We woke up Friday morning and headed out for our last three of hours of driving, sans burrito in the glove box. We wanted to stop for lunch in a big city and decided Baltimore would do the trick. Beatrice seemed cranky (again with the U-turns, this time on the freeway) so we opted to figure it out on our own; how hard could it be? That question was answered soon enough when we found ourselves in what I can find no other description for than “The Projects”. Apparently, there are two downtown Baltimore signs, and we took the wrong one. We took the one to a place where the only stores that haven’t been vandalized and abandoned are the ones selling liquor, which are on every weed-ridden corner. A place where, I guess, they don’t sell shirts, just bandanas. A place where the dead-stares you get from the people sitting on chairs on the sidewalk make you surreptitiously lock the door with your elbow.
A city worker was weed eating a little corner of ground around a telephone pole where there was more garbage lying on the grass than there was grass, and rather than bothering to remove the garbage first, he just went ahead with the job, scattering bits of Styrofoam and paper all over the place and maybe getting the grass a little. I watched this entire episode while stuck in traffic, looking out of the other window at the van full of smoking children if I got bored.
It was an enormous relief to get out of there and we ditched the whole lunch in Baltimore plan; one adrenaline rush per day is enough for anyone. On our way out, we came up to a stoplight that had just turned yellow, so we stopped. The car behind us was having none of that. They couldn’t care less that the light was now red – they swerved into the lane of oncoming traffic in order to pass us and then sped through the intersection, laying on the horn the entire time. I looked at Taylor in wide-eyed wonder and said, “Our first pissed-off east cost driver!” and we shared an enthusiastic high-five. There were less high-fives as we encountered more of these delightful individuals, but we’ll always remember our first time with a rush of warm feelings.
Somewhere along the way, we passed a sign that said “Wheeling Jesuits”. I spent a few interesting minutes wondering about the difference between a Jesuit and a wheeling Jesuit, until I realized we were actually passing through a town called Wheeling. Oohh, I get it now. Back to less important ponderings, I guess.
When we finally pulled up to the apartment, it was raining like mad and Taylor insisted on walking across the parking lot from the leasing office to see the apartment before we signed the lease, as if that was the smart thing to do or something. So we check it out, decide the green stuff growing all over the deck is normal for a city so close to the coast, and head back to the office looking like a couple of drowned rats (that rain was serious). Signing the lease felt like more paperwork than we went through when buying our house, and it cost a lot more money, too. On the bright side, though, the office has a DVD collection that you can borrow from for free whenever you feel like it, and I got a cool magnetic pass to the workout room. I’m sure I’ll use that as much as I used a gym in Idaho…so, never.
Once I started unloading the truck, I was thrilled that we had sold everything, because there are FOUR little flights of stairs going up to our apartment. I was coming down the last flight of stairs, panting because we have FOUR flights of them, and I saw someone standing next to Taylor. I was ready to whip out my pepper spray but upon further investigation, I found out it was our neighbor, James. I was soaking wet from the rain, red-faced from hauling things up FOUR flights of stairs, and still panting. I’m sure I looked impressive, especially when Taylor introduced me as “his female”, a habit he picked up somewhere that I keep trying to break him of. (We are not wild animals,Taylor.) James seemed nice enough, but this IS the east coast, so I’ll be keeping my eye on him. For all I know, he was scoping out the goods in the back of our truck. Good things our goods only consist of ten or so boxes filled with towels, toilet paper, and every yearbook I’ve ever gotten. (That box was terrible to haul up FOUR flights of stairs.) I promised in my first note that I would let you guys know how all the eating was working out for my figure, and it turns out that it won’t be a problem, thanks to all these stairs. Did I mention how many? I’ll get back to you with an exact count.
While unpacking, I plunged my hand into a box labeled “bathroom” and it came back out slathered in some oily substance. Apparently, one of us figured a full bottle of spray sunscreen would manage a cross-country trip just fine in the broiling heat. This was not the case. Fortunately, because whomever it was at least had the foresight to put it in a plastic bag (with several other items), the mess was at least somewhat contained. Because I was in no mood to deal with it, I now have a plastic bag in the master bathtub, filled with shampoo bottles bobbing in a river of liquid sunscreen. So, I’ve got that going for me when I get bored.
A quick trip to Wal-Mart provided us with the essentials: a thingy to blow up the air mattress, microwave burritos, and a toaster oven. The toaster oven was a must, according to Taylor. He was so enamored with it that he posted it on Instagram. If a toaster oven is all it takes to make him happy after driving 2,404 miles away from home, then a toaster oven it is.
The next day we got a little more in depth as far as stocking the apartment went. We got up bright and early and scoured the town for garage sales. Beatrice was a necessary evil in this endeavor. I look forward to a time when her services are no longer needed, but for now, we live to please Beatrice, whose demands get more unrealistic by the day. Personally, I think there are actual employees at Google who, for fun on a slow day, type in ridiculous commands for Beatrice to relay to poor, lost souls, and then laugh and laugh in their little air conditioned offices at the havoc they wreak. But I digress.
The most promising garage sale proclaimed from the Craigslist rooftops (meaning their ad was typed in all caps) that they were having a massive moving sale and everything in the house must go. This translated into a small driveway with a mirror, a cooler, and a box of small, random items. Thanks for that, jackies.
After some strange price negotiating, I did get a sweet set of red, square plates at a garage sale raising money for a kid’s soccer team to go to Norway. I discovered the plates while Taylor was haggling over some plastic lawn chairs. I asked the closest little soccer player, who appeared to be bursting with joy at my presence amongst her carefully arranged sale items,how much they were. She said in a rush “Fivedollarsoronedollarfortheset!” I’m sorry, I said, so you’re asking five dollars for the set? No, she replied, just one dollar. “One dollar for four big plates, two little plates, and a bowl?” I asked. Her mother appeared and confirmed that this price would be acceptable. Perhaps because I had just had so many awful garage sales myself, I responded,“There is no way I’m taking all of these for one dollar, I’ll give you at least three.” I may be the only person on earth arguing to pay a higher price at a garage sale, but squishing tiny Norway soccer dreams isn’t something I want on my soul's tab. I paid my three dollars and left, feeling disappointed that there was only one bowl, but reasoning that I could find red bowls almost anywhere. This, however, turned out to be sadly untrue. There is someone in this town, and one day I will find her, who is on the same quest for red bowls that I am, and she is ahead of me. Every store I’ve gone to has bowls in every color of the rainbow except red; they are always out of red. Eventually, this person will tire of filling their cupboard with red bowls, and I will be victorious in my quest. Until then, only one of us will be having cereal for breakfast around this apartment. This should be fine, since Taylor is currently set on making everything he eats in the toaster oven.
We found a neat little dresser for $25 at another garage sale, wrought though it was with creepy crawlies. I was happily moving it into the back of the truck when, after setting it on its side, I saw a long-legged, fanged thing scurrying across the bottom, ready to defend the dozen or so egg sacs it had laid in the corners. I danced around for a good five minutes after that, shaking my hands and uttering obscenities while Taylor cleaned them all off. Even though I cleaned it thoroughly once we got home, I still triple check every thread of my underwear before putting them on. When I am gone from this world, an entry into “Top 15 Most Bizarre Hospital Visits of 2013” is not the legacy I want to leave behind.
Craigslist deals are pretty cutthroat around here. You have to get the app on your phone and then watch it like a hawk, because if you don’t call within five minutes, it gets snatched up. Or so I assume, since no one would text me back for the first two days. Finally, around midnight, a leather couch posted and I texted within seconds. When I got a text back I felt like I’d won the lottery.
When we went to pick it up, I texted the address to my friend Steven with instructions to call the swat team and send them with guns if I didn’t text him within five minutes of my arrival. Then I got to chatting with the nice man selling the couch, who was offering to get Taylor some information on a job, and almost forgot to text Steven. That could have been a fun ordeal. Better safe than sorry, we all know that Craigslist killers don’t come from Idaho, those sick bastards hail from the east.
We’re still searching for a suitable coffee table, though Taylor spent a good portion of the day constructing one out of cardboard boxes and duct tape. It will take some convincing on my part for him to agree that this is not suitable furniture for company.
When done with garage sales for the day, the next order of business was to find a bed. Taylor and I have been meaning to get a new bed for a long time, mostly because he sleeps like a man who has suddenly found himself in the thick of a wasp’s nest. It is not uncommon for me to wake up in the middle of the night, thinking there’s an earthquake, only to realize that the only thing shaking is our bed because Taylor is flopping around all over the place in a dead sleep. I am an unbearable monster of a woman when I’m tired, so in order to save Taylor from any further confrontations with that monster, I was taking this bed thing seriously. I wasn’t walking out of that store without a bed that could actually hold a glass of wine upright while I hurled bowling balls onto its surface.
Now, like any car lot, a mattress store is never complete without a fast-talking, sleazy salesman. This was no exception. After explaining what I needed, we were immediately led to a $3000 bed that, according to the salesman, was the only thing in the world that was going to solve my sleeping problems. I informed him that I would never, in a million years, spend $3000 on a bed. “But it has individually wrapped coils”, he said. “Are they made of solid gold?” I asked. He answered by pulling out a little coil sample that compares regular coils with these magical, individually wrapped coils. “See this?” he asked, pushing the coils down with a cardboard cutout that was supposed to represent the side of my sleeping body. I could sense that it was going to be awhile as he launched into the wonders of those damn individually wrapped coils, so I flopped onto my stomach on the nearest bed with my chin in my hands, looking expectant. I let him run through the entire speech, mostly because interrupting had no effect on his diatribe. After listening, wide-eyed, to the perils of a coil without its very own wrapping, I repeated that spending $3000 on a bed was something best left to the Kardashians. “Listen,” he said, “do you know why people won’t spend a lot of money on a bed? Because they can’t show it off. It’s the most important thing you’ll ever buy but because you can’t show it off to your friends, you go cheap.” Oh, you insightful, commission hungry little do-gooder. “You listen,” I said, “I’d show my bed off to anyone, anytime. I’m gonna post a picture of that sucker on Facebook, so drop the cheapskate assumptions and show me a bed that doesn’t cost more than three months rent.” For whatever reason, Tom the store manager took over the sale at this point. Pulling out the big guns, I see.
Tom exclaimed that it was my lucky day (isn’t it always) because they just happened to have some beds in the back of the store that I could afford without going into early retirement due to a bad back as a result of sleeping on them. (And wouldn’t you know it, not one of them had the dreaded multi-coils-in-just-one-wrapping issue.) I went rolling into the back, pulled these mattresses onto to the floor, laid down, and instructed Taylor to give it everything he had. I did this until I found a mattress that allowed me to lay in perfect, undisturbed slumber while Taylor jumped, wriggled and danced all the hell over it. Throughout this process, Tom was rattling off the various reasons why I would consider myself lucky to sleep on each mattress, which I interrupted at my leisure when I was ready for the next tryout.
Before I handed over any money, I looked up some reviews on my phone, announcing that I was doing so in case they had any confessions to make. Tom had some trash to talk: “Well, there may be some reviews on this chain of mattress stores, but like I tell everyone, there are no reviews on Tom.” Okay Tom, I’m not buying you, so go sit down for a minute.
There were indeed some ugly reviews about this particular store, so I asked Tom how long he had worked there. He informed me that he had been with this company for two years, but he’d been selling mattresses since he came out of the womb. Sure, Tom, sure. All I want to know is, if I have any kind of problem with my bed, am I going to be able to call this place up and talk to you, or are you quitting tomorrow? He assured me that he would be there to assist in all my mattress troubles, should there be any. Okay, I said, and if I call you, are you going to give me a 1-800 number and then head to lunch? Oh no, he said, all problems are handled in store. Well, I replied, I couldn’t help but overhear your phone call earlier, where you directed a customer with a warranty issue to the corporate number. After a moment of silence in which Tom smiled wryly at me, he informed me that that particular customer’s complaint was ridiculous. She was calling to inform him that, while doing “her business”,the bed would squeak. Dear lord.
Well, Tom, I don’t want any issues with a squeaky bed, but if that or any other ridiculous problem should arise, I guess I should expect that it can’t be handled instore? Well, he said importantly, you went with the individually wrapped coils, so you won’t run into that problem.
Really, I was tired of the words “individually wrapped coils”, and I really wanted to go home. So, I bought the bed, with assurances that he would make it fit into our truck when it came in on Wednesday because, after all, he just bought his own set of individually wrapped coils and got it home by strapping it to the roof of his Saturn. I bet you did, Tom, I just bet you did.
Since I am unashamed of buying a mattress and still having enough money for groceries, expect pictures soon, and a full tour should you stop by for a visit.
In other news, whenever the WiFi network list pops up on my computer, I see one that says “FBI Van”. Mmm Hmm.
The closest gas station is the WaWa, a name that we’ve had an excellent time making fun of. I mean really, “I’m going to the WaWa, you need anything?” Also, they don’t sell beer at the gas stations here. In Maryland, only the liquor stores can handle serious business like that.
Speaking of the WaWa, Taylor decided he needed to head down there on his skateboard last night at 9:30. I predicted that certain death would arise from this venture and begged him not to go. He insisted that it would be fine, so I sent him with my pepper spray and instructions to text me the second he arrived, and then again as he was leaving. He obliged, and while he made it there and back without being assaulted by the shady characters I imagined hiding in the bushes, it was the worst ten minutes of my life. It was dark outside and he didn’t make it any easier by insisting that I keep the doors locked while he was gone.
Things are shaping up around the apartment and it’s starting to look like people live here. Taylor has claimed the main bathroom and it was only after arguing that guests would use that bathroom, should we have any, that I was able to avoid decorating it with a cheap, plastic Star Wars shower curtain.
The bugs around here are really something. One monster mosquito gets into the apartment and the safari hunt is on, failure means a swollen bite on your right ear (I speak from experience, folks). After hearing the noises from my back patio on the first night, I spent the next day searching the masses of trees for some sign of the tropical birds and other wildlife that I was sure were living in there. I came to the conclusion that, while they must certainly be there, they must be nocturnal. This belief persisted until one of the locals educated me about cicadas. How an insect can make that much noise, I’ll never know. The same local also told me all about cicada killers after I told him a detailed story about how my life had been threatened by the inch and a half long insect that interrupted my morning coffee. He assured me that I would come to no harm while sharing my balcony with said bug, but I remain cautious.
Tomorrow, I attempt to drive somewhere that isn’t Idaho and isn’t a freeway. I’ve got a thing about driving here, and by a thing, I mean I’m scared to death. I would be happy to have Taylor escort me around for the next five years, but it’s possible that that’s too far outside the bounds of reason. I don’t know how to avoid tollbooths if I need to get outside of the little city we live in, I assume that when I’m unsure where to turn, the people behind me will start shooting immediately, and since it took me until I was twenty years old to know where everything was in Idaho Falls, there is no hope for me here. If you don’t see another Facebook note detailing my east coast driving adventures, just assume someone took me out for not rolling through a stop sign fast enough.
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