Shhhhh.

You will all be pleased to know that I have finally closed the Excel window containing the packing list. We're two hours short of an exact week since E, Chulito and I have been completely moved in at the new place, and all of our boxes are unpacked.

Since we've been here, we've worked virtually non-stop. Neither of us is fond of chaos and the sooner we can organize and hang our art and arrange our furniture, the sooner we can get to truly living in the new place.Moving on. Many of you probably already know this, but I'm part of a cult. It's a good one though. Oprah is a member. I actually joined before she did, but I admit I felt a wave of approval when I saw it featured on O's show. Like when I buy one of her books in Barnes & Noble. I obviously, rip the sticker off immediately. But, inside, I feel warm knowing that not only did Oprah read the same book, she loved it.Oh Oprah. The power you have over me.

Since the last big holiday season, I have had a clipping from the Jonathan Adler catalog on my refrigerator.

The 10 Commandments of Happy Chic
2. Thou shalt not deny thyself hotelish comfort at home. Thou shalt furnish thy rooms with paw-pampering, hand-loomed llama wool rugs, luxurious lighting and our fabulous furniture. Thy rooms shalt feel like the most opulent hotel rooms in which thou hast ever stayed. Thou art worth it.

When our first ever official guests, HRH & "A" (her quotes, not mine.) came over, the first thing they said was something to the effect of, "This is like a hotel."

That, my friends, is The Secret.

Since Erica and I moved in together, we have treated our apartment like we owned it. We furnished it as if it were a (moderately affordable) true home. And we bought things that were nice and made us neurotic every time Andrew, our dear friend the klutz, came over to eat. The things we've accumulated over the years are nice. But there was always the sense of putting makeup on a pig. A very attractive, comfortable pig, but at it's core, a pig. You know, I loved our old apartment and appreciate it for everything we had there, but there were always things I wished I could change about it. (By the way, HRH is not the only one addicted to things. I am a material girl. I love the decadence of Times Square. I love the anal-retentive neatness and predictability of The Gap. I am not green. I only hope that the World Wildlife Federation and Greenpeace can forgive me.)

However, as I've been unpacking our furniture and our art and our beloved tchotchke crap, it's all making sense. We finally are in a home that matches our taste and accommodates our beautiful stuff. Something that happened as a result of practicing The Secret. (Seriously. Don't knock it until you've tried it. Kum Ba Yaaaaaah!)

The Secret tells us that there is, based on the fact that everything on this planet is composed of pure energy, a universal Law of Attraction. Basically, good energy attracts good, bad energy attracts bad. Several of the speakers in the film suggest that you live as if you already have your dreams. The theory is that once you put yourself in the mindset of already having what you want, you open yourself up to it and it appears.

Well, we lived as if we were in our own home. We lived as if we were in a place worthy of the nice things we filled it with. And just as Erica and I were realizing that we were growing out of the old place and could no longer do anything to make it nicer than it was, or to make it perfect for us without breaking the agreements set forth in our lease, we found our dream place. We beat out a bidding war -- even though we were not the highest bidders. We got a down payment from Erica's parents. We got a mortgage. (My credit history is evidence enough that this was not just natural occurrence. This was a miracle.) And most importantly, we are here.

And, truly, my first step toward it was hanging Jonathan's second commandment on the adequate, but not perfect refrigerator at 79 Carroll Street.

Chez Chulo -- The End of an Era

It's over. Erica and I have crossed the threshold of Chez Chulo, nee 79 Carroll Street, for the final time. This past Saturday nine angels came to move everything we had. My dear friend, El Jimador and eight amazing other guys showed up at 9AM (actually one showed up at 8. I'll get to that in a minute.)

These guys arrived in two 20' trucks, an SUV of some sort and an exact replica of Tony Soprano's Escalade. (One of the angels is having an identity crisis.) Within an hour, the entirety of our life at Chez Chulo had been packed into the trucks and was on its way to Park Slope and HomOwnership. By 2PM the guys have loaded the trucks, driven over to Park Slope, unloaded, moved the stuff into the apartment, sat down for lunch (which a tenth angel showed up to pay for) and I had my first Home Depot experience as a home owner. That is a moment that is simply indescribable.
That afternoon Erica and I returned to the old place to do our final sweep of the place and finish priming the last room. Well, being The Princess you know and love, in my excitement over being a HomOwner in Home Depot, I got the wrong primer. Oil based.

Crap.

Erica was out at the local drugstore picking up her final bottle of pills from her closest friend in the neighborhood, so I cleaned the kitchen, swept the whole place, threw out my last bag of trash and waited for E to return. When E got back we called a car and went into the backyard for our last time. Your Princess held it together amazingly well. My voice only cracked once and tears never actually fell.
But, before we left, I turned the fence lights on.
So. Back to the 8AM angel.

This angel is a special angel. This angel was recently released from prison after serving 25 years for a murder he committed when he was 18 years old. I don't know the details of the case but judging by his age and where he's from, my guess is that it was drug or gang related rather than some psycho, "The call is coming from inside the house," type murder.

I realize that many of you may not agree with me, but The Princess believes that there is a difference. (Now, I remind you, I am making these statements based on presumption. But I think my assumption is an educated one, so we're going with it.) I imagine that a lot of my fans would not take too kindly to a recently released from federal prison murderer helping move all of their worldly possessions into their new home. For me, it's strangely not a big deal -- except I enjoyed meeting him and spending time with him because it was amazing to see what growing up in Maximum Security will do to you.

I do admit that there was a moment after I sent Erica out with, we'll call him Maximum Security, to pick up coffee. I wondered for a second if that was a good idea, but that was squelched by the thought that he wasn't the cuckoo killer, just the gang killer, so I figured as long as she didn't piss him off or try to invade his turf, she'd be okay.

So, what was interesting about a day with MS was seeing his social interaction. Very odd.

First of all, he came into our house as if he and I were BFF. (Remember, he showed up solo an hour prior to anyone else.) Plus, as he rang our doorbell, he had his forehead pressed to the window looking in. Nothing threatening, you see, just a little too familiar for the first time you're meeting someone. Someone who is technically your client.

Then there were little etiquette issues. (Yes. I know. Snobby, but I am The Princess. It fits.) MS was a little presumptuous with things like sitting on top of my coat and purse in the only chair that had stuff in it. Either he was rude, or he didn't notice, or was opposed to the comfort of sitting directly on the cushion of the chair that was across the room with no coat or purse on it.

Again -- not malicious, odd.

Once we were at the new place, Erica took the ground floor and I took upstairs . We pointed where the angels should put things and made sure the stuff was on the right floor. MS complained that he couldn't do the downstairs stuff because going through the basement (this was not an easy load-in) affected his asthma -- which he mentioned to me many, many times. The Princess, being an asthma sufferer herself, had no sympathy for this. So, MS changed tactics.

Throughout the afternoon, MS tried the asthma sympathy card, the "look at all of this stuff I moved in. I did it all by myself" card while panting dramatically. (And while standing upstairs, a second angel came in and out several times with boxes that MS still maintained were moved by him, personally.) Then I got the "look how huge my arms are" story. I had to touch them several times and assure him, "Yes. They are huge and very strong." (I too, was trying not to piss him off.) It felt as if he were trying to impress me or get on my good side in any way possible. Probably something that was very necessary in prison with anyone who seemed to be an authority figure.

As the boys were packing up, I tipped each of them and MS snatched the money out of my hands like a starving stray taking bacon. Again, I feel this is obviously learned behavior from growing up in an environment where every thing you had needed to be guarded constantly. Interesting. A bit intimidating -- especially when he was standing on the sidewalk with his hood up and his sunglasses on and his arms folded in a "I dare you to fuck with me" pose -- but all in all, a seemingly decent guy.

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.