The Broad’s Side of moving

I’m sure that nobody really enjoys the process of moving. Who likes the concept of packing up your life into boxes? With that being said, my impending relocation is something that I probably deserve. You see, I made the genius call to move back in with my ex-husband five months ago. What the hell was I thinking, you ask? I’m not really sure that either one of us can speak to the clusterfuck that was created by this poorly thought out decision. I fell for the whole ‘do it for the sake of the child’ argument. It’s reminiscent of the time I actually believed the ‘Playstation 3 is a dvd player too’ bullshit. Hello six hours of Grand Theft Auto on the 60 inch flat screen. Aside from the whole not getting laid factor… I actually like being alone, but not to the level of spinster or anything. It turns out that I really like it when there aren’t little piss puddles surrounding the toilet bowl. Jesus, I realize the man is 6’5”… but you’d think maybe a slight knee bend might be in order if the target is that unobtainable. Every once in a while I hear the ever-charming hiccups en-route to my bedroom in the middle of the night. That’s a real treat. Who doesn’t find that wildly attractive? Ooh… I can only hope I get barfed on as well. Don’t even get me started on ‘operation pee-cam’. My ex made a pathetic attempt to get my cell phone password by strategically placing a Flip video camera on top of the étagère above the toilet bowl. Apparently, dudes are text shitters. He thought I might be so inclined to send inappropriate text messages while perched on the can. I can honestly say that the thought has never crossed my mind. Naturally I thought he had some deviant urine stream fetish that I’d been left in the dark on for years. Every R Kelly song ever written raced through my head. He was astonished that I believed he was into pee-cam videos. WTF? What would you think?

In the midst of this uprooting of my life for the second time this year, my ex has our former love shack on the market. This became somewhat problematic for me last week. The realtor showing the house is supposed to notify the property owner of showings. Evidently, this is just a suggestion as I discovered the hard way. I was getting ready for my once a week late shift at work with some assistance from Axl Rose. My stirring rendition of ‘Sweet Child O Mine’ drowned out the sounds of the unwelcomed intruders. If there’s a manual on how NOT to sell your home, I’m pretty sure it includes my naked jig I was doing while simultaneously air guitaring and ironing my pants. What does one say when caught in such a position? More importantly, does someone in an ill-fitting gold blazer really have the right to judge? I muttered something impressive like, “I think you’ll really like the neighborhood.” I’m pretty sure the interested party signed a lease later that afternoon in a high rise apartment with secured entrances.

I’m a huge procrastinator when it comes to shit that I frankly have no interest in doing. Hence, I haven’t packed a god-damned thing for my move on Saturday (five days from now for those keeping track). I’ve used some awesome excuses. Superbowl was actually a pretty decent one… and I’m glad the Saints won. My allegiance actually came down to which reality TV whore I’d prefer seeing at the White House. Kim Kardashian or Kendra Baskett? Some of my weaker excuses were : 1- Spending 3 hours on TMZ trying to determine if Brad and Angelina were breaking up or are due to adopt a Haitian orphan. 2- An amazing “I know you are, but what am I?” argument with my 3 year old. 3- About a dozen hours taking retarded Facebook quizzes designed by horny teenage boys, which incidentally is my new target audience. I’m embracing the cougar persona in twenty-ten.

My ex and his friends are helping me move, which is thoughtful considering what an outright abortion this whole experiment turned out to be. These guys have helped me moved on several other occasions over the past ten years, so they’re already expecting to ‘accidentally’ discover vibrators in my nightstand drawer. I guess that’s a pretty un-original place for sex toy storage, but convenience is key. Who has time for a combination lock box for Christ’s sake? That’s such an unfair double standard. Guys can just spontaneously yank it at any given moment. Somebody sees a 12 inch dong in my dresser drawer and I’m supposed to blush, right? That’s bullshit, I tell you! It’s time for me to go invent some new reasons not to pack (like writing this when I should be boxing up jeans that haven’t fit me in 5 years). This just in… huge blizzard rolling in this week. Awesome! Am I the only asshole moving in February… In Ohio?


2 Responses to “The Broad’s Side of moving”

  1. 1 Danielle Rodgers
    February 11, 2010 at 12:17 pm

    Jen, only these things would happen to you. they say the best way to sell your home is to put a roast in the oven. I think you may have found a better way. Good luck with the move. I will be at a 7yr old hockey tourey. I’ll be the mom in the stands yelling at the stripes asking if their blinde and throwing blows at the other teams moms. A whole other side of me you could write a blog on. I will be in shaker for the weekend if you need new material. Crazy Sports Parents. Hockeys the worst. Parma parents and their cow bells. This vision of you as axel rose made my son ask why I was crying. How do you explain that.

    Good luck.
    See you soon

  2. 2 geocab
    February 13, 2010 at 6:07 pm

    I also envisioned you doing the Axl Rose scene. Is that wrong?

    Great story as usual, Jen, keep it coming.

    Sorry I didn’t see this until after, I would have helped you move, even though we have never met.

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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

November 2009
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