The Move: The Apartment & Boxes

When I first called Clara about my apartment, she talked to me on the phone for 15 minutes. I couldn't decide if she was crazy or awesome. Turns out she's awesome. And a little crazy. But so am I.

That day, I told her it was the first apartment I was looking at and she said, as I thought any seller would, "Once you see this, you won't NEED to see anything else." Turns out she was right.

On Thursday, we got to the place and Clara had cleaned out the bedroom, the office/spare room, and the bathroom all by herself. And the kitchen/living room was still left to be done.

Sammy en route:

Enter my four insanely good movers and my parents. Aaron, Sam, Adam and Ben were the lifesavers. If I didn't have them to help me, my dad's bad knee would have surely swelled to the size of a football and his good attitude would have immediately been hail-Maryed the shit out of there. Sam is born and bred sweet Arkansas, Ben is born and bred sweet Kentucky, Adam is a black person who had white skin so he got along fine in Eastern Kentucky, and Aaron should have brought his guitar. Nothing makes me feel better than when Aaron sings.

So, we moved all the shit. And this is the point things are at now:

My mother always buys me shit that I don't want at the time and am thankful for later. And she is a really really really bad backseat driver, something my father has complained about for years. I thought he was being tough on her until she blatanly ignored the GPS and questioned my directions.

My dad spent a million hours in the U-Haul divvying out boxes and furniture and I'm unsure of how he didn't suffer heatstroke, nor am I sure of how he stood that entire time, with not much time since knee surgery under his belt. I believe that his suspenders may hold it all together.

The Move: Murphy's Adventure

My mother shook down the local vet in my hometown for some kitty valium in order to subdue my big sweet baby Murphy on the 10-hour drive to NOLA. Of course, after forcing the pill down Murphy's throat, I spent the next 20-minutes terrified it was somehow lodged in her windpipe ala my fault. I then theorized she might only be living by breathing through her nose, and putting my face right in her smelly kitty mouth to see if I could register inhales and exhales.

Murphy wobbled all over the empty apartment. She almost fell out the open window. And then I forced her into her kitty carrier while she gave a half-hearted hiss. I was sure she'd be passed out soon. I'd seen the same drunk-dialer eyes on my friends Tyler and Michael right before they either cried or took their clothes off, or god forbid both. I imagine Murphy would shed her fur, and I would discover a hairless emotional animal in the cage later in the day.

This scene would have been more well-received. After being in the carrier for awhile, Murphy began meowing, whine-meowing. Then I picked the carrier up and sat it in my lap and baby-talked her. Then I put the edge of the cage toward the A/C Vent and turned it up to a million. Then I looked at Murphy's face. And I discovered this: The above picture is not a rabid cat, althought I bet rabid cats look this way. She's just panting. Apparantly, my own partiality to panic attacks has been passed down to my pet. She's shedding. She's breathing heavily. She's talking out of her head. Aaron (My amazing BF who drove this cat and me, the psycho-cat mommy the whole ten hours down there.) suggests that maybe Murphy has to pee. We pull over and usher her around awkwardly in the grass. She doesn't pee, but she stops panting. We think maybe she just can't stand the cage. So, the rest of the drive, we let her wander around the van. She still pants every few minutes. And she scratches the living shit out of my legs whenever I have to keep her from crawling under the gas pedal and brake. But no pyschosis. And kitty valium is for the birds.