If Walls Could Talk...

If my walls could talk, right now the new ones would be exclaiming about how much of my vocabulary is uncouth and downright awful.

Right now, I'm working on moving from one apartment in New Haven to another. Nothing's wrong with the current apartment; I've spent 16 great months here. I'm moving in with Le Boyfriend, an event which I think my parents are pretending isn't happening and the rest of my social circle wishes was just done already, so I'd stop bitching talking about it.

But in my defense, this is turning into a Nightmare. That's right, with a capital N. We were told that the kitchen would be done before we moved in. Well, we technically move in Aug. 1, but they still haven't laid tile in the kitchen. Which means that there's no cabinetry and no appliances in there, either. In fact, the wooden padding that goes between the tile and the old linoleum isn't finished yet. I know this because I have a key to the apartment already, so that we can move some stuff in before this weekend.

Now, I normally wouldn't be so concerned, but for two issues:
1: The bathroom renovation in my current apartment that was supposed to take 2 weeks to complete took 3.5
2: R, the new tenant taking my room, has a move date of Saturday, that we're trying really hard to accommodate. If the kitchen isn't done, I can't finish moving in. I'm not "living" in a place that I can't even safely store my breakfast cereal and soy milk.
Experience tells me that it may very well take longer than the original estimate, and then I've got a concerned R in the other ear.

R and I had the conversation about how long it would take me to move out my stuff while the landlord was standing there with us in my kitchen. So it's not like he doesn't know of all the concerns/issues. I'm beginning to think that moving in with my grandmother might be a simpler solution. The fact that she lives in Indiana? Minor detail. We'll invent teleportation to get around that problem.

I may have neglected to mention the annoyance of a heat wave. Packing while breathing in what feels like soup is painful. Seriously. Le Boyfriend almost gave himself a case of heat exhaustion on Sunday when we moved the first truckload of stuff over. (I made him sit his ass down and drink half a Gatorade. "You can't 'power through' in this heat. Mostly because I can't 'power through' getting you to the hospital because you're being a stubborn dumb ass," I told him. Guilt: perfect for all those time you need to "help" someone make a decision!)

Moving apartments during the last week of July during a heat wave? Not the best idea ever. Le Boyfriend has been informed that we are never ever ever moving again because I can't deal with the thought of it (he laughed, but agreed).

I'm moving some more stuff tomorrow, with a friend that I helped move several weeks ago. I'm desperately hoping that maybe, maybe the tile will be down on the kitchen floor when I walk in the door?

Well, a girl can dream, right?