Going in, not out, in style

It is 2:30 in the morning after my move. I am not the person I once was. I'm afraid moving just might have broken me. Either that or the fact that our mattress wasn't delivered today and we are sleeping on the floor of our bedroom. Wood floors, people, wood floors.

Upon reading the chronicles of fellow blogger G during his move , I waved my hand and said "Eh, bubkes." Now, as I sit here on the floor typing away, I'm wide awake, a burned out version of myself, and thanks to a dinner of chicken chili and three Heinekens, I'm feeling rather tooty.

You take the good, you take the bad...you take me eating salt and vinegar potato chips before I go back to bed and snuggle up to C

Looking back on the day, I think Macy's Furniture Gallery is out to get me. There is absolutely no way their service can just be that bad while they stay in business. And they're in cahoots with Moishe's moving company. After months of planning and coordinating, with the last week spent making sure everyone submitted the necessary documents for security clearance in the Financial District, how did it all go wrong? Why was I having a hernia at this young and tender age?

This was before the chili, mind you.

When the movers decided not to inform us they had arrived and started stacking our stuff all over the hallway unattended, I got a bad feeling. After finding more and more boxes of our things with each corner I turned, I knew it was time to call Macy's. Macy's, the bane of my existence the minute I darkened their doors. Macy's, devil personified in a furniture store. From start to what I hope will soon be finish, it's been painful. Never, ever again.

I had scheduled the separate delivery of our mattress from our furniture. Give me the mattress today, the furniture tomorrow and I'm happy. Wallowing on the kitchen floor, typing away with my tooty self, I admit defeat to the cadres of customer service reps who are probably toasting a beer right now to the fact that they have me sleeping on the floor tonight.

Sleeplessness has been plaguing me for the past week in anticipation of the move, so this is major. My father, my father, was compelled to give Ambien earlier this week to try and help things. This does not happen. Despite visions of myself inhaling whole loaves of bread and barbequing in my sleep, I actually slept well. The irony is that with no Ambien tonight, I'm inhaling whatever I can get my hands on at this hour. I am like the MacGyver of food, making gourmet creations out of stale power bars and seeing what happens when you mix honey mustard with aforementioned potato chips.

I do have an excuse. The stress that was brought on by engaging in commerce with Macy's and Moishe's. Today, I. Was. Seeing. Red. There's an episode on MTV's True Life called "I'm Getting Married" where Charlie the Staten Island groom goes abba-sol-loot-ly ballistic on his limo driver for being late on the day of his wedding. It's the stuff of legend since the episode aired, watched by millions of viewers. We're talking eyes bulging and veins popping. But after today, I think I get him now.

No, I wouldn't threaten to gut the movers like a fish, but I have stomped around the hallway yelling on my cell phone, much in the style of Charlie, while my neighbors considered calling the men in white coats. The upside of having your brand-spanking-new neighbors think you're nuts is that they'll be too afraid of you and so will never, ever want to fark with you.

"Have you met the new neighbors next door? A guy and a girl, right?"

"Yes. He's alright. She's...she's lovely."

Topping it all off, I can't sleep and suffering this chili, an ill-advised decision out of hunger with very few rations in our cupboard. It's amazing what you will craft out of the few food items you transport with you during a move.

Tomorrow is another day. Oh right, today is tomorrow.