So, I have about a million errands to run this week in preparation for the exodus from the Avocado House in Mugwump.
First on the list: Call former landlord about moving date. I did. His friend, Wayne, was at home. So, I told Wayne about the move on Sunday and asked if I could come over sometime this week to pick up the odds and ends left at my old apartment. I'd left my shower curtain, among other things, and I wanted it back. The shower curtain was a birthday present from my roommate and comrade-in-arms at Surflight Theatre last summer, Liz. It's pink, black, and white, with my favorite phrase all over it: It's all about me. Not you. Me. I am fond of this shower curtain. I have matching towels and a coordinating bath mat that goes with this shower curtain. Shower curtains are not cheap (at least the good ones are not cheap). I wanted my shower curtain back. Wayne said no problem. He'd box up the stuff I'd left and bring it over this weekend. I told him that wasn't necessary. I could come and get them. But he insisted.
Well, not even five minutes later, I get a phone call from Michael himself. He's calling me from work. He's never called me from his job, not in the entire time I rented from him. Hmmmm. He asks if I'm moving Sunday (which, obviously, he already knows the answer to). I tell him yes, it was easier to get a truck on Sunday, and that I've got a couple friends from work coming to help me schlepp stuff to Westfield. And then, he asks if I want to pick up the rest of the things that I left at the apartment (again, DUH! Yes, like you didn't just get off the phone with Wayne). And then, he asks about my shower curtain. And I say, what about my shower curtain? Now, as he's explaining the sordid tale of my shower curtain--you know, the one that I'm terribly fond of--my tiny and shocked brain seems to only absorb one thing: my shower curtain is no more. For some reason--a reason that is beyond all explanation, having something to do with his mother and not being able to get into the shed in the back yard--the shower curtain has been cut into pieces and then duct taped together. He suggested some pink duct tape might make it look as good as new. At this point, I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my shower curtain has been cut into pieces. Why has my shower curtain been cute into pieces? I'm fond of that shower curtain. I have towels that match it. What the hell? Don't ask me what happened to the shower curtain. I don't know. I do know, however, that I'm driving into Southwick to pick up the rest of my bits and pieces, or at least, what's left of them, this weekend.
I hung up with Michael and added "shower curtain" to the list that's already longer than my arm, slowly realizing that if I did not find a shower curtain to go with my towels and bath mat, I would have to find new towels and a new bath mat. Let's face it, I want a nice looking bathroom. I'm not a college student anymore, and just because I have borrowed 75% of my furniture from the theatre's prop shop, doesn't mean I have to have a shoddy looking bathroom. Dammit!
Errrrr, anyway, I left the Avocado House grinding my teeth. The day had started out beautifully. (In case you can't tell, this is called sarcasm.) I loaded up some odds and ends into the back of my pregant roller skate of a car to take to the new apartment, and then I hit the road. First, I went to the post office, sending my friend Chrystal a huge box of trashy romance novels I've burned through in the last few weeks. I'm not moving those stupid things to my new place. It's not like I'm going to read them again. And then, I wound my way into Westfield to hit our dinky WalMart. It was about noon, and I had hopes that they wouldn't be too busy.
Well, the WalMart wasn't too busy, but the parking lot had this huge truck taking up an entire row of parking spaces, right next to the door, so that left me parking a million miles away. I trudged to the door, I plopped my purse into a cart, and I pulled out my list. They had most everything. Except a shower curtain. Can I just say that Westfield's WalMart sucks. They had shower curtains all right. Ugly ones. Ones that old biddies who are blind and have no taste would buy. Ones with hideous floral motifs, bland stripes, country checks, or an assortment of foul. Ooooooh. Just what I want to wake up to every morning. I abandoned the search for a new shower curtain and decided I would go to Bed Bath and Beyond in West Springfield. They HAD to have something better than this.
Anyway, I was ready to check out of this dump and I headed to the front of the store, my cart loaded with packages of toilet paper and paper towels and various other things. I reached the check-out area to find three, count them--THREE--lanes open. Each lane had about a half dozen people in line. Oh, joy. I got into the last line nearest the door. It seemed the shortest. Not too much later, this couple gets in line behind me.
This is the couple from hell. Everyone's white trash nightmare in the flesh. There's this balding, greasy man with a beer gut and dirty shirt accompanied by this fork-tongued harpy on crutches with long straggly brown hair, pasty skin, and a voice like sandpaper. They had a little boy, about 8 or 9, in tow.
I had already unconsciously moved as far forward as possible upon their approach, my white trash-radar alarm alerting me to step away, and avoid all eye contact. The last thing I want to do is have a conversation with this happy little family, or come away with fleas or any other creepy crawly thing they might be carrying.
The man, let's call him Grease, held a gallon bucket of paint in one hand. The woman, let's call her Harpy, had a bunch of dark blue folders clutched in her talons as she leaned heavily on the crutches. The little boy, let's call him Pity, immediately went to the candy display to my right. Harpy was gritching to Grease about how he should put that paint bucket down on the floor. It's bad for his wrist to be carrying around something so heavy. And Grease was arguing back that how the frick (substitute another f-word) he was supposed to get the paint to the check out if he put it on the fricking floor. Harpy railed on this issue for a bit longer, insisting she could slide it along with her fricking crutches, you stupid frick.
Meanwhile, Pity was playing with some cheap plastic toy he found on the candy display. His behavior, obviously one that exhibited natural happiness and contentment, caught Harpy's attention. Pity can't be having fun. Not in the check out lane at WalMart. That would never do. So, she started in on him. Put that fricking toy down. I got you one just like that and you never play with it at home. Harpy continues along this line as Pity puts the toy down and manages to slip away. Harpy realizes her prey has eluded her, and she asks where the frick did Pity go. Grease says he's probably over in the next aisle playing with the same toy. So, Harpy hobbles on her crutches to the next check-out lane (which is closed and has no one there) to find that, indeed, Pity has thwarted her once again, found another one of these little plastic toys, and had started entertaining himself with it. Get the frick back here. She yells at him for another few beats. Pity returns to the aisle, but wanders to the end of the check out lane, just beyond the register. Harpy screeches after him. Where the frick do you think you're going? Who the hell do you think you fricking are? Pity makes some excuse about just wanting to wait up front there. And, as he slowly makes his way back toward Harpy and Grease, Harpy starts up again. She complains, loudly, how she wishes Pity's mother would take him more often. Why does she always have to dump him on my fricking doorstep?
Throughout this scene, I am intent on studying the candy display as if it's the most interesting thing I've ever seen, so engrossing that I can't seem to notice anything else around me. I wish. At the same time, I'm biting my tongue from saying something like, "Yes, what kind of mother would leave her son with YOU." The complaining, the screeching, the yelling, the colorful expletives--it did not stop. I entertained the idea of stabbing myself in the eye with the nearest candybar, or some other blunt object within reach. I quickly decided it would be much more entertaining to stab Harpy in the eye with something blunt, knock her down, and then beat her with her own crutches.
At last I came up to the register, unloaded my cart and paid for my stuff. As I finished putting my bags back into my cart, I could hear Harpy tearing into the girl at the check out about how they need to have more lanes open. Check Out Girl starts ringing up their dark blue folders. And, as I'm at last heading for the door--to sweet freedom, thank God--I hear Harpy say she thought those folders were seven cents, not ten. Oh, sweet Jeebus. At that point, I was sorely tempted to turn around and offer to pay her to shut up until I left the building, but the door was closer than the check out lane.
The parking lot was busy, because that truck that had sucked up an entire row of spaces, was trying to move out and blocking traffic in its wake. I thought, if only all the fricking stupid people would just get out of my way, I wouldn't have to stab anyone in the eye.
I escaped the WalMart parking lot without stabbing anyone, vowing never to return, not unless I was desperate. I dropped off things at my new apartment--which, by the way, they re-cleaned the carpets (thank you), and I met a maintenance man in the parking lot who said he would take care of cleaning the stove (that has yet to get done, but I'm still optimistic). So, at least that's something.
After stopping at my new apartment, I headed into West Springfield and the Bed Bath and Beyond with the hopes of finding a shower curtain. In fact, I hoped I would find my old shower curtain (since I know that's where my friend Liz bought it last year).
Alas, no. Bed Bath and Beyond does not have my shower curtain any more. Their selection of shower curtains is extensive, however--and EXPENSIVE. They had one shower curtain, very cool, had old theatre posters all over it. $90. When hell freezes over and Hugh Jackman professes his undying love for me, maybe I'll consider spending $90 on a shower curtain (or I'll make Hugh buy it for me). I ended up getting a $15 plastic shower curtain with brightly colored, cartoon dogs and cats on it. I like the colors. It's bright and cheerful, and not too stupid or old biddy looking. I got two matching teal towels (on sale for $5 each) and a new matching bath mat (also on sale). It's the start of a new era for my bathroom accoutrement.
And with that, I called it a day, pointed my pregnant roller skate of a car south, and returned to the Avocado House.
