Recommended wine for today’s entry: Montecillo Verdemar Albarino, in honor of my daughter’s safe return from Spain last night. I tried it while she was gone and am going to stock up on it for Fourth of July festivities. It is similar to a sauvignon blanc, but with a bit more interest, I would say. The Web site describes it as, “rich, a touch salty, and very fresh. Well balanced, crisp and flavorful with clear notes of lychee and grapefruit, finishing long with a nice grip of acidity.” It’s under $15 a bottle. Try it and let me know what you think!
Yesterday, the decrepit old woman at Pier 1 was rambling on and on about her recent move, when she could have/should have been reminding me I had a 20% off coupon sticking out the top of my purse or even just pushing the “total” button so that I could get the hell out of there BEFORE she started the play-by-play of selling her house. It sold in two days, yada, yada, yada, asking price plus, yada, yada, push freakin’ total, lady…She wasn’t even in town; she was in Nantucket when it sold. Well, thank God for THAT little tidbit of info, because it allowed me to tune her droning out completely and begin chanting dirty limericks in my head.
Anyway, I think that harrowing episode was the cause for my dream last night. I totally relived MOVING WEEK 1988. It was not necessarily a place I was pining to visit again.
Let’s see…why were we leaving Dallas in the first place? Oh, that’s right, because I was homesick for the Southeast and I had gotten yelled at at work. So like any mature 28-year-old, I promised my husband all sorts of perks that I had every intention of reneging on as soon as my feet hit the Bluegrass State. Also, I found that every time I drank tequila I became the human tear, blubbering and sobbing and totally ruining entire parties. So I kept drinking margaritas, leading my husband to fear for my mental well-being.
Luckily, my mom found him a job in the newspaper and poof! just like that he was whisking me away to Kentucky. A very large moving van was scheduled to arrive at the crack of dawn on July 15.
Without much time, I quickly set about doing the things responsible people do when moving to another state: I picked up the pets’ records from the vet, trained my replacement at work, and somehow (allegedly) lost all the records for the Dallas Chapter of the American Women in Radio & TV, a group on whom I was bailing as president. Oh and I went to about six going-away parties, where I was goaded into over-imbibing because I didn’t want anyone to remember me as the buzz kill who stopped the shot rotation.
And so, when I awakened on July 14 feeling just a little under the weather, I shrugged it off. Just another hangover. Thank God I promised my husband not to go out drinking with my work friends every day in Kentucky. Ha.
But it was the flu … not just the flu, but a whopper of a flu. That’s how I described it to my boss when, on my last day, I had to leave work sober. He didn’t need me to tell him it was a whopper — I was skipping drinks to celebrate my VERY LAST DAY — that told him all he needed to know. Whopper.
There were some scary moments in Dallas’ bumper-to-bumper traffic, where I was deliberating which would be more prudent: putting the car in park and opening the door to retch, or hanging out the window and continuing at 20 mph, while hoping that the car door wouldn’t fly open and leave me heaped among cinders and vomit on the shoulder.
Well, someone was watching over me because I somehow managed to wait and throw up on the floor of the house we were trying to sell.
The guys from the moving company were taking a break and blasting what we in the business called Urban Contemporary music on my stereo. They were undoubtedly tired after packing two boxes and probably ransacking my jewelry box and underwear drawer. I crawled into my bed, which wasn’t really a bed anymore, it was a mattress in a box. I got into fetal position and tried to sleep.
The music was pounding in my already pounding head. Finally I un-fetaled and dragged myself to the den door.
Me: Can you please turn that music down?
Me: Uh, EXCUSE ME! I HAVE THE FLU. A WHOPPER OF THE FLU AND YOU NEED TO TURN THAT DOWN PLEASE!
Mover: Oh, OK. (Turns it down like 1 notch from 27 to 26.)
Me: YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO TURN THAT SHIT ALL THE WAY OFF BECAUSE I AM GOING BACK TO LIE ON MY BOX AND IT IS MAKING MY HEAD THROB EVEN WORSE THAN IT WAS AND I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU CAN LISTEN TO THAT SHIT IT ONLY SOUNDS LIKE BASS AND NOW MY FREAKING TEETH EVEN HURT. IF I CAN MISS HAPPY HOUR YOU CAN PACK MY CRAP IN BOXES IN SILENCE.
There is a chance that is not verbatim.
Mover: When we took apart the bed there was a bunch of pee stains on the carpet under there.
Me: Well, I don’t know why you’re telling me. I didn’t do it.
About then, my husband came home, looking worse than me.
He threw up his wastebasket at work, just before the stodgiest lawyers from his 200+ person firm began to file in, one by one, to tell him goodbye. He didn’t have time to get rid of the evidence, so he just shoved it under his desk. Then he shook hands and hugged probably 1/3 of the employees. Then he brought his flu home so we could take it and spread it to Kentucky.
July 15th, we awakened to the sound of the brakes locking up on the giant moving van. It was 97 degrees in Dallas that day. We thought the house (the one with recent throw up in the kitchen and dog pee apparently saturating the carpets) was just super hot because the doors were open for the movers; we later found out our air conditioner had died. We watched them drive my husband’s prized sports car up the ramp to load into the van and cut it just about 1/4 inch too close on the left hand side, scratching just about a 1/4-inch deep gash along the length of the entire car.
Then we piled into my Honda Accord — two sick adults, a dog who hates the car, two cats who hate the car AND the dog, and two houseplants that made it to about Memphis.
Oh, and a litterbox.
Now I am thinking about going back to Pier 1 and telling the garrulous lady MY moving saga. I need to use this coupon anyway.