Dear New Tenants in Our Old Apartment:
I know you intercepted both a package and a card meant for our new baby. I don't know why you chose to keep both these things, despite my note on your door with my phone number and email address so I could come pick them up.
I also know you cashed the $200 check my aunt included in the card meant for the baby. That takes a lot of balls, New Tenants. Unless you coincidentally have the exact same name as my youngest child - which is highly unlikely - I have no idea why or how your bank went ahead and deposited $200 into your account. I can only hope someone there catches this oversight at some point and fines you $200.
Here's what else I hope for you:
I hope every time you get in line at the supermarket, the person ahead of you pays in pennies.
I hope every time you try to have a picnic in the park, a sudden thunderstorm breaks.
I hope you get an infestation of mosquitoes this summer. (I used to live there. It's entirely possible.)
I hope you develop chronic ingrown toenails.
I hope every time you place a food order it gets delivered to you missing one item.
I hope your laptop, portable DVD player, smart phone, iPad, e-reader, or other personal entertainment device dies five minutes into a long flight.
I hope you never get a table at Al Di La.
I hope you never get a cab in the rain.
I hope your DVR always cuts off your favorite shows 2 minutes before the ending.
And mostly, I hope that someone does this to you some day, so you'll know how it feels when people try to celebrate something special with you, but accidentally send gifts to your old address, and the people there keep your stuff instead of calling or emailing you to come get them.
Jerks.
Most sincerely,
The Previous Tenant
Showing posts with label new apartment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new apartment. Show all posts
Friday, June 15, 2012
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Moving. But I Ain't Bovvered.
We're moving on Friday, but in the immortal, illustrious words of Lauren Cooper, I ain't bovvered:
Here's why.
Most of what stresses me out about moving is the packing, because inevitably I always find out that I have way more crap than I thought I did. Drawers, cabinets, closets, under the bed, aaaallll have stuff that needs to be put into boxes before I move. When I moved to New York in 1996 I came here with two suitcases; I now have a 2-bedroom apartment (and its closets) full of stuff. My stuff. My husband's stuff. My son's stuff. And some stuff that's followed us from place to place that we're not even sure is ours.
But this time around not only have we hired movers to lug everything from Old Place to New Place, but we've hired them to PACK for us. It's one of those first-world luxuries I'm not even going to pretend I'm too good for.
So we're moving four buildings down on the same block, but I ain't lifting a damn finger. Pregnant, you know.
Second, most of our furniture isn't coming with us. The people who own the condo we're moving into have high-tailed it across the Pond to Jolly Ole England, and were more than happy to sell us their furniture at deeply discounted prices. How could we say no? Our couch, our armchair, our bookcases, our dining table, hell, even our microwave will not be joining us in the New Apartment of Happiness and Joy Joy. Less stuff to move, less stuff to worry about.
Third, after the week I had last week moving is the least of my worries. Let's check off one by one the shitty things I dealt with last week:
Earthquake, check!
Hurricane, check!
UTI, check! Which my midwife won't treat until we get the results of the...
Possible parasite in my guts, check!
Two and a half hours at a clinic with my son, who threw himself on the floor in a giant tantrum and later pooped his pants, check!
A doctor and nurse who forgot to give me the paperwork for the lab so I had to go back the next day, check!
Still pregnant through all this, check!
No anti-depressants or booze to make the pain go away, check!
My therapist was on vacation, check!
Good times.
In light of all that it's no wonder moving is, like, whatever to me. Moving is the least stressful part of my life right now. Look at my face - does my face look bovvered? That's 'cause it ain't bovvered. In two days I'll be in an apartment with a built-in microwave and a dishwasher. Moving can kiss my ass.
Here's why.
Most of what stresses me out about moving is the packing, because inevitably I always find out that I have way more crap than I thought I did. Drawers, cabinets, closets, under the bed, aaaallll have stuff that needs to be put into boxes before I move. When I moved to New York in 1996 I came here with two suitcases; I now have a 2-bedroom apartment (and its closets) full of stuff. My stuff. My husband's stuff. My son's stuff. And some stuff that's followed us from place to place that we're not even sure is ours.
But this time around not only have we hired movers to lug everything from Old Place to New Place, but we've hired them to PACK for us. It's one of those first-world luxuries I'm not even going to pretend I'm too good for.
So we're moving four buildings down on the same block, but I ain't lifting a damn finger. Pregnant, you know.
Second, most of our furniture isn't coming with us. The people who own the condo we're moving into have high-tailed it across the Pond to Jolly Ole England, and were more than happy to sell us their furniture at deeply discounted prices. How could we say no? Our couch, our armchair, our bookcases, our dining table, hell, even our microwave will not be joining us in the New Apartment of Happiness and Joy Joy. Less stuff to move, less stuff to worry about.
Third, after the week I had last week moving is the least of my worries. Let's check off one by one the shitty things I dealt with last week:
Earthquake, check!
Hurricane, check!
UTI, check! Which my midwife won't treat until we get the results of the...
Possible parasite in my guts, check!
Two and a half hours at a clinic with my son, who threw himself on the floor in a giant tantrum and later pooped his pants, check!
A doctor and nurse who forgot to give me the paperwork for the lab so I had to go back the next day, check!
Still pregnant through all this, check!
No anti-depressants or booze to make the pain go away, check!
My therapist was on vacation, check!
Good times.
In light of all that it's no wonder moving is, like, whatever to me. Moving is the least stressful part of my life right now. Look at my face - does my face look bovvered? That's 'cause it ain't bovvered. In two days I'll be in an apartment with a built-in microwave and a dishwasher. Moving can kiss my ass.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)