Moving 2011: The Finale (Hopefully)

Moving is terrible. Terrible.

The weather never seems to cooperate for my moves. Mother Nature has her panties perpetually in a wad as my boxes are being hauled up and down the stairs. This time I had a personal raincloud.

From Dallas to DC.

That's right. It literally never. stopped. pouring. rain. for. three. days. A little icing on the cake, the windshield wipers broke somewhere in Alabama. So we got to spend a little time at the Penske repair shop in an *ahem* industrial area of town. Sol and I got to spend three hours on a bench in a tiny room. We really tried to make the best of the situation.

We checked out all the awards.

We did creepy body tricks.

And just as I was at my wits' end and about to break down and eat one of the chocolate mini-donuts from the random sack on the counter, I decided to spew my frustration on Twitter. Wouldn't you know it...Penske's Director of Communications and PR actually responded (and on a Saturday). Snaps, Randy Ryerson, you rock. Moral of the story? Vent via Twitter - it gets results.

But moving on to the high points of the road trip:

• Multiple stops for the buttery deliciousness of Hardees' biscuits.
• Road snacks! From Combos to Hostess cakes, nothing unprocessed made its way into the cabin of that truck.
• Ever had a three-day long caffeine buzz? I have!
• Who knew gas stations had so many video choices...

Kiddo and Ramona's World Domination - Phase One: Moving to DC

I assume you've all been on pins and needles waiting for my next post. I implore you to keep in mind that conquering the world is a burdensome task, and it has taken most of my energy over the past month. Although I can't reveal too many details of the plan, I would like to share a little slice of my life in my new home.

Ramona and I are both excited to be a little further north. Mostly for the snow. OK, entirely for the snow. But wouldn't you know...the week I left Dallas, they got smacked with a whopper of a snowstorm. Twice. More proof that my former life was spent plowing down nuns and children in my car. But I did happen to snap a photo of the one time it has snowed here since I moved. It was at least half an inch.

I am currently shacking in the basement of my good friends and their cute kidlets (ages 3 and 5). I have learned more about Hello Kitty, coloring and poop in the last month than I've learned in 30 years. Parents, how the hell do you do it? Slow clap.

It's nice to be close to my homegirls. At some point in the future we will be living together in Miami, prowling the retirement homes for men and going to bingo...and having crazy adventures. I'll change my name to Blanche. Meet Rose and Sophia (Dorothy couldn't make it out).

I left my hipster man back in Dallas. Figured I'd let him miss me for a while. So we've taken to photos and Skype.

Damn hipsters.

He came to visit last weekend, and we had a great time browsing bookstores and drinking coffee. It reminded me how much cooler he is than me.

Meanwhile, I took a picture of this squirrel. Check out his junk.

Then we had some champagne.

Overall, a successful jump into politics world domination. I leave you with this warning.

Kiddo and Ramona's Next Adventure

Here's the big announcement as a QR code:

If you're not tech-savvy, you'll have to read this long, drawn-out post to find out what it says. Or you could just scroll to the bottom. But that would be like digging through the Lucky Charms to find the 3-D sticker, instead of letting it fall into your bowl as nature intended. Is there a child alive who actually waited for that crap? In my house, you had to dig for the prize before one of the other three kids stole it. As a matter of fact, you had to get up early and race to the breakfast table to be the first to open the new cereal box. Wait? Pshaw. No little sister of mine was going to get to the color-changing plastic spoon first. You've already read the end of this blog, haven't you?

Let me tell you a story about a girl trying to find her place in this crazy, mixed-up world.

After high school in Virginia, I found myself in South Carolina. I wish someone had talked me out of this. Yes, I got to wear a hat that said COCKS. Yes, because I was on the swim team, there were plenty of t-shirts about being the 'Cocks and being wet, fast and strong. Yes, I got hazed and lived to tell about it. But I was miserable there. We went on a field trip to the swamp. The swamp.

So I left and came back to Virginia for a spell. I had a good time at JMU. I met some of my bestest besties there, and I went to my first bar - when I turned 21. (Loooooserrrr.) I ordered a Miller Lite and a Coke. And I drank the Coke. But eventually I got bored and decided to move.

I picked Portland, Oregon. I don't know why. I think I saw it on TV and it seemed like a nice place. Plus I was friends with a bunch of dreadlock-sporting, nag champa-burning, Birkenstock-wearing hippies at JMU. I'm positive Oregon came up at some point. I worked for 1-800-Remotes, worked at a pub with frequent trashy girl fights, and occasionally attended art school.

Then I woke up one morning and decided I wanted to be a flight attendant. So I moved to Dallas. I did a lot less flying the first year than drinking beer, flirting with dudes, getting my acrylics (ew, ew, ew) done, and lounging by my apartment pool. That year was like one long vacation. Of course, that was reflected in our pay. It's OK - a friend of mine carried ginormous purses...big enough to sneak beers into bars and popcorn into movie theaters. Hey, you do what you have to do to survive.

Sadly, our Dallas base closed that year. I got sent to the booming metropolis of...Salt Lake City. The mountains are pretty and stuff, but that place gave me the creeps. I don't mean to offend anyone who's a Mormon, but while I'm inspecting a zit in the ladies' or chowing on Sbarro at the mall are not the times to solicit me about becoming a member. Just because I look like a sad, lonely individual with pepperoni on my flannel shirt doesn't mean that I am one. Now if you had thrown in some incentives - say, a discount on my wireless plan, a gym membership - I might have considered it. But I'm a modern consumer, so some crappy little pamphlet is not going to do the trick.

Then I got sent to Atlanta. Let me just get this out of the way: I hate Atlanta. Some people are really down with the A-town, but I find it dirty and hot, and full of traffic and rude people. It didn't help that my job as a flight attendant was becoming more and more draining. I was minutes from pulling a Steven Slater. I decided it was time to get serious and finish my degree, or I might be dealing with pissy, entitled frequent fliers and wearing polyester forevah.

So I moved back to Dallas.

I started J-school. (That just sounds cool, and I'm pretty sure it only counts if you went to like, Columbia or something, but whatever. I totally went to J-school.) After two exhausting years of juggling full-time school, a job and internships...

...I graduated.

I scored an awesome job...

...and was laid off nearly immediately.

Next stop: New Jersey. I mean, duh, right? I love love loved living there. I started out in Newark, which made me pretty hard-core right off the bat, and eventually moved to Hoboken. I became a public transportation convert, a pizza connoisseur, and a lovable asshole. I even perfected my fish-face.

(Good, right?) But as everyone knows, you can take the girl out of Texas...

Seriously, it's like Texas has some kind of Star Trek magnetic sucky tractor beam or something. Wouldn't you know it, I plopped right back down in Dallas in 2009. Damn you Texas, I just can't resist the lure of your delicious greasy state fair food. Mmmm, fried cheesecake...Ggglgllgggg...

So now, sweet readers (all four of you), I'm moving on. I'm going to DC to try my hand at politics. Bwahahaha! Just kidding. I'm pretty sure you have to at least keep up with what's going on in the world to have a chance at election in this country. Oh...wait...

But for real, I'm moving to DC Friday. I'm pretty pumped. I'm not really cool with the fact that if we're ever nuked, I'm going down, but I am super excited about Shmuffins.

P.S. Everyone keep your fingers crossed for Ramona. She passed inspection, barely, but she is not pleased about being dragged on another long trip.

So I moved.

This week I moved again. I officially fit everything into my Subaru wagon. (That is, of course, not taking into account the fact thatI have belongings in a basement in Virginia and an apartment in New Jersey...and possibly other locations I've forgotten, which renders those items obsolete. If you aren't one of the two aforementioned holders, you may hereby adhere to the Finders-Keepers rule.)

First description of my new abode: shabby-chic. My roommate has lived in the house for more than 10 years, and she has transformed the tiny, (I'm guessing) 1950s home into a cozy hideaway - a combination of country (think quilts, embroidered quotes in frames, and vintage hats) and southwest (think boots, longhorn skulls and old farm doors). She is the composite of every stereotype of Texas girls; she has it all - the big hair, the tan, the makeup, the sugar-sweet twang. As far as I can tell, she holds the following near and dear to her heart: her family, rodeo, cowboy boots, and anything with rhinestones, sterling silver or turquoise.

But when I say it's cozy, I mean cozy. I am packed in my room like a sardine. And as I mentioned, I only own enough belongings to fit in my car. I was five minutes late to work this morning because I literally could not find anything to wear. This layout will call for some Inspector Gadget-esque innovation. Or I could just go to IKEA and let those Swedes figure it out for me.

Second description of my new abode: temporary. This is for many reasons...although there is a Cracker Barrel 0.2 mile away, which is almost reason enough to stay FOREVER. Refer to my previous post on living alone. I like it. When you read it, I guarantee you'll want to live alone too. I am also not sold on Texas, and I've had the East Coast itch ever since I left New Jersey. Also, the running situation in my neighborhood is abyssmal. I have an interstate practically in my backyard. This is problematic, since I signed up to participate in the Warrior Dash in two months. (See photo below. I'm trying to come with a bad-ass outfit.) At least I finally found the time to join a gym. (An aside: This is the best gym ever, and it's only $39 a month. An aside aside: If anyone wants a great money-making idea for the DFW metroplex, please invest in a kickboxing gym a la this place. There isn't one here, and people would flock to it.)

At least I got out of my former living situation. Picture all the strange individuals in North Dallas living under one 4,000 square-foot roof, with the Queen Weirdo as their supreme leader. It is (unbeknownst to me at the time I found the place) essentially a boarding house - the owner and four random tenants at any given time. Queen Weirdo lives downstairs in her lair - complete with a ginormous canopy bed draped in animal print (what else?), fuzzy rug, and motivational collage, including words like "sexy" and "blessing" - with her two little asshole maltipoos in baby clothes (what else?), which she feeds lambchops for dinner every night. The four tenants live upstairs, two to a bathroom. As the months passed, stranger and stranger tenants moved in.

Queen Weirdo informed me that someone would be moving into the room adjacent to my bathroom - a male occupant this time. I had been sharing with an unemployed, chain-smoking female cruise singer in her 50s who couldn't pass the Texas teaching exam after three attempts and so finally moved to a retirement community in Florida to live with her parents; and then a female community college music student from Brazil who, at 35, didn't know how to hold her liquor and would blast horrid rap music, get sloppy and make out with the other (male) roommates.

"He is really cute," Queen Weirdo told me. "I mean, gawd, not for me...but for you..."

Queen Weirdo is 55 and dating a 32 year-old chubby private pilot who lives 2,000 miles away - a former tenant (what else?). So I was more than a little thrown off by this comment. I was also beyond uninterested. I finally met the person I was sharing a bathroom with - after a couple of days of seeing organic oatmeal shampoo in the shower and Tom's toothpaste on the sink. "Leland" was divorced, 50 if he was a day, his gray hair in a butt-cut. He began leaving his door open all day and all night (about eight feet from my door), and he moved his bed right by the door, and he would sit there all the time, so that he could watch me coming and going. I had to assume he was unemployed, since I never saw him leave the house.

Yeah Queen Weirdo, you found my dream dude: an old, crusty, divorced, unemployed, hippie, psycho-killer. Also, I'm moving out.

So I guess a Cracker Barrel-adjacent cottage in the hood is looking more chic than shabby.