The apartment in Coquitlam needed to be ready for me to move into. This meant there needed to be space for my stuff, first of all, and that my grandparents’ stuff needed to be moved out. That is, we needed to move out what we could of my grandparents’ stuff — part of the reason I had to get rid of my bed is that we couldn’t get rid of the two singles in their old bedroom (it’s like an episode of I Love Lucy every night, except instead of my husband in the second bed, it’s my mom — nothing says awkward more than being 26 and having to share a bedroom with your mom; luckily, she’s travelling a lot and spending a lot of time in her other house in Powell River. Also my boyfriend’s house is close to my new apartment and he has his own bedroom).
Something my mom had noticed a week and a half or so before the end of the month was that the washer was leaking. It was a stacking unit and it had been in the apartment since Oma had bought the place — 20 years ago. It was also a pretty good washing machine and dryer combo — it had never let us down before. So mom called a repair guy.
It was unfixable. The bottom had completely rusted through and we needed to get a completely new washer. And dryer, because a stacking unit is useless if one part is broken.
So mom went to the Brick, and ordered some new fancy HE (High Efficiency) machines for the place. They were separate, but you can stack them if you have a kit, and she also got a drawer to put underneath the washer into which I can put laundry detergent. This has the added benefit of making the washer and dryer tall, meaning I don’t have to bend as much. It’s not going to be as easy on short stuff mom, but then what kind of daughter would I be if I didn’t help my mom with household chores? (A shitty one, if you need the answer spelled out for you. If you’re an adult and living with your parents, you better fucking pull your own weight around the house.)
The Brick dudes arrived shortly thereafter with the washer and dryer, and of course mom had to be there for that. Except…oh, they didn’t have the stacking kit. So they put the washer on the drawer and left the dryer in the dining room until they could come back with the stacking kit and get it all set up. The next possible date they could arrive? Friday, September 7th.
Mom may have blacked out with rage, waking up with dried blood under her nails. I can neither confirm nor deny that.
(Not only did they forget the stacking kit, they also made mom buy two drawers instead of just one because of some sort of deal they were having. So mom said, fine, just bring them unattached. They arrived attached to each the washer and dryer. *headdesk* Also, they were under pressure from their new computer system that supposedly routes all their appointments and tells them where to go in an efficient manner, but it’s always fucking wrong. They tell it where to go, and it goes all HAL 9000 on them and tries to kill them. So there was a lot of stress on both sides. Please don’t go attack the Brick after reading this entry. They really are nice people. They just have to deal with homicidal computers and miscommunication.)
Meanwhile, she’s trying to get all the furniture moved in, but this apartment building has small doors and the dolly has one half-flat tire and mom is doing this all by herself. So she’s struggling with the desks and other crap I own and trying to move it through narrow hallways and getting rid of Oma and Opa’s old stuff and dealing with crap and being adult in a way that I can never hope to master.
Somehow, because she’s a fucking wizard, she gets everything ready on time for me to move in. Except the washer and dryer, but that’s not really her fault. The dryer stood in the dining room until this past Friday, looking like it wanted dinner.
Then she came back over to Nanaimo and continued to help me with packing and moving and cleaning and packing and moving and cleaning and packing and moving and cleaning and not dying.
We didn’t finish moving everything for Storage to my friends’ carport and packing up our two cars until noon on Saturday. Cleaning was another fun adventure, with me on my hands and knees in soapy water soaking my jeans scrubbing with Magic Erasers at strange, incriminating, unknowable stains on my linoleum floor, singing songs from Disney (I’m sure you can guess which one in particular; I was even wearing a kerchief over my hair).
Each of us slept only a few hours that night. Mom crashed on the two foamie mattresses I kept on my living room floor as a sofa (which I kept and brought to Pirates and Fairies, and they are now at my boyfriend’s place with all the camping equipment), and I eventually sat down on the White Chair, RIP, to “close my eyes for a few minutes” around five a.m. I woke up around nine a.m. with a coffee in my hand, fully upright, and a blanket over me. Mom told me that around seven she came by with coffee and a bacon breakfast sandwich from Starbucks for me and put the coffee in my hand and the sandwich in my lap, and I’d waked up enough to grab it from her and situate the sandwich on my arm. I have no memory of this. She also told me that she’d come back after running an errand to find me still asleep, and feared that I’d dropped the coffee — she pulled back the blanket to see it still sat perfectly upright in my death grip, still nice and warm after being under the blanket. I also have no memory of this. But I did not spill my coffee, and I drank it gratefully when I finally did wake from my slumber of the dead. (I really should make a sign to hold while I sleep that says “I AN’T DEAD”.)
My landlady and her sister came by that morning unexpectedly, which was good, because I needed to discuss leaving certain things, like the over the toilet storage unit and the shelving I’d installed in the bathroom, and some other shelving. I had no use for it and that place really needs storage help, so I figured it would be useful for the new tenant, whoever it turned out to be. Also, I loved living there and wanted to leave things on a good note, which I think I did.
We finished packing and cleaning, and I had to leave my canning jars behind (which I grabbed on my most recent trip back to Nanaimo — I lucked out and the sisters were there, painting). But the place was as clean as I could possibly get it, and I’d even spackled the walls. (I’m a damn good spackler. General handiness sort of runs in my veins, after all.)
Finally. That part — the part involving the old place — was done. Time to catch the ferry, have a small vacation at Pirates and Fairies, and get to the business of dealing with the new place.