell. What is so hard about just doing your job? You have a key, I live next to the mailboxes--no stairs! And if their were, tough. You're the postman. Deliver my fucking mail. I can't help that I don't have a bell. That's just discriminatory. Like when I'd call ConEd's automated pay number and it would never let me pay and would bounce me to a human. It got explained to me once that their system doesn't allow you to use a cell phone to make the automatic payment. But they' waive the normal %4 service fee for paying by talking to a person. Duh, they'd better. It's not my fault their system doesn't respond to cell phones. What if I didn't have internet at home, but worked at home. Would I have to go to a pay phone? Pay to use internet access somewhere? Just do your fucking jopbs people, and don't act like by doing so you are providing me with a huge favor. You're providing me with a service--one that is in your job desription.

This blogging thing is a funny sort of endeavor. Sometimes I find that it would be easier if the people in my life read it. That way they would know when they were being annoying, and be privy to my pearls of wisdom about the direction of their lives. They could cull great truths from my observations and apply them to themselves--making them far less annoying. At least less annoying to me.

And there's the rub.

Because if they actually read it, I wouldn't be able to entertain everyone else with their misadventures and comment brilliantly on the state of their affairs with quite so much authority. And then where would I be? Having no fun, and unable to pass along something for all of my loyal readers to laugh at (all 4 of you. Thanks, by the way. Makes my day).

Luckily, I have yet to truly develop tact on a large-scale, so most of my thoughts on the daring deeds of my friends get direct commentary. I guess I'll leave my more cutting remarks on the floor..er...blog.

And, hey, if you have been mentioned in these and haven't let it slip yet, good job! You have far more resiliance than I.

I've just finished the first two books in a semi-related 4-book series. It's the Bridesmaid's Chronicles, and although all four characters will be in the final book's wedding, each installment focuses on one of the women in the 2 months before the big day. They don't interact--it's each of their times to meet The One. You know, normal fluffy romance. Slightly more airy than I normally read (i.e. no post-Waterloo intrigue, spies, or dragons) and definitely romance, not chicklit. Anyway, I picked them up because that was exactly what I wanted--not to have to pay attention to too many intricate plot bunnies or backstory illumination. After finishing the second, I realized that the characters are only a few brush strokes away from being characitures. The brainy accountant, the flighty actress, the cynical lawyer, the hard-core romantic. Stereotypes most writers today fight bleached-tooth and acrylic nail to avoid. But then I realized that there is a theme running through these books that is crucial to hear now and again--no matter what clique you held a membership card to, you aren't forever stuck in that mold.

See, the women in these books spend a lot of time listening to the men they are falling in love with tell them they are beautiful or smart or girlie or tough. And they need that, because each harbors some voice in their head that has stuck with them despite all their accomplishments to tell them that they are one specific thing. And simply hearing it and beginning to believe in themselves instead of playing it safe and being the pigeon-holed personality that everyone blindly sees them as leads them to show their true mettle. Something that we sometimes forget to do ourselves. It's easy to do what we are good at and not what we love. It's easy to allow old conceptions rot into misconceptions without correcting them. And it's easy to simply stay in the mold you've been given because it's there for whatever reason. So stop.

Just stop. Take a look around and realize that whatever route you took might be off. You were a science geek in high school? Doesn't mean you can't harbor a deep love of opera, or a fanatical devotion to football. You've got the snarky wit down? Perhaps you also have a talent for gourmet meals and macrame. Maybe you were more prized for looks, and either play that up today or ran in the other direction and now solely promote your brainy habits. Get out there and show the other side. Do it on purpose. There is no reason the brainy one can't be glamourous, or that being girlie and tough as nails can't go hand in hand.

A great big congrats to Locksley, a friend's band that recently won a contest with Make-A-Star records, not a big name, but a certain non-exclusive recording contract. They are also in the process of setting up a European tour. Still haven't gotten all the details on who they're touring with, or if it's a series of clubs...more later. Anway, way to go Jesse, Kai, Aaron and Sam (not the one that just moved).

www.bandoflocksley.com

I realize that I just complained about the people who walked out of The Aristocrats. But for your reading pleasure, I offer up Exhibit B of stupid movie viewers:

I sawBroken Flowers this weekend. It was fabulous, unless you hated Lost in Translation, don't like Bill Murry, or think Jim Jarmush is the harbringer of the apocalypse. Like the two women leaving the theatre behind me.

While shuffling like herded cattle out of the packed theatre, my row intersected with another and I overheard this tail-end of conversation: "Well, I guess I disliked Lost in Translation less. I just hated how it ended. Why didn't he just_________? It made all of the_________ pointless." Integral portions of the plot have been removed for your personal viewing enjoyment. Suffice to say, the movie is one of those where the journey is more important than the destination, something I don't think is a big suprise given the director, actor, subject matter and anything that's been written about this film. So I have this to ask of the 30-something woman who didn't like it--what was she expecting? She flatly says that she didn't like Lost in Translation, and Broken Flowers is favorably compared to that film, both in terms of characterizationa and pacing. Why would then puprosely go see it? Would it make sense to have hated Opposite of Sex but shelled out $11 for Happy Endings? Or detested Bad Santa but thought that for some reason you would like Bad News Bears? No. Sometimes people just don't make any sense to me.

Okay, I realize that Valenti, the bane of filmmakers for nearly 4 decades no longer rules the MPAA with an iron clad chastity belt. But you can bet that The Aristocrats would be right up his alley to rail against, citing the decline of moral fiber and degredation of mankind. Well, he and his scions (Pat Robertson, that's you) can sit home watching PAX. This movie was fucking halarious. I laughed, I was grossed out, and I laughed some more. Was I offended? No. Yes, the topics are off the charts dirty, and twisted, but all in the name of humor. The situations described were in no way meant to be a road map of the way to live your life, and truthfully, no more off-colored humor than what else was in the theatre. And yet 5 people still walked out of the showing sometime between 10 minutes in and 25 minutes in. What were they expecting from a movie that several theatre chains refused to show? And because of that and it's unrated release status, talk abounds about the film's theme. How did you get there unaware? Did you just think people were lying about the content?

In case you're one of the lost, here's the what: The Aristocrats is a jazz-like riff on a single joke. It's a set-up of a man walking into a talent agent's office and saying that he's got a great new show. The agent askes what it's about and the man launched into the most depraved rendition of a family act possible. When he finishes, the stunned agent manages to ask what the show is called. The man announces that it's called the "Aristocrats". Tee-hee. The act of the comic is to provide his own rendition of the middle of the joke, and the community spends most of their off time trying to out-gross each other in this joke. Tons of comics provide both their version of the joke plus commentary on the joke and the evolution of it. Most of the jokes are disgusting, but halarious. It's supposed to be offensive, or it's not humourous that the call themselves something so refined.

I'm not sure I'll see it again in theatres. It reminded me of the Will Ferrell best of SNL DVD. Parts of it still make me laugh, no matter how many times I see it, but others are only funny when I haven't seen it in a few months. The Aristocrats is definitely something that I'd watch again if if came on HBO, or slid though my mailbox via netfilx.

Anyway, go see it and pay attention to the Gilbert Godfrey version during the Frair's roast of Hugh Hefner (note Rob Schneider off to the side literally falling off his chair while laughing) and a particularly disturbing one by Bob Saget. It's not the most depraved in my opinion, but the juxtaposition of the man we all associate with Danny Tanner telling it is highly entertaining. If you've ever seen any of his stand up, you have an idea of what you're in for.

I promised exciting stories of misadventure. Daring deeds of acrobatics. A sheer test of wills. So, here's the highlights of moving Sam and Autumn to Washington Heights.

To preface, Sam rented a cargo van--the girl who hated driving her explorer through Brooklyn, let alone Manhattan got a 15-foot cargo van. Great. That provided so much fun I don't think I'm yet over the excitement.

Anyway, the journey starts on Wednesday, July 27 where we set our scene in a fair loft building in what realators like to call "East Williamsburg." Bushwick. We see Kate, the roommate moving on the 28th, leaving to go meet friends for lunch. Not a piece of her worldly belongings is packed. Move onto Autumn, who has been distracted by a 7-month old magazine she'd ostensibly been saving for reasons unknown, which has totally engrossed her. Then see Sam, who is cleaning. Not I'm-moving-so-I'm-trimming-my-belongings cleaning, but dusting, sweeping and organizing her file folders. The ones that will get packed, moved, and unpacked in just 3 days, and the surfaces that are soon to play home to box dust, sweaty and dirty movers and two more roommates accumulated junk moving out. Overall, a productive lot. And then there was me. Packing shit off shelves, wrapping kitchen products in self-provided paper, and barking out orders along the lines of: "Bookcases first--don't sort just pack and label bookcase" and "Just flop them in and write desk stuf on the box!" I make the entire apartment watch Rachel Ray, Veronica Mars and Lost, glaring at them when they mention changing the channel. Fun.

Then the bliss of going home at 1 am. Only to return on Thursday to go through the rest of the kitchenware and non-perishabel food. For people who were moving, they sure didn't observe the use it up then don't go grocery shopping rule. And find out that while she did get all of her packing done by around 8 am, Kate hasn't actually moved yet because the elevator was broken. The living room looks like a warehouse sale, and all of the electronics are packed, so entertainment is limited to music on people's computers, which for being combined owners of 1 desktop, 3 laptops, and 2 i-pods, isn't all that impressive. I leave amongst promises of returning on Friday to spearhead the bedroom packing initiative.

Friday, 7 PM. I arrive at what has been dubbed Camp Sam and Autumn. Nothing has been packed since I last left. Sam has been at work, and Autumn reasoned that if she packed her stuff all day and was finished by the evening, Sam would rope her into helping her pack (not something Sam would do, but usefull procrastination technique). Anyway, Sam returns and we get to work. I am merciless in my sentimentality--get box, start in one area and pack until it's full. Tape up, get new box. Repeat. The rooms are small enough to disregard sorting the items into categories. I move onto Sam's room. Pictures, books, hats make their way inot suitcases and boxes. I'm amazed at the snails pace at which they are packing clothes. Let me mention that they are packing their clothes in garbage bags. All they have to do is dump them in. Autumn didn't even take hers off the hangers. Intermittantly they leave to change laundry. Because doing it other than the night before you move or at the new apartment would have obviously been too logical. I am rewarded at 11:30 by a trek to Danny's Pizzaria and provided with a soda, a slice of pizza and a garlic knot.

Cue Saturday, as Sam and Autumn leave to get the van while I wait for the people coming to buy their table, and let the movers in. They arrived about 30 minutes after Ben and the lackey tromped on in at 1 and looked at a pile of 25 boxes and nearly 30 plastic garbage bags. Sam had ignored my estimate of about that many and said "we'll have about 10 boxes and maybe 20 bags." Hah. So moving commenced, Sam being just stunned to realize that it was going to take more than 3 hours (and the $350 she had agreed to pay to 2 guys, shunning my offer way back when to get the people who have moved me twice with not a problem for only $78/ hour for 4 guys). We left to head to the new apartment as they were stowing the last of the furniture. Arriving in WH about 5:30, got some Subway (hey, they bought my $2.95 sandwhich!), and tour the apartment. It's pretty nice. Big. Set up kinda oddly, but in a way condusive to keeping them apart amidst arguments since the bedrooms couldn't be further away from each other if one was in NJ. Movers showed up and had it all in the apartment by 7:45. Nearly7 hours after they first darkened our door. But no rest for the weary (us) as we headed out to Target--another fun adventure with Sam at the wheel and Autumn trying to side-seat drive while neither of them knew where the hell we were going. And in a cargo van, there are only 2 seats, so I was camped out on the floor--all the better to miss Sam nearly crashing us! Anyway, they graciously stopped at my apartment on the way back so I could drop off the 22 lb cat foor and 25 lb cat litter I'd bought to take advantage of the wheels. Oh, and so I could get my cat carrier to aide in the transfer of their 3 kittens to the new apartment. Then another thrilling ride to WH. While they (in a fashion) got their rooms sleepable, I arranged furniture in the living room--chairs, couch, rug, tables, bookcases, lamps, etc. Twice I was met with iffy reactions of--"it's cute like this, but I feel like it's maybe not using the space..." because I'd angled the furniture and made a conversation cluster with nice traffic flow and views of both the TV and windows instead of placing everything against the wall. 2 am came and we fell into sleep so as to be up at 8 to leave for IKEA.

Roll footage on Sunday, day 3 of Camp Sam and Autumn--I suggest McDonalds breakfast and then promptly pay for my own. I direct us over the GW Bridge and to IKEA, where the 3rd of the embarassing fights preludes the 4th. The previous ones had come in Target and the middle of livign room, respectively. More later. We get bedding and lamps and bathroom goods and kitchen items and frames and TV cabinets and dressers and such acutrements. Autumn talks Sam out of the desk she wanted and later tells me she just didn't want to have to carry it into the apartment. Noon came and went, we trekked through the bowels of IKEA for diy furniture and head home. Quickly unpack, and direct ourselves to Bushwick to take my stuff back and drop off the boxes of their last roommate Amber that the movers had moved to WH becaue Amber hadn't listened when we said--don't put your stuff down here yet, it will get mixed up. Lunch is tacos, once again under my own payment plan. We divest ourselves of Amber's stuff directly into her moving van so we didn't have to carry it up 4 industrial flights of stairs and I direct us to Home Depot, where supposedly we go so Autumn can get paint and they can pick up screens for their windows. Autumn can't decide on a color, they don't have the risers that Sam wanted and then we enter the fan section.

It had been decided that they needed a living room fan. Something to set in the window. Like a nice box fan. Anyway, they don't have anymore and Sam becomes enamored of a window fan and ionizer--a $40 venture that supposedly will purify your air as it pumps it in. And the crowning glory of embarassing fights ensues--here's an overview. Picture it in the kind of petulant, whiny voices of small children.

A: I don't see why we need that.
S: Well, we need something for the living room. We don't have AC anymore.
A: Duh. But I think we should get a cheaper box fan.
S: But this purifies the air.
A: But we'll have all the other windows open letting in unpurified air.
S: Well, I just think we should get something nice.
A: You always want the expensive stuff.
S: Just because I like nice things...
A: This isn't a nice thing, it's a fucking fan. I just think we should get a $20 fan, not spend $40.
S: Why get that when this is better?
A: You do this everytime.
S: Well, I don't want a box fan.
A: Fine. I'll split a fan with you, but I don't want to split that.
S: Then I'll buy it.
A: Fine.
S: But you'll be using it too, I shouldn't have to pay for it all.
A: But I don't want it.
S: Fine.
A: Don't use that tone of voice with me.
S: You're the one being a bitch!
A: Only because you were first.
S: No, I was fine until you didn't want to get this.
A: I still don't want it.
S: Fine, I'll buy it.
A. Fine.
S: Good.
A: Great.


And I sat on a well placed patio chair hidden from them by a mountain of ceiling fan boxes.
The ride home was in virtual silence. I assembled the TV cabinet and unpacked the rest of the living room. They retreated to mutual corners and (?) unpacked. The upside was that Sam had just parallel parked the van for the last time. Now, she can't park anyway, and gets very flustered when she doesn't get something right. Cracks under pressure. Autumn, who needs me to giver her verbal directions to parallel park the Explorer, took it upon herself to get out and direct. Picture a "God, you have soo much room, stop freaking out" vs "No, I'm too close, I'll try again, I can't fit" in the vein of the Home depot argument. Now, did anyone listen to me, the only one of the group who can actually parallel park? Of course not.

Monday dawned early as Sam and Autumn left to get the van back to Brooklyn by 8 am, and I go to wait for the Direct TV guy. He came, and I got to let him in, call the super who isn't mine, and try to answer questions about an account that isn't mine. Hoping they wouldn't charge the installation fee then, because when Sam called to tell me the guy was on his way she tossed in "Hey, since neither of us will be home, if it costs anything can you just pay them and we'll pay you back?" Lucky for them I actually had my checkbook with me and that I didn't actually have to pay anything. Autumn returned from paint buying just as the guy was leaving. Painting was actually not that bad--other than being the one who had to scale the ladder (mine anyway) and paint above my head. But she did buy me a sandwich from Subway in thanks. By the time we were done and I'd hung the curtains in all three rooms (Sam was confused by the process and convinced she needed a power drill, Autumn is just lazy), it was nearly 11, so I remained for one last night of Camp Sam and Autumn. Tuesday morning at 11 I departed to head to a movie to zone out and it too me 57 minutes to get to Kips Bay Loews, and overall 1 hour and 20 minutes to get home--accounting for the fact that my trips were made during the rush hours when trains run more often. Yippee.

Oh, and to sum up the nearly entire week I spent doing something for their move, while being
expressly non-compensated and distinctly unthanked, I overheard this: Sam was on the phone talking to her dad, telling him that it was okay that he hadn't been able to come out and help. That they'd gotten it all done and that it had gone very smoothly. Well, duh, who needs a parent to move you when you've got an All-Knowing Barb on hand?