Putting the Move on

Something fabulous: the day after the "Moving Rules" showed up in the elevator, the following note was placed over them:

I am sick of reading lists of rules in the elevator of my own home.

I am sick of reading lists of rules in the elevator of my own home.

I am sick of reading lists of rules in the elevator of my own home.

I am sick of reading lists of rules in the elevator of my own home.

It went on like that. And there was one in each elevator.

"Did you do this?" I asked Rob. He said no.

We eventually did get our furniture delivered, though it did not happen on a Saturday. So we are now getting accustomed to our new dining table, desk, bookshelf, and sliding sofa. What this means is that we have massively increased our living space; for the past 3 years, one of our rooms has just housed a large guest bed and a larger amount of cat hair. I liked to close the door and pretend it wasn't there at all, which is--I know--not the right way to treat an extra room.

The furniture thrills me, with its utility and its shininess. Tonight, I made dinner. When it was ready, I walked to the new dining table, removed the placemats and set them on the coffeetable.

"Uh...don't you want to eat at that table?" Rob asked, indicating the dining table. Where dining happens. Turns out it's not just a receptacle for the placemats.



We ate dinner with the TV on, even though we couldn't see it. We have to ease into this whole grown-up dinner thing.

Afterwards, Rob asked, "Want to watch Transformer 3?"

"I wouldn't do that if you paid me," I answered honestly.

He rolled his eyes and asked what I wanted to watch.

"I would watch Milk," I said slowly (I can't believe we haven't seen it yet.) "OR! You could watch Transformer 3 and I could read in...the other room."

A hushed silence fell as I considered the possibilities and Rob watched me.

I got up from my seat and hugged him. "Aren't you so excited?"

"To have a place to put you?" he asked. "Yes."

People who think the rules are not for them

Rob and I moved furniture on Saturday. We took one bed and two dressers from our apartment, onto the elevator, and into the storage unit next door. And we didn't even get into a fight. We did, however, get into trouble with the building management, who informed us that we are not allowed to move furniture on the weekends. In fact, moving is only allowed in our apartment Monday-Friday between the convenient hours of 9am and 5pm.

This totally makes sense to me. I mean, why would you let people put their possessions into a nearby storage unit on the 2 days a week when they aren't sitting in an office? That would be too easy.

We are getting rid of several other pieces of furniture, the idea being that we will replace them with items that actually fit into our apartment. On Sunday, I posted our living room armoire on Craigslist and had it sold by that evening. It must be noted that when I posted this as an entertainment center about 3 weeks ago, no one was interested. So I sold it has an AMWAH. People like things with fancy names. Anyway, the woman who bought it hired movers to come over and pick it up. She and I met at the apartment at 2pm on Monday, and the movers were one hour and 45 minutes late. That is a lot of time to sit in your apartment with a stranger.

Highlight from the conversation: She leans over and grabs my hand and says, "I can't believe I'm telling you all of this!"

When the movers finally arrived, they came up to check out the armoire, and then went back down to their truck to get crucial moving tools.

When they came back, they were accompanied by the building superintendent, who stood behind them like he was Dad and we were all in big, big trouble.

"Sarah." He said, shaking his head. "I called Rob."

He called Rob? What? Am I seven years old?

It seems that even between 9am and 5pm on a Monday, you are not allowed to move anything unless you have given the Superintendent 2 days notice. I tried to diffuse the situation with profuse apologies, proclamations of ignorance, and lots of smiling. It worked, but I don't think it's going to work again this Saturday, which is when the new furniture is scheduled to arrive.

And the entire building can thank me for the notice on "moving rules" that is now hanging in both elevators.

A thank you note

Dear Liz and Rob,
Thank you for being such wonderful hosts in LA! I love your place, I love your dog, I love your neighborhood, I even love your Starbucks and your Crunch gym. I love your friends, and your grill, and your balcony, and your tortilla chips. I love your taste in music, your shopping savoir faire, your choice of restaurant, and the fact that you bring a flask out with you for the night. Oops, was I not supposed to share that?

I arrived on a Thursday--you remember that day, right? It was the day the cab driver took me to his house instead of your house? Somehow he got confused and thought you lived in his neighborhood. You don’t. When I told him he wasn’t on the right street, he seemed upset. I asked him to turn the meter off and take me to your house. He said, “I’m really glad you’re not getting nervous right now.” Then he asked me if he could smoke.

I sat at your dining room table that day for many hours and got tons of work done. Then you came home and we opened a bottle of champagne. You took me to a sushi place and told the waiter to bring us whatever he wanted. I’m pretty sure I passed out shortly after, but at least we made it home.

Liz, Friday you stayed home and “worked.” If this was a thank you note that mom was reading, I would explain that what really happened was that you stayed in bed for many, many hours, and even me steamrolling you repeatedly had little effect. Eventually you got up and we went shopping, and I once again admired your total domination in the clothing realm. I had so many clothes (all picked out by you) at the end of that trip that I wasn’t sure I would be able to fit them into my suitcase. To make ourselves feel even more productive, we got our nails done.

Friday night we went to a Mexican restaurant, where we drank margaritas and ate sweet corn tamales. The waitress complimented my dress (picked out by you, Liz.) We went to The Largo to see Jon Brion and when he did a bizarre robot version of Suffragette City, I fell a little bit in love with him. I also loved the guy who was sitting behind us yelling out song requests, like “Just the Two of Us” and “Smooth Criminal.” I have a lot of love, you may have noticed. Rob arrived from New York that night to meet us, and Liz, you suggested that we call them something besides “Rob” and “Rob”. Because it’s confusing, and they don’t know who we’re talking to. I said, “Like Rob and Robert?” And you said, “No, like Rob and Stan.” We listened to Radiohead and Ryan Adams, and drank more wine at your apartment.

Saturday was Stan’s birthday. You got him the most beautiful desk, complete with ink jar, chalkboard, and a little bench. His reaction was one of the best things I’ve ever seen. He was blown away. We went out to breakfast and did more shopping. That night, you had people over for the birthday, and we went out to a big family-style Italian dinner in a garden, with an outdoor fireplace. We ate meatballs and calamari and drank bottles of wine. On our way to a bar afterward, you realized you had forgotten your ID. You had to use mine. It was just like old times, and it’s a really good thing I have been too lazy to get a New York driver’s license and still have my California one. I think that helped when you gave the guy my license immediately after I had given it to him--less noticeable. I'm glad I can still hook you up.

At the bar, we danced. At one point, I yelled to your friend Daniel. "Daniel!" I yelled. "Get up here and dance!" "Why are you being like Liz and telling me what to do?" he asked.

The next day, our flight was cancelled and I felt like I was a kid who had just been told that school was closed because of snow. Except this time school was closed because of excessive sunlight and sand and seafood, which we enjoyed that afternoon. No joke, the four of us sang California Dreamin' on the beach after we had buried Liz in the sand in all of her clothes. And we sang it without irony. I really want to thank you both for also being excited when our flight got cancelled. And for your great harmony.

Eventually, we really did have to leave, and even then I wasn't ready. It was just too much fun. So thank you, thank you, thank you. I can't wait until next time.

Love,
Sarah (and Rob)

Happy Birthday, Joe!

I can't blog

I so badly want to. There are things to say. I spent an amazing several days with Liz and Rob and Rob in LA. Yes, two Robs. Liz has always wanted to be just like me, so we can ignore the fact that she met her Rob first.

More on that trip later.

Right now, I just wanted to say that I am feeling the extreme guilt that comes with having called no one back, having blogged not at all lately, and also having been so rushed earlier at work that I spilled an entire mug of tea (cold by that point) all over myself and into my shoe. Although that feeling was not actually guilt, it was just discomfort.