Movin' On Up

After two years of living with practically no water pressure in the kitchen, a large bump in the living room wall, and horribly, expensively cold winters, the Husband and I decided that it was time to move. I've talked before about the difficulties of renting a dog-friendly apartment in a college town, so I won't rehash this year's adventures in slumminess. Suffice it to say that photos can lie and that slumlords with memorable phone numbers can trick you into visiting their rentals by using a second phone line.

Let's focus on the positive, though, shall we? We are moving to a Lustron home. In case you're not in a link-following mood, I'll summarize. These were houses thought up after WWII as a way of taking advantage of all the surplus steel. They are made of steel, inside and out. Even the walls are steel. We are basically moving into a filing cabinet. But it's a cute little filing cabinet! It's got all these little built-in (steel) shelves and a big backyard and, best of all, a functioning kitchen sink. It's carpeted, which is kind of a downer after years of living with hardwood floors, but the carpeting is new. It is within walking distance of the farmer's market and the library and a park that rents out garden plots.

All of that is why we start moving tomorrow. Our current lease ends at the end of the month. The Husband kept saying how great it would be if we could move in a week early, but then decided not to bother our current landlord about it. But then the current landlord called us, and asked if we'd be willing or able to move out early. At that point, we had already arranged to have all of our utilities transferred and made a reservation on a van, not to mention the fact that I had arranged to visit Melinda for this weekend. But, oh my lord, the water. The slow-dripping water from our kitchen tap, it drives us mad. And moving early would save us money. So we agreed. We get our keys and move a few boxes tomorrow, and the big move is Saturday. And despite the fact that I spent nearly an hour on the phone with AT&T changing our move date - and the fact that rather than holding Melinda's baby and playing with her Wii, I will be crying (literally!) because our couch is really heavy and awkward and we have too much stuff - I am glad that we're moving. Because I am tired of living in a moldy house and would very much like to move into my file cabinet now.

Dear Catastrophe Server

We have friends here who own a food business, one aspect of which is catering. They don't do a lot of large events, so when they were getting ready for a wedding, they asked the Husband and me if we'd be interested in being servers. We agreed, but I was terrified. There is a reason that I was never a waitress. I have no grace or coordination. Waitresses balance large trays of food and drink (much of it hot!), and walk through crowded rooms, and remove the items from the tray one by one, all without spilling anything. I can barely walk through a crowded room empty-handed without hurting myself or those around me. The meal at this wedding was to be served family style, so I would just be carrying out the platters of food and putting them on the table for the people to deal with. That only meant that when I dumped something on someone, it would be a whole platterful. It was official: I was going to ruin a wedding reception.

Fast forward to yesterday, which was the big day. I'll give away the ending here, and say that I did not actually ruin the reception. My height, or lack thereof, worked against me, since it was hard to reach to get the platters to the middle of the table. I had to sort of shove myself between people to get my arms far enough in, but I don't think it bothered anyone too much. I was kind of slow, too, but overall, I did well enough. (The Husband did fine too, but he didn't have any anxieties about it, and he thought I was weird for being worried.)

On the other hand, I learned the actual reason that I was never a waitress: I am a wimp. We were on our feet for nine hours, and except for a few lulls, we were busy the whole time. By the end of the night, my knees and back were throbbing. There was a point while clearing the tables, that the utterly Sisyphean nature of the task occurred to me (so. many. plates.) and I felt close to tears. (Bear in mind that this was late, and I am a fragile flower who is used to five-hour shifts.) There were aspects of it that were a refreshing change from my job. I really liked how the time flew by and the sense that I was constantly doing useful things. Overall, though I am glad to go back to my day job, where there are far more snot-covered children, but where I rarely stay longer than 7 and a half hours.

Really, though, nine hours was nothing. Maybe what I really am is too wimpy to be a caterer. Our friends who own the business had already been at it for a while when we got there - one of them had gotten up at 4am to start the cooking for the day - and they're going back tomorrow to finish clearing out their stuff. That's not even factoring in the fact that they cooked several of the items in advance. Or the fact that they have two young children who have probably been up since 5am today.

So kudos to all of you working in the service industry. May you have supportive shoes and a glass of something comforting to come home to. And may you never be forced to work alongside me.