Yes, I really am this excited about a bathtub.
So yeah, the moving. Due to many generous friends and neighbors, it all went smoothly. I managed to convince Sylvie, even after her visiting parents made her get up at 6am for Black Friday, to trek over to Ikea with me later that night (I figured we'd miss the impending onslaught of returning DCers) to get a couch. We slid in the store just as the doors were closing and high-tailed it out of there, pretty beige couch in hand. It wasn't too heavy for us to carry, but the plastic sheeting it was wrapped in kept slipping around its corners, and as we dropped it once more on the sidewalk to my house, an SUV stopped next to us and a lady yelled out, "Hang on there, my husband's going to help you! I told him it was alright." Ha. They double parked, he jumped out and carried it in for us. Nice, huh?
Saturday morning I managed to corral Arish and Sylvie over to haul the furniture. Despite a predicted incident of my desk not fitting down the stairs and a subsequent disassemble, everything went perfectly and we were done by 3:30.
Then, against all my better judgment, after moving for three days straight, barely sleeping, and losing my appetite due to moving stress, I decided to go to a party. I cleaned my old house top-to-bottom after returning the truck and eating the only meal I had all day (a kraut dog with Syl at union station eateries), I managed to unearth some clean clothes in the chaos and hopped over to Sommer's to drink lots of beer, followed by lots of liquor. Hey Mensa! I'm right here! (Why don't you guys call anymore?) After it all eventually hit me and I nearly fell asleep in the middle of a conversation, I made my way home to sleep the first night in my new house (in my new queen bed!) inebriated. Naturally.
Very hungover the next morning, I attempted to stumble around and unpack some stuff, which was only making me nauseous, so I thought maybe I'd take a shower to wake up. So I turn on the water and then it hits me — I have a bathtub now! Maybe it's just a case of "you don't know what you've got til it's gone," because I was never much of a bath taker before. My last house had a shower stall that required cirque de soleil-like contortions just to shave my damn legs. But not only do I have a bathtub now, I HAVE A BATHTUB WITH JETS. And it's effing large. Or at least, large enough for me to sit without my knees bending. There's even a slope on the end so your head fits comfortably, and two ledges about halfway down the tub for your arms. It's totally brilliant. And you know what, it's the new Official Hangover Cure. And by hangover cure, I mean, I'm Taking A Bath Every Night Til I Die. Or Move Out.