Meet Slick.

August 27, 2011

When it comes to social grace, I fall somewhere between Miss Piggy and … well, no, that’s about right, actually. My mouth often gets ahead of my brain, and I end up lying in bed hours later reliving my awkward blurting again and again. And again. Marlon Brando? Did I really say your baby looked like Marlon Brando?

Shut up, mouth. What. Was. I. Thinking.

Yeah, I know. I was thinking your baby looked like Marlon BrandoAnd the little station agent that sends these thoughts back up to my brain for retooling apparently agreed. Jackass.
So last week, I met this kid. We will call him Slick. Because it is almost, but not, his actual name, and I’m not sure what government agency will knock on my door if I talk about minors by name on a blog without parental permission. (The internet wasn’t invented when I took Civics.) (And now, according to anyone under 25, I am older than God.) (And, according to anyone under 15, “What is ‘civics’?”) Slick is this 8 year old kid that hangs out at our new neighbors-to-be’s house (got that? new house, next door, meet Slick). He’s a cute, skinny little fellow who kind of reminds me of that kid from the Rascals? Bean sprout? Pigpen? Tipsy? You know, the kid with the freckles and the swoop of hair on top. Errmm… Wikipedia says the Rascals were a band (what the heck, brain?!), so nevermind. Anyway.
I was hauling another armload of our worldly possessions junk across the street, and I heard a voice shout “You’ve been moving that stuff all day!” To which, I replied that he was correct, and that I evidently have too much stuff. (Ha, ha. If you only knew, kid.)
Two minutes later, Slick is at the door holding one of Peach’s dresses that must have fallen on my way across the street.
“Here,” he says, “I think you must have dropped this.” Then he  introduces himself.
“I’m Slick,” he says, and we shake hands.
He tells me about himself, where he’s from, why he’s visiting at the house next door. He introduces his older brother, and we have a very pleasant, rather adult conversation. Slick is charming. Utterly self-possessed and polite. He’s not shy, but he’s not obnoxious, either. He’s just… slick. And I notice he’s got a twinkle in his eye that makes me think that he knows exactly how to talk himself out of a jam. Next thing I know, he’s offering to help me move. Now, I’m not a big woman, but I tower over this kid, and I could carry Slick upstairs in one arm with a load of laundry in the other. He could probably have handled my yarn. Or my boxes of unspun fleece. But I’d already moved those boxes, and I was working on boxes of kitchen items that were big enough to hold two Slicks, plus my dog.
“That’s a really nice offer,” I tell him, “but I don’t think I’m organized enough to have you help me.”
“That’s okay! You could just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
Who raised this kid, and can she please give me lessons? While she’s at it, maybe she can teach that jackhole in my head a thing or two?
As it turned out, while we were “negotiating,” Peach’s babysitter came by to tell me that my time was just about up. So I told Slick that I really appreciated his offer, but it looked like I was done for the day. At this point, he puts both his hands on my arm, leans in, and says earnestly,  “But just because you’re done moving, doesn’t mean have to be.”
Slick, I hope we see you around.

A moving story.

August 17, 2011

I hate moving. HateHateHateHateHate it. The chaos, the losing of things, the needing of things that are in one of 200 boxes, the lifting (31 boxes of books, folks.), the shoving, the accidental breaking and damaging of Nice Things, the sweating (why is moving always an August activity?), the swearing, the contemplation of moving to a monestary, the unpacking and finding NEW places for things, and then the months of only being able to remember where something went in the last house.

Thus, it is with no small amount of emotion in my voice that I declare: We are moving! We are going to live somewhere different very soon. Peach is about to move into her third house. She’s 15 months old. Because we are moving to a NEW! HOUSE! It’s kind of a lot similar to our current house… And it’s…


Across. The. Street.


Oh, yes. We are moving across the street. Which I think should come with a little card that drops down from the heavens on a string and says “You’ve qualified for a free divorce! My, that was quick!” Of course, I’m really quite fond of my husband, so I would probably just laugh and kiss him on the cheek and then repin my chignon and adjust my apron before I fix him a cocktail. But I might also tuck it in my pocket because WE’RE MOVING!

So last week, I was a bit harried. Not sleeping much. A tad frazzled. I was racing around, trying to pack boxes, pick up paint for the painters, clean the new house, on top of all the other things on my normal to-do list (laundry, facebook, groceries, facebook, housework, facebook, inserting or removing objects from Peach’s oral cavity, facebook, TUMBLR!, facebook). You get the picture. I was busy.

I must have left my purse in the car, the doors wide open and a big lighted arrow pointing to a sign that announced “FREE! TAKE ONE! SUPPLIES LIMITED!” because my purse and our GPS gadget have vaporized. And consequently, I have learned a LOT this week. For instance:

You know what you need to set up utilities? A credit card.

You know what you need to find the utility company? The GPS!

You know what you need to have something notarized? Picture ID.

You know what you need to buy food? Yer wallet.

You know what you need to buy a really big bottle of wine? YOUR DAMN WALLET.

But! The best part? You know what you need to get a new Driver’s License at the DMV?




And finally, you know what you need to report the theft of your license to the DMV? Two forms of ID.

And $10.