Move-in Day

Yesterday after managing to squeeze as many seemingly useless objects (yes antique mirror tray I am talking about you) into the back of my glaringly white Pontiac Vibe (good thing the backseat is big enough to get frisky in) my mother and I drove four hours to Manhattan (because Harlem is a neighborhood not a borough or a city).

After a few wrong we get to my sublet and park at the opposite end of the black. Now, when I visited this place I honestly thought it was on the third floor because the apartment number begins with a 3, but alas, it is the fourth floor. Mom graciously opted to unpack my clothes so I could schlep everything up the block and then up the stairs.

At one point a lovely gentleman offered to assist me with my clothes bag (mind you this weighs more than my friend V when she passes out) but being prideful I turned him down. That was stupid. And God decided to spite me by allowing my toiletry box fall headfirst into the street. Ever had to chase your feminine hygiene products down the street? Or play 52-card-pickup with a box of Q-tips?

Finally everything is in - so Mom decides to accompany me to my local Path Mart (if you are not so blessed as to have one of these within walking distance, do not go out of your way to get to one). At said Path Mart, my mother decides to natter on about this woman's arm tattoos. Did I mention said tattoos were gang insignia and that the woman had a black teardrop?

On the walk back two of the straps on my reusable bag ripped off, but hey I am now the proud owner of a small jar of Nutella and my Mom cut up my pineapple.  I think I am doing all right.