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Moving and Shaking

April 13, 2011

I moved. Moving sucks. Not that I actually moved.That doesn’t suck. I am excited about that. It’s the act of moving that is terrible. The boxes, the manual labor, the not knowing which box your stuff is in, the piles of stuff that seem to line the hallways of your otherwise very neat apartment. In general I don’t like to keep a lot of stuff around. I am not a piles person, I am not a hoarder type person what-so-ever. But during the move, I certainly looked like one. You never actually know how much stuff you have until you start to pull it all out of your closets at once. During the move, I enlisted the help of my mother to help me pack. She has a knack for keeping me on focus, making things look neater, and actually getting things done, unlike myself.

A few days ago we were packing up my bedroom. I am not sure what happened but my mother, the otherwise focused packer saw this as an opportunity for an extreme snoop-athon extravaganza. Not that my mom is not usually nosey, but she practically forgot her main purpose and got sidetracked by every small drawer and secret compartment in my room.
“Can’t you go for big items like blankets and pillows? Why are you opening small zippered compartments in my handbag??” I asked.
She would come at me as though everything was suspect and had a slightly dirty, deviant, double use. Sure, some of the items in my room are private, who doesn’t have some of those items buried deep in their sock drawer? But all in all, my drawers are the drawers of an otherwise healthy thirty-five year old woman.

“Darcy, what do you want to do with these?” She said, extending a pair of bunny ears on the edge of her finger as I though I use them to play Hugh Hefner’s mansion from time to time.
“Mom, I wore those trick-or-treating with Bear a few years in a row.”
“Oh.” she said, tossing them to the side with little expression, as though she didn’t really believe me. She might have even Purelled her hands after touching them.
I don’t even know how she found those. They were literally thrown in the bottom of the closet, possibly stuffed into an old gym tote or random shopping bag in the back most desolate corner of my closet.

Then she got to the good stuff. A pack of condoms.
“What do you want to do with these?” She asked. Holding them up and pretending to look away as if she didn’t really care.
“I don’t know mom. Maybe blow them up like balloons and have a parade down Fifth Avenue. Did you have something better in mind?”
Why couldn’t she look at them, and then look past them and grab something else, like a blazer or a pair of high heels. Why question me about something she knows the use for, and knows I do not care to discuss with her. Nor does she want to discuss with me. She looked irritated.
I felt bad, but I couldn’t control myself.
“Oh wait, I know! Maybe I will just put them on a penis. A really big one,” I said.
“Nice.” She sighed as though she had failed miserably.
“Well, if you aren’t going to like the answer, don’t ask the question.”

At one point she came out of my closet with a pack of cigarettes. Left over from 10, if not 100 years ago from a night out with some girlfriends where the evidence of an unhealthy evening was left on my coffee table.  Reverting back to my high school days, I had hidden the box of Parliaments so deep in my closet as to never be found again. Except, of course, by my mother. I am pretty sure to access those you needed to do some secret knock on the floor board, which opened up to a combination lock, which opened up to a burly bouncer, who only hands them over if you know the secret handshake. She came strolling out of my closet holding the bag at arm’s length, opened to reveal the evidence. A box of cigarettes so stale, they could probably make it into the Smithsonian.
“Darcy, UGH! What do you want to do with these???”
“Oh! Definitely keep them.” I plead. Just cause.
“That’s disgusting.” She said as she stomped back to the closet in search of the next scandalous item.
“You know mom, there are regular things you can pull out of my closet. Sweaters, pants…rain boots.” A latex gag mask, I want to tease, but I keep it inside, because she may actually believe me.

From there she went right into my underwear drawer.
“Why do you have so many pairs of underwear? I have never seen so much underwear in my life!” She said in a judgemental tone, as she rifled through my drawer. Surely there must be a hidden treasure in there somewhere!
“Because I am single mom. That’s what single people do. They have tons of underwear. Just tons. Lace, cotton, boy shorts, thongs, crotchless. You name it! Something for every occasion.”
To that, both of us, exhausted and borderline dizzy from packing, laugh hysterically. She had a clear moment when she realized how ridiculous she was being.

After the packing was complete, and the movers had moved their last box out of my apartment, my mother and I hopped in a cab with my most valuable possessions to beat the movers to my new apartment. I was eager to get Bears room set up as soon as possible so he wouldn’t feel disrupted in any way.
As the taxi pulled away from my building I turned my head and watched it fade away through the rear window. I had a moment of sadness. I know it’s hard to gauge from this blog, but I am an extremely sentimental person. I had a lot of memories in that apartment. Bear and I shared a lot of special moments there. He had several birthdays there. He learned to swim, he learned to ride a two-wheeler, he learned to read, he learned all the words to Lady Gaga and Neo, and every other top 40 song on the radio there. He grew out of Little Einsteins and into ICarly there. He went from loving Thomas the Train to Star Wars and the Knicks and New York Rangers there. He completed several grades of school in that apartment and I watched him transform from a toddler to a boy, all while we lived in that apartment. My divorce was finalized in that apartment. I learned to stand alone in that apartment. I had my heart-broken in that apartment. I learned my father had cancer in that apartment, and lost him six months later in that apartment. That apartment is where my life had taken place, and my most important memories were made over the past few years. I learned my strengths there, and many of my weaknesses there. Darcy Dates was created there, alone in my bed one night on my old laptop.

The cab turned onto my new street. One of the valuables that somehow made it in the taxi with us was my unworn wedding dress. (See: Bridal Skeletons In My Closet). Why it got special treatment of a taxi rather than a moving truck I can’t be sure.
“I love that we have the wedding dress.” My mom said.
We both laughed.
“Are you really going to wear this one day?” She asked.
“Why not?”
We pulled up and to the building and the doorman approached the taxi.
“I’ll carry you over the threshold,” my mom said, “Or at least I will carry your wedding dress over the threshold.”
We laughed again.

New apartment, new memories to be made. The journey continues. Of course I will take you with me. Stay tuned.

* I joke about my mom, but she rocks. She is the best mom ever. Thank you for helping me move mom. I love you!

My mom is one of everyone’s favorite Darcy characters. Want to catch up on her? Read:  As Long As You Are Happy, Real Texts From My Mom,  Driving With My Mom and My Mom The Stalker.

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