Holy Homo-wner

People. Your Princess is stressed. We're at the 35 hour countdown and I'm freaking.
FREAKING.

Know what I need? A beer. Oh. I had 3.
And a half.
And a half a Klonopin.
And then the other half of the Klonopin.

And The Princess -- normally so cool and collected -- is still a wreck.
I'm writing this on my laptop which is situated atop of box 63 (it goes downstairs).

We're 95% packed. The other 5% of our crap is everywhere and I hate the disorganization and the chaos and the ticking clock.
Willie, El Jimador, and the boys are coming in early Saturday morning after working an all-night gig, and they're refusing payment. And apparently they are so busy that I can't even offer them a proper after-party. I suggested buying everyone a bottle of Patron Tequila, but I don't trust El Jimador to distribute it. (He loves him some tequila.)


I think we're currently expecting nine guys. NINE. So, if I do get ready in time, our stuff will be in the new place in approximately 47 minutes.

I have worked my ass off (figuratively. Unfortunately, in reality, it's still here.) to make sure that my boxes are packed well. Nothing is too heavy. Nothing is not square. We have very few items that need to be wrapped with blankets, and I've sent Willie the spreadsheet complete with a list of odd items that aren't going to stack perfectly on each other.

Still, I worry. Mainly I worry because these guys are my friends and my co-workers and I have been side by side with them humping heavy crap (industry term) and I know what they're in for. And I really, truly do not want to move a box, nor do I want to feel guilty about not moving a box. More than that, I want them to be available for the next move.

So, we haven't eaten tonight -- Erica is on her own geeked out panic -- we have our final walk through tomorrow afternoon. I think I've done the "forceful sigh" about 80,000 times in the last hour.

Though, we did one super fun thing today. Erica and I met at Tiffany & Co. and bought keychains for our new keys. E got the skeleton key/house horseshoe and I got the star with a star that is being engraved with, "22%".
Because, in NYC, only 22% of residents are homeowners. And Erica and I are moving on up.

Please Shut Up

As you all are aware I am trying to become more centered. This is not an easy pursuit to say the least. Take last night as an example. I leave work and go to the gym to take yoga with Puss in Boots. PIB is a perfect yoga instructor for becoming centered because he always talks about spirituality and connecting the body with the mind, etc. I set my intentions (this is yoga speak), before even arriving at the class, that I am going to turn my focus inward and bring myself back to it, as hard as that may be.

So I arrive at the class mentally prepared and go in to set down my mat 25 minutes before class starts. It is necessary to do this because this class fills up fast and it’s a pain to try to squeeze in between other people’s mats. Okay, so I walk into the class and there is the woman who is always there prior to class, her mat and her husbands mat laid out next to her. She is, as always, asleep on her mat, with a yoga blanket pulled up over her. These are the very same blankets that various strangers at the gym put under their butt when poses are too difficult for them. If you aren’t familiar with yoga blankets, they’re sort of hard and itchy and remind me of the blankets that we used, when I was growing up, on the horses before we put their saddles on. Not exactly a blanket I would want to cuddle up with. Then again, I would never be sleeping in the yoga studio prior to class. In fact, prior to class you can find me on the treadmill.

Where was I, oh yes, so I walk in see sleeping lady and decide that unlike every other week where The Princess and I place our mats in the row behind her, this time I will go to the other side of the room. I have a confession here readers. As you know I have always been honest about how shallow I am. I am not proud of it, but I accept myself for whom I am and try as I might, I am shallow. So do you want to know why I moved my mat to the other side of the room? I’m sure you’re thinking because I don’t like sitting behind a lady who naps. Well, you would be wrong. I don’t like sitting behind a lady with AWFUL hair. Seriously, I moved my mat because I knew that I could not stand to spend another class behind this woman where instead of being able to focus my thoughts inward, I instead spend the entire class obsessing about how ugly this woman’s hair is and how I can’t believe that someone would walk around with such horrible hair. It tortures me, people. Torture.

Fear not, shallow people are punished, as I found out later when running into the class, I sit down on my mat only to find that in front of me is Weeble man, you know “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall”. That’s right, every pose, every position, he is wobbling over. There I am trying to concentrate on my poses and the entire time a 6’3 man is in front of me wobbling. I tried everything, reflect inward, look at a spot on the wall, watch PIB nothing worked ultimately his wobble took over not only breaking my focus but occasionally causing my very own wobble.

Speaking of focus, this morning, for the second time I attempted to mediate, nothing long, just five minutes, focusing on my breath. Does anyone realize how long five minutes is? Especially when you have this annoying woman in your head that talks non-stop. Seriously, the books warn about this but I had no idea it would be so bad. There I sit attempting to concentrate on my breath, trying to focus and here she goes, “Do you really think you should wear that skirt today? I wonder what yogurt is left. You should go to the grocery store. Focus. Focus. Stop thinking. Is that a truck that just drove by? Should I curl my hair?” Honestly, the bitch won’t shut up.

Do I Look Different to You?

I am officially a homeowner. Officially.

Yesterday, amid a flurry of papers and a group of at least 8 other people, Erica and I signed our way into a 30 Year Mortgage on a duplex in Park Slope, Brooklyn. The day had been planned for weeks. Erica and I decided to take the day off from work, as well as a day off from packing and getting ready for the move. You know, Closing Day is a huge day and we wanted to enjoy it. We planned to get up, go somewhere for a nice breakfast, visit Tiffany's to buy our celebratory key chains, have a nice lunch, go sign our papers and go to dinner together with some friends.

Lovely, right?
Wrong.

The day starts off at 10:30 the night prior when our broker calls to tell us we're missing some vital paperwork that has to be signed by a board member of the co-op. The next morning we are (actually, Erica is) frantic and on the phone with the broker and our attorney and the president of the co-op in an attempt to not only retrieve the paperwork, but also to find a way to take it into Manhattan, have it signed by the president of the co-op, and make it back to Brooklyn by 2PM for the closing. We get the papers at noon. We jump in a cab and head to Manhattan.

Hunger has set in at this point, and let me tell you, neither of Brooklyn's newest homeowners is very pleasant when she is hungry. Especially the tiny one.

So, now it's 1PM, we have the signed paper, we have not eaten and the screaming starts. I want to get something in the city and take the train back to Brooklyn. Erica refuses to have any food from Manhattan -- "You do what you want, but I'm going to Brooklyn. And you'd better come with me."

Oh yeah. This is at the bank where we're getting a certified check that we also were not aware we needed until we were in the cab on the way to Manhattan. (Seriously. Our attorney is not the most responsible, organized guy out there. Nice, but he could have mentioned the certified check in one of the previous 6,000 conversations that morning.)

So, we're in line, bickering like assholes and the teller thinks we're upset with him. "No. It's not you. We're a couple and we're buying a house today." He nods and excuses himself out of the rest of our argument.

Finally. We have the papers, we have the check and we are in cab number two of the day on our way to Brooklyn.

We are still hungry.

We get to Court Street, get out of the cab, and proceed to argue about where we're going to grab food. We have 25 minutes to get it, eat it, and get into our Closing appointment. We end up at Garden of Eden and buy pre-made wrap sandwiches. Once we're in line, at the cash register, Erica asks if we should get drinks. I punch her in the mouth.

Not really. Just in my head.

We pay for the sandwiches, boogie on over to the attorney's office and eat on the sidewalk next to a mailbox and a pile of garbage. I got some water from a sidewalk schwarma guy.

Then we go into our meeting. Guess what's there.

Sandwiches.

Bliss

“Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss”- Alexander Dumas

Yes, dear readers my search for enlightenment continues. In fact I am thinking of going to the Tibet House to learn about Buddhism and mediation. The Tibet House actually has a weekly teaching on mediation that is supposed to be the best in the city. Of course, I have a dilemma because I might never take this course in mediation since it’s only offered on Tuesdays which also happens to be the day of my Pilates class with my favorite teacher, Tela. This is a serious dilemma to say the least do I want to achieve a stronger mind or a stronger body? It saddens me to realize that I’m shallow enough to say, body.

In Nicole Beland’s book she says, “Buddha taught that in order to avoid unhappiness, we must learn to curb our expectations and stay open to whatever life offers.” Honestly, achieving that might be the greatest struggle of my life, even harder than the work I do in Pilates. And let me tell you if you haven’t done the teaser you don’t know about hard work. Hello, why is my core the weakest part of my body? I have made a commitment to myself to rectify that.

But fear not, even thought The Princess thinks that I am overly obsessed with the gym I do have other areas of interest, like grooming, which leads me to ultimate bliss, which I achieved last Sunday appropriately enough at Bliss Spa. My sister and I went to Bliss for a facial and let me tell you, that was money well spent. And much, much easier than self reflection.

Oh Mary.

I hate being away from the blog. As you may have noticed, I have been out of commission for the past week or so because I was working a corporate event in Key Largo. The weather rocked, the event went smoothly, the clients were thrilled and best of all, it's now over.

When I'm on these gigs, my personal life ceases to exist for the duration of the event. We work around the clock and have very little personal time to ourselves. Any break we do get is usually spent sleeping or drinking, or passing out from drinking (a combination of the two, I suppose.) My job is stressful.

Anyway, what kills me about being away from the blog is the fact that even though I am not writing about the fascinating and exciting events in my life, they're still happening. And subsequently they pile up and now I have to struggle with what to write about, what to let go, or what to write about later while lying and saying that it's current.

Yes, dear readers, sometimes I lie in the blog. But, believe me, it's for your own good. The stories are much more interesting the way I write them. (Oprah, please do not judge me, nor berate me on television in front of your millions of adoring fans.)

So, as you'll notice, this is my second posting of the day. I just have a lot to write about.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I recently had a huge therapy-induced breakthrough. I, dear fans, finally found the strength to stand up to my mother. (Reference my posting entitled, "Shoot" for the entire story.)

As you all know, Mom's health has been on the shaky side for the past few years and my relationship with her has been strained ... well, since I was 8, but more intensely since the sick came along.

Mom's favorite game is, "What's the best way to get Susan into a frantic tizzy?" And she is very good. If it were a true sport, she'd totally go Pro. So, the way she accomplishes her goal (lately. There have been several variations over the years.) is by giving me bits of information in regard to her health, but only the most horriffic, worst-case scenario bits that may, or may not be a direct threat to her. Mom, more than once, has been admitted to the hospital, and will not allow anyone to tell me until the situation becomes so dire that she is moved into ICU. This is when she decides to notify me. Usually she does this via a smuggled-in cell phone that potentially endangers all heart-monitor and pace-maker wearers within a 65' radius.

She says that she doesn't tell me about her hospital visits because she "doesn't want to worry me." Dear people. This is bullshit. It is the opinion of The Princess that her mom waits for disaster so that when she upsets The Princess, she gets the most bang for her buck. You know ... a BB gun will sting, but an Uzi ... watch the fuck out. Anyway. I stood up to her, I put my foot down by saying that I refused to play her mind games any more and I could not participate in the craziness, nor did I have any intention of ever going back.

Then I quit therapy.

This was an awful decision, but it was financially motivated and since Oxford sucks ass and doesn't reimburse it's clientele (Michael Moore, did you focus on them? They would have been perfect.) and since each visit to Mary is $150 ($600 a month except for twice a year when it's $750) I had to take a break. So, being the confident, self-assured girl I am, I wrote her a letter.

I told her how much I appreciated the work she's done with me for the past couple of years and I told her about my most recent success with putting my foot down with my mom. I also said that I hoped we could start back up once E and I got a few mortgage payments under our belts and I got a chance to kick some Oxford ass. Then, a few nights later, I get a phone call from her.

Obviously, I don't answer. Perhaps less obviously, I also do not listen to her message. For several days.

Yes. I am even intimidated by voice mail.

Then I finally get up the nerve, and people. This is the sweetest message I've ever received. She tells me that she's proud of what I was able to do with my mother and that she'll miss me because she's truly enjoyed working with me. And, my favorite, "Susan, the name of the game is, "Whatever works best for you."

I love you Mary. Thank you so much for helping me grow into a person who can tell their mother off via phone. And, I look forward to our reunion when we can work on my fears about voice mail.

Mortgage Vs. Marriage

Hi. I'm back. I'm stressed and I'm screaming pretty frequently these days.
I also fell down first thing this morning.

We are moving in less than a week. Our entire apartment consists of piles of boxes and piles of our crap waiting to go into boxes. The apartment has become an obstacle course. Chulo is so freaked out that he is constantly about three inches from my right ankle so when I was going into the kitchen this morning to feed him, I walked out of the bedroom, and while trying to dodge him, I ran into Erica's portfolio, which tripped me up. I fell into the washer and landed directly on my ass.

Good morning to me.

The resulting crash and Erica's mad dash to save my life did nothing to calm Chulo's nerves and it set the scene for the rest of our morning of tripping over our stuff and each other and the ever present Chulo -- the whole scene had the three of us barking all morning.

We close on our new apartment tomorrow, we move on Saturday and we, dear people, are frazzled. Luckily E and I argue well and we both know that all of the bickering is just stress so we're not getting mad ... just very, very agitated.

Here's where I thank Dr. Auerbach and the makers of Klonopin. Without them, the new owners of our old place would walk into a murder scene consisting of two bloody lesbians with serious knife wounds and a frantically pacing Bichon Frise.

Fear not dear fans -- we're going to make it through this. Neither of us has cried yet. (But we've still got several days to go.)

You know, Erica and I have been together for four and a half years, we are engaged and have an official, $36 piece of paper that says we are domestic partners. We used to joke that it was our expensive, purchased as a couple, furniture that was keeping us together.

Well, that's nothing compared to a 30 year mortgage. The government may not allow us to get married, but I can't imagine being any more committed than jointly owing hundreds of thousands of dollars to a bank.