The Big Comfy Couch

Yesterday I ventured out to take advantage of the beautiful afternoon. And when I say ventured, I mean I had to take the NYC subway and it was the most exhausting/exhilarating moment of my life. Too bad that wasn’t even going to be the highlight of my day, because on any other day it would have been blogworthy.

I was to meet up with my good friend LL and my newest city friend Theresa. I had explicit directions from my Iphone that told me that in order to get to the LES and meet up with these ladies I had to take the 6, then transfer to the F at Broadway-Lafayette to go to 2nd Avenue. Well, I was a little late because several trains went by, but they were not clearly marked F, so I refused to get on. Anyway, I digress because the real fun was right around the corner.

Me and the ladies were going to have some brunch and pick up a couch that they found on my favorite creepster hotspot, Craigslist for their new apartment. We meet these super nice gals who were selling their couch and there was an exchange of some dinero. At this time we were waiting for the professional movers that were also found on Craigslist that were supposed to maneuver the couch out of the LES and up, up town.

Well I was not prepared for what I saw come up those stairs … there was a man, who I can only describe as scrawny. Like wayyyyy scrawny. He said something about being an ex-professional skateboarder. I couldn’t really focus on him because I was too busy staring at his "business partner." She was a small person (as in short) with the biggest breasts I have ever seen in my life. She must have noticed my mouth hanging open because she said, "I’m really strong." Well these professionals were of zero help, unless you count help as knocking pictures off the wall, ripping a couch, and damaging a front door, but who am I?, obviously not a professional mover.

The movers must have gotten sick of us telling them how to do their job because we went out to check on the status of the move and they had left the giant sleeper sofa jammed in the narrow stairwell. Left, as in, fled the scene. LL called them, and the big breasted, little woman, said something like, "Wait to talk shit about us after we move your stuff, bird." I don’t understand the 'bird' reference, but will now call everyone I know bird.

We were obviously incapable of moving this behemoth anywhere. Theresa frantically called other movers off Craigslist to see what the deal was and if anyone could help. We were a real fire hazard and several people had to climb over the railing to get by. Finally 3 strong, handsome, and extremely nice young men picked up the sofa, brought it down three flights of stairs, and high-fived us girls who could do nothing but stare at them in awe.

Damsels in distress we were, and we were more than happy to be rescued.

Below is a pic of Theresa waiting for the second bunch of movers after the couch made it down the stairs.

Easter Purging

Yesterday afternoon, I was at the end of my rope. I was on my knees gripping the lid of the toilet, with my finger as far down my throat as I could muster. I am ashamed to say I had been here before and it was all my doing. I don’t know what put me over the edge. Perhaps it was that last meatball or the fresh mozzarella smothered in balsamic vinegar and olive oil. No – I know what it was. It was that bowl of chocolate trifle for desert. In my defense, it was fat-free cool whip.

Oh boy, I really felt sick after Easter dinner. Between the yummy appetizers, Italian wedding soup, and pasta my dad slaved over, I was donezo. I could hardly move. I ran/crawled upstairs to the bathroom where I wasn't quite sure what would happen. After that clammy feeling came on and writhing on the floor for a few moments, it became very clear to me what had to be done.

"Pull the trigger," I heard over and over in my head. "You have done this before." Well, normally it’s done 3am and only because the room is spinning. This was not the case yesterday. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of eating anything my dad makes knows what I am talking about. The man, if nothing else, can cook. And he wants you to eat until you drop. I've been known to give in on a few occasions, yesterday was a holiday, after all.

However, Big Mike is also a fan of the summer BBQ at our beach house in Clinton. Sissy won’t eat in a bathing suit. I think she is on to something. Nothing says sexxxxy more than a bathing suit busting at the seams and a face covered in Big Mike’s bbq sauce (I don’t know how he makes it, but it takes several days and is quite labor intensive. His ex-sister-in-law says Big Mike has made 3 good things in his life: me, sissy, and that bbq chicken). In order to avoid the busting bathing suit syndrome, this summer I vow to eat in stretch pants. Crisis averted.