Move along

You’ll have to forgive my absence lately, but I was kinda extremely fucking busy unlocking a new achievement: cohabitation! After what felt like months of prep (but isn’t because Bogart and I weren’t together that long before he bamboozled me into moving in with him), we settled into our new place just over a week ago. Er, settled may be reaching, but we have a bed to sleep in and a couch to put our butts on, so there’s that, and we’re mostly unpacked and there’s art on the walls. We also had our first major battle: the direction of the toilet paper. I didn’t realize I had a preference until I flipped it 17 times in a week and a half. At first, I thought it was just B changing the roll. Last night, however, I realized that we had both been flipping it every damn day, without saying a word. For some reason this struck me as both incredibly funny and incredibly trivial, and I decided I don’t care as much as I thought I did about the infamous over/under debate (but Team Under 4 Lyfe). I told him I would let him win this war if he pulls the shower curtain over. Then we proceeded to giggle about our passive aggressiveness for the next hour. I hope you’re prepared for more cohabitation hijinks of that nature, friends and neighbours.

As for the move itself, it was not without incident. Once we got past the ridiculous dance that is apartment hunting in Toronto and found a place, it meant we had to actually, you know, move. Like sort through all the garbage I’ve accumulated in the past four years, do all the adult things required by people who somehow mistakenly think I am an adult, and schlepp my stuff down three flights of stairs and up another. NO PRESSURE.

We did have the advantage of a long move. I have my old apartment until the end of the month, and B has his until the end of May. This (along with my newly acquired white noise app) may have saved our relationship. We were both pretty big balls of stress, but since we weren’t moving all our stuff on one day (and in fact spread our respective moves over different days), we weren’t stressed at the same time.

Bogart opted to move his stuff over two weekends, utilizing the trusty U-haul and a friend method. His first round went well, after I convinced him not to take the extra couch and dining room table that are entirely too big for our space. While I wanted to say it made no goddamned sense to move something there only to have to move it again when we get rid of it (and that I refuse to climb over all that furniture until we find someone to take them), I instead calmly convinced him that we should only take things we’re going to use and employed lots of smiley face emoticons. My well-honed feedback skills (thanks, years of retail!) make me a better girlfriend.

On the second Saturday, as B was planning on moving the last of his things, I was in down-to-the-wire packing mode. Calmly sipping my matcha, I received this text: I JUST LOCKED THE FUCKING KEYS IN THE BACK OF THE U-HAUL. Eep. While I had the good sense to be supportive/try to help, I also laughed so damn hard at the fact that this is something I would totally do. Soulmates, guys. A few hours, a locksmith, and a closed DVP later, he was back on track. I had packed myself into a delirious state, but content enough with my progress I went to bed. Since he hit so many snafus, Bogart spent his first night in our new place making room for my movers to bring my stuff. Not the smoothest start, but such is life.

My move went without a hitch; paying other people to haul your stuff around is always the right decision. B recovered from his not-so-great Saturday, and we had a fantastic first day in the new space. When we were finally ready for bed, a bottle of champagne and a few beers later, I asked him to pull down the heavy wooden blinds in our room. I should’ve been more specific, because he pulled the whole thing down on his head. Refusing my multiple offers of ice, he ended up with a pretty big goose egg and a mild concussion. Our new home tried to kill him.

Not to be left out, I managed to pull the towel rack out of the bathroom wall the following day — something Bogart made sure I included here when I asked if I could write about his catastrophes. While not as destructive (or painful), I would be remiss if I left out my own contribution to the comedy of errors that surrounded our shacking up. Ridiculousness aside, we’re both very happy and schmoopy and gross, and the cats are happy (well, Nigel is and Josephine is gradually coming out of hiding day by day). Oh, and we finally replaced the blinds with curtains so I don’t ‘look like such a dork’ in my sleep mask.

Who're you calling a dork?
Who’re you calling a dork?



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