Put me in a packed apartment...

... and I go a little crazy.

I just can't sit around and watch TV when surrounded by boxes. The neurotic inside me cries out "What if you really need a hand blender and a pair of mittens?" As such, I am a compulsive unpacker unless literally dragged to the couch (which is now, amusingly, completely box-free due to my efforts). 

It probably doesn't help that I may be a little high off paint fumes. 

On the bright side, the actual move went phenomenally smooth. We had a whopping nine people shuttling our stuff up the horrendous purple carpeted stairs, meaning we were able to move both the Duke and I out of our respective apartments and into the new one by 3pm. Which included some serious maneuvering skills with the moving truck after the asshats doing construction a few doors down from me decided to park their enormous truck on one side of the narrow residential street, and their dumpster directly across from it. It was seriously a matter of inches.

My one pet peeve, however, is pack rat accusations. Inevitably, these always come from men who own three plates and one pan. Don't hate on me because I have the fixings to cook you up a casseroles and an angel food cake! 

I am happy to report that the apartment is even more fabulous than I recalled. The two of us keep on looking around in awe, saying "I can't believe this is ours!" We're used to being able to hear each others every move in my old place-- now we have to shout to hear each other when in different rooms. The only thing I find a little disturbing is the excess amount of mirrors. You know, the unfortunate "didn't-you-want-to-watch-yourself-pee" mirror, and the "hey-look-there's-me-first-thing-in-the-morning" mirrored closet right across from our bed. 

Now that the boxes are close to unpacked, I'm putting on my decorator hat-- which, by proxy, also includes my handywoman hat. Although I'm no superstar in this regards, I can hang a shelf if need be, and my toolbox actually kicks the Duke's toolbox's ass. However, after unsuccessfully negotiating a hammer, nails, tape measure, and leveler while standing on my kitchen table in an attempt to hang a set of in-wall candleholder in perfect diagonal fashion, and failing miserably (they looked level from 8 feet off the ground!), I feel like tucking my tail behind my legs a little. Especially after I tried to do the much easier act of hanging one of my paintings, only to find that the set of picture hangers I'd purchased yesterday bent in a matter of seconds. 

The 12-year old in me (who is consequently also high on paint fumes) tells me that I should play scientist with my new garburator instead, and see what I can plausibly shove down my sink. An entire block of styrofoam? A mango? Excitement!!