The Dreadful Reality of Moving In

It always seems so much more promising before one begins, when one has a lease and a van full of things that were easy to remove from the old apartment, and eyes starry with hope and promise.

  

I woke up in Philadelphia with a severe case of being lame: as a result of having spent much of the last lifetime avoiding exercise, the forty-odd trips up four flights of stairs with heavy boxes in my arms led to the utter destruction of my calves.*  This has been slowly getting better, as I have embarked on a strict regimen of pointing and flexing my feet and not flinching when I walk (though this last was more out of a sense of vanity, since I am meeting the people I'll be working with for the next long while with this week).  I have yet to really rest the legs, though it almost seems as though they punish me for staying still. Stiffness sets in promptly if I lay down.

And lay down is all I can do, having realized that I brought no chairs with me.  Not even a stepping stool made it into the van.

To remedy this, I went yesterday to Ikea Brooklyn. This afforded me the opportunity to ride the New York Water Taxi for the first time, which I did as soon as I made it back to the City from Philly.

It looks so inviting, so exciting, so full of chairs.

I nearly immediately realized that I had made a mistake and was being slowly ushered into hell.  As I hobbled towards the building with my semi-functional body and a hunger that had been building since New Jersey, I remembered that it was Sunday. Sundays at Ikea are crowded. And not just Mall-at-Christmas crowded. Superbowl Sunday Crowded. There are people touching you at nearly all times. There is screaming. And crying. And objects being thrown, torn apart, or vomited on by small children.¹

I thought to myself that I ought to stick it out. The trip to Ikea from the Bronx takes at minimum an hour and a quarter each way, and I needed chairs. A bed was up on the list, as well.  So I kept on, writing down the things I needed with some diligence. Then, I got to the warehouse.

In the warehouse, it quickly became apparent that no one was interested in assisting a young lady with her furniture purchases. As I struggled, in my weakened state, to wrestle a flat-pack bookcase onto my cart all alone, I put on a face.  I put on a face that has in the past been very useful in getting help: part harried adult, part weak girl, all pitiful and in need of great deals of assistance, I don't think the face has ever failed. Until that moment.  I knew the day would come when the face would fail me, but I was really, really hoping I could get my furniture first.

I did not. Instead, I gave up and bought a rug, vowing to find some other way.² I then headed back to the Bronx.  And got caught in a thunderstorm that persisted from the moment I emerged from the Fordham Road stop to my apartment 18 minutes away.

I immediately set up shop on that rug, using it as all the furniture I had lost out on. I was wet. It, luckily, had a protective plastic wrap cover, and was delightfully dry. After I'd rested a bit, and eaten the remainder of my chicken fingers (bought at Ikea and wrapped in napkins for travel, because I have become a hobo/old person/grad student), I inflated the air mattress, turned on some internet TV (thanks, neighbor from whom I'm borrowing bandwidth until Verizon hooks me up!), and was dead to the world by 9:30 pm.

Welcome to the lap of luxury.

Today was my first day of orientation, news of which will be reserved for another tale.  Instead, I will continue with my theme and recount walking home from orientation and going to the C-Town,³ slightly drunk off free beer, and buying a vanilla chai smoothie and cleaning supplies.  I got right to cleaning (after a nap and some smoothie), because it was crucial to me that I remedy the unpleasant crust of film left behind by the previous resident. 

This is the other thing that's easy to forget about moving: the way a place looks when you are excited to lease it is very different than the way it looks when you are standing in the bathroom wondering if those red spots all over the tub are rust, paint, or the blood of some poor unfortunate guest.  The verdict on that will never be known, because the red spots are gone. As is the paste of grout that covered every inch of the bathroom tile--apparently left behind by some rather unenthusiastic remodelers.  

Other interesting/vile things:

1) every single kitchen cabinet door was stuck shut. Most of this seemed to be a result of the rubber bumpers melting a little in the heat, but there was a little bit of ick on the outside, too. 

2) every single kitchen cabinet bore within one scrabble tile, loose grains of rice, and some form of prescription drug, also loose.° Some had broken glass, or loose screws, or in one case, a key.

3) the bathroom vanity had lipstick stains on the inside of the door.

4) the windows.  I don't know how else to explain how gross the windows are, so I offer as evidence a paper towel used to make one single pass over one single bedroom window:

Do not adjust your screen. That's black.

There will come a day, very soon, when this looks like a habitable apartment. That day will be glorious. For now, it's a big pile of me, and less and less remainder of others.

Notes:

* There is a slight chance that the 5-day van ride helped to atrophy the muscles slightly, as well.  Basically, I was a zombie attempting to lift things. All I wanted was brains.

¹ You got me. There was no vomiting.
² But don't worry, some other way found me. I am lucky to have friends in the area who don't need to see the face to be willing to assist me in times of trouble.

³ Town town town town town town town...
° When asked, via text message, who could possibly produce such leavings, MJR confidently asserted "Starving intellectual addicts," which might be closer to the truth than anyone knows.