Sweat, dirt, glitter, and cockroaches

After the worse move ever, I’m in my new apartment sleeping under a poop-brown painted ceiling.

My mom and I walked a little over a mile Saturday morning to pick up a moving truck and drove it back to my apartment, worrying about parking. But there was a large space – right in front of my door. We thought our luck was changing.

I finished packing – throwing things in Pink bags and stuffing clothes in suitcases. A guy who lives above me helped us move the sofa bed into the truck after having to remove my door. After sweating profusely we (I should say my mom) drove the truck from Queens to Brooklyn.

My new street is narrow. Labor Day weekend is also the time of a huge festival in my neighborhood. We didn’t hit any cars, but we had to park down the street in front of a fire hydrant. I finally got my keys and opened my door – to find it filthy. Nothing was done. The living room was covered in dirt and dust and there was food on the kitchen floor. The wall to the second bedroom was half finished with a door too large for the frame and a missing door knob.

This guy who apparently works in the building who I got the keys from said he cleaned it. We argued with him for a long time but got no where. He said if I wanted it sparkling clean I’d have to do it myself. So while our truck sat in front of the fire hydrant, we bought a bunch of cleaning supplies in an attempt to clean the place.

It was getting late and we hadn’t moved anything yet. After mopping several times the water was still black and there was still dirt (and glitter?) all over the floor. Who knows what the previous tenant was in to. We were getting desperate.

We found three guys on the street to help us. We thought we could pay them $20 for 10 minutes of their time to move the sofa bed because I had an elevator. Easy. No.

It wouldn’t fit. The bed kept falling out. We had no rope. We were ready to give up but these guys wouldn’t. We bought them beer. Then a bottle of vodka. And a rope. They tried the stairs, but couldn’t get past the first landing. They took the mattress out and pushed and shoved until it fit in the elevator – and into my apartment.

They didn’t leave after that, instead they helped us move everything out of the truck. And by moving I mean we threw everything in the elevator and ran up the stairs to get ready to empty it out on the second floor. We ended the night by passing around the bottle of vodka in my new apartment – my mom, these three guys, and I.

But the night wasn’t over. We still had to drive the truck back to Queens – just to take the subway back to Brooklyn. It was 2:30 a.m. by the time we crashed. I still had to clean my old apartment the next day.

I felt like we were cleaning ladies that weekend. I carried a Swiffer and cleaning supplies from apartment to apartment on the subway, covered in sweat. On Monday I told my mom no more cleaning – she was leaving that evening and we had yet to enjoy ourselves.

Monday was the first time we entered Manhattan (besides for commuting on the subway) and we sat outside at a French bistro called Matisse and happily enjoyed a boozy brunch and each other’s company for the last two hours we had together. It was raining but we didn’t care. We sipped our bloody mary's (chugged) as we watched a tour bus break down and the cars behind it drive up on the sidewalk to get past it (not without honking, of course).

I was planning to do this move by myself, or at least bribe a couple friends to help me. But I couldn’t have done it without my mom. It was a beautiful end to an awful weekend, even though we left each other crying.

Now I’m killing cockroaches (yes, roaches) and sleeping under a brown ceiling. But I have to look on the bright side: I'm not homeless, my commute to the city is much faster, and I love my neighborhood. I'm basically the only white girl but I will enjoy – and learn – the ethnicity here. 

#NosleeptillBrooklyn