From the moment they saw her across the bar, they knew they were in for one hell of a night ….
She had been teasing them all night, licking her fingers while sipping her drink and showing off her cleavage to them. As new friends, Matt and Dave shared several things in common: they both worked at the same job, both had similar musical/cinematic interests. But most importantly … they shared the same bond for all things XXX.
They were both porn fanatics, inasmuch as they were simply horny guys. They always shared porn with each other, IM-ed each other with fresh links to new vids, and even talked in great detail as to what got them off. One of the main things that they both agreed upon was double penetration. They loved everything about it: the tightness, the dirtiness of the act, the sounds the woman usually made, the feeling of it all. They loved watching vids together where guys with huge cocks slid deep into the holes of some lucky female. They would watch, jack, and exclaim how badly they wanted to make it happen. So when they saw a girl across the bar being suggestive toward both of them, with no apparent friends in sight, they decided to take the plunge.
They walked up to her. Matt spoke first.
“You’ve been giving us some mixed signals back there.” He was not one for small talk.
She got up and walked from the bar, straight out the front door, confusing them both.
They ran out of the bar, shouting after her. She quickly walked into a nearby alley. Dave rounded the corner and caught up with her.
“Hey! What’s the problem!?!” he said as he turned her around. She violently pushed Dave against the brick wall behind him. He let out a grunt as he crashed into it.
Within nanoseconds, she ran over to him, ripped his pants down and begin to lick and suck on his flaccid cock, still in shock from the push.
The shock faded, as he begin to moan and grab the back of her head forcefully, pushing her deeper onto his hardening cock.
Matt made it around the corner to witness this act. He slowly walked up to them, stroking his already hard cock out of his pants. When she saw this, she begin to moan and reach out for him.
He ran up to her, pushing his cock into her mouth, along with Dave’s. He moaned loudly as she began to salivate all over both of their cocks…her warm thick spit covered their throbbing cocks and landed on her shirt. Matt and Dave put their arms around each other as they took their free arms and attached them firmly to the back of her head, pumping their thick members into her slobbering wet mouth.
She got very hot by this, rubbing her pussy through her panties. They helped her rip off her shirt and they slipped her out of her skirt and panties. Matt leaned down and kissed her wet lips, spitting into her mouth, talking shit to her.
“MMMMmmmmm you fuckin’ nasty girl…you want my cock between your fuckin huge fuckin tits (SPIT) huh? (SPIT) huh?”
She swallowed the collection of saliva in her mouth and yelled, “YES!” as he spit between her huge tits and began to pump furiously between them. She sucked on his fat massive head every time it popped up between her cleavage space. She and Matt moaned with pleasure as they tit fucked. Dave sat back for a second, watching them go at it. He stroked his throbbing dick and moaned to himself…occasionally yelling things to them. “Yea…fuck her tits, dude” he cried.
Dave walked over and got behind her. He leaned into her ear, “What’s your name?”
She replied, “Shut up.”
He grabbed her by the tits and began to move them up and down Matt’s cock, making Matt moan louder. “Keep it up, man!!” screamed Matt, as Dave furiously pumped her tits on Matt’s member. Dave began to dry fuck her ass harder and harder, their knees slamming against the hard concrete. Matt noticed a dirty mattress lying next to a stack of cardboard boxes and wooden palette bases. They picked her up off of the ground and brought her over to the mattress, dropping her onto it. She began to finger her wet pussy for them, while they jacked their dicks. She began to scream, as a stream of cum shot from between her legs. She shuddered violently and grunted mumbles to herself. Matt got on top of her and slid his cock deep into her pussy. She screamed as he began to furiously pump his hard rod deep in her juicy cunt. He moaned hard and loud at her, frowning at every good feeling. He began to kiss her, tongues swirling around their nasty mouths. He started to grunt and moan into her mouth, making her do the same. Dave jumped down onto the mattress and he pushed his cock between their mouths. Matt leaned up so that Dave could get his cock into her mouth. They began to rhythmically pump into her at the same tempo and velocity. She moaned stifled moans as they yelled and screamed loud obscenities while looking at each other.
Matt pulled his cock out of her pussy. He used her own half clear half white drippings of cum to jack his already red cock. Dave slid his thick prick inside and moaned about how tight she was. Matt got down between their legs and began to lick her clit, as Dave fucked her pussy, her thick huge lips swallowing his cock head, thrusting in and out.
“I need someone in my asshole!” she screamed. Dave jumped off of her and spun her around until she was on all fours. She gyrated her hips in horny anticipation of being fucked deep in her tight asshole. Matt and Dave both looked down on it, while stroking their dicks. They began to spit on her asshole, getting it overtly wet. Dave slowly, but firmly pushed his way inside. She let out a gasp as Dave began to pile-drive her ass. Her moans then began to match the rhythm of his pumps. He then pulled out and Matt pushed in, and did the same.
For a few turns, they continued to pump her ass in this position. Matt then laid down on the mattress and pulled her on top of him, reverse cowgirl style. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her down forward, towards his dick. “Spit on it baby”, he commanded. She let out a long thick stringy mess of spit all over his now jumping cock. He slid it deep in her asshole…making her bounce violently on top of him. Dave spread her legs wider and pumped his cock into her pussy. She began to stutter and moan as both of them pounded her tight holes. They began to scream and moan themselves.
“Ohhhhhhhb GODDDDDDD!!! She’s so fuckin tight!!” screamed Matt, feeling the increase tightness of her asshole.
“MMMMMmmmmmm FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK” yelled Dave, with every pump to her plump swollen cunt.
“AAaaahhhhh!!! Fuck!! I can feel your fuckin cock dude!!!” Yelled Matt
“MMMMMMMMM FUCK YEAAA….fuckin rubbin’ up against me…MMMM” cried Dave.
This revelation of information made all of them even hornier, and they began to pump her even harder.
The motion between the three of them generated steam, as they began to bounce off of the mattress. During the movement, Matt’s cock slipped out of her asshole. “AAhh!, I’m out, bro!” Matt said. Dave pulled out, grabbed Matt’s cock, and jacked it near her asshole. Matt moaned hard as Dave strongly jacked his cock into her asshole. Dave reinserted himself and they got back to it.
By this time, they were all in a hysterical level of sexual intensity. They all were yelling and moaning into each others mouths, blurting out syllables and nonsensical words in the heat of the moment.
All of a sudden, Matt yelled, “MMMMMM FUCK I’M GONNA CUM!”
“CUM IN MY FUCKING MOUTH” yelled the woman. They all jumped up and she got on her knees. Matt grabbed her head, while Dave shoved his fingers in her mouth and spread her lips, making her tongue stick out. They both started furiously jacking their dicks, pushing the heads together, rubbing them, moaning. They began to cock fight each other when the woman began to spit and lick their heads as they did this. Matt let out a yelp as he grabbed her chin and shot and thick white load onto her tongue. Dave was next, choosing instead to shove his cock deep in her mouth, making her choke hard on his hot cum. She grabbed both cocks and stroked them hard and fast, making them yell more. Weak in the knees, they both clung onto each other, rubbing each others backs while she rubbed their cock heads together.
Matt and Dave collapsed on the mattress, laying close to each other. They grabbed hands. They fell asleep for a few brief moments…
When they came to, the lady was gone. They looked at each other confused as they walked over to their strewn about clothes.
“Dude! My wallet’s gone!!” yelled Matt. Dave gave him a look as if to say the same thing.
Angry, happy, tired and confused, they rounded the corner and walked past the bar, where the woman was once again seated across from two guys, licking her finger.
I’ve not lived without an ice maker for as long as I’ve not lived without a dishwasher, about ten years, but here I am surviving without either. Yes, these are privileged people problems, and I don’t deny it.
I’m spoiled. I’m still not living without an in-unit washer and dryer. Basically, when my ex-husband and I bought a place back in 2003, it included amenities that we had theretofore not encountered as adults, including in-unit washer/dryer, ice maker, and dishwasher. I thought I couldn’t go back after having lived with each of them, but here I am surviving sans both dishwasher and ice maker.
We live very close to a bar/liquor store where we can buy ice. I’ve never seen bar/liquor stores anywhere but Chicago, and I’ve heard that the licenses for such are no longer being issued, so any such establishments have necessarily been around for a while and are quite rare. Yes, these places are both bars and liquor stores. Think of your average dive bar, now add a liquor store to it. Yes, the business model is glorious. A bag of ice costs only $2, and it’s tasty and clear and good.
But I’ve begun to be an ice maker. An ice producer? We “stole” a clear plastic fridge bin from our old place, a bin into which I thought we’d toss random condiments and such, but which I quickly realized would be a suitable ice bin in our new ice maker-free freezer. My ice maker job is to pour Brita-filtered water into ice trays and then put the frozen results in the bin so we can use up the ice.
We use a lot of ice. I like my vodka sodas full of ice; the glass is jam packed with the stuff. I also use some ice in my water. The Viking has taken to drinking well-iced and carbonated (via the Soda Stream) water on the regular.
We got the Brita pitcher because the Viking hated the unfiltered tap water at our new place. Our old place had a fridge-mounted filter and water dispenser, but the new place does not. The Viking hated the tap water so much that he not-drank himself into dehydration and physical illness so a Brita was absolutely necessary. I have to admit that the filtered water tastes much better than the plain tap version, even if it is from Lake Michigan.
Though I’ve had ice makers for the better part of a decade, we had acquired some ice cube trays. Sure, we have the boring “cubes” (which aren’t actually “cubes”), but we also have some pretty ice cube trays. I was on a kick of making boozy jelly shots not long after we moved to Chicago so we had acquired a few fun-shaped ice cube trays to make the experience of ingesting tasty gelled booze that much better. Now that we don’t have an ice maker, and I’m kind of over the gelatin shots of tasty boozy “drinks,” (though I hope to get back to ‘em) we’re using the ice cube trays as … ice cube trays. There are flowers, starfish, and fish, all conveniently sized to fit between the relatively large cubes.
What are actually large, and mostly cube-like, are the “fashionable” extra-large cubes, the moulds of which are sold everywhere, including museum stores, and the expected stores. The Viking had been looking at the silicone trays longingly so when I bought the Brita I picked up a tray. These are the huge ice cubes that sit one to a glass and are great for bourbon.
Because all the nicest bars – Barrelhouse Flat, the Violet Hour, Scofflaw – have different types of ice for different kinds of drinks. We used to live within walking distance of Barrelhouse Flat, a place I often met OkCupid guys. Except for the one asshole who, when the bill came, said, “I hope you have money,” the guys I met there were generous and appreciative of the crafted cocktails (the asshole drank only beer).
I went to the Violet Hour once, when I met another OkCupid guy. He clearly wasn’t interested in me, which was fine, but I really liked the Violet Hour and knew the Viking would love it. He still hasn’t been, but there may not be a reason considering our new real estate.
We now live steps away from Scofflaw. We’ve yet to go, but the Viking assures me that he will be a regular. All of these bars are related by their bartenders, mixologists, chefs, what have you, so we know we’ll like Scofflaw as much as we like Barrelhouse Flat, and as much as I like the Violet Hour.
I like me a dive bar, and I can definitely picture myself at the bar/liquor store in the future that’s not too far away, but the classy bars are appreciated as well. It will be at the classier joint that will be the base for meeting OkC guys. If the fucktards can’t be bothered to buy me some decent – read, $9 to $12 – drinks then they’re not worth fucking. Let me make it clear that it’s not solely about the money, it’s also about the effort. Politeness and effort can get a guy pretty far.
I swear. True story.
[Yes, I know reading about ice cube shapes is boring as shit. I'm not sorry, but please bear with me as I settle into my new apartment, neighborhood, and volunteer work. Eventually I'll be back to the threesomes and such … I hope.]
We lived for over two years in an apartment that was so close to the L tracks that we very rarely opened any windows, even on the most temperate of days, because the noise from the trains passing by was too much. We lived for over two years in an apartment that was so close to the L tracks that we rarely spent any time outside on our balcony, porch, or back yard, even on the most temperate of days, because the noise from the trains passing by was too much.
It has pretty suddenly gone from a spring that was mostly in the 40s to one that’s mostly in the 80s. Since we now live in a place that has no L tracks within earshot, and since all of the windows have screens, we’ve opened the windows to let in the pleasant breezes and air that’s as fresh as can be for a busy avenue in a major US city.
Though we’ve still not “set up” our grill (read, the Viking needs to clean it since he neglected to do so before the end of last grilling season) it was so warm recently that we ate dinner outside. I look forward to grilled vegetables, my favorite food of all time.
Opening our windows has allowed us to hear our neighbors, a small group (still not sure how many actually live there) of 20-somethings whose back porch is about level with – and just outside – our bedroom windows (there are two). They like to sing. They like to turn all-white Doc Martin-style boots into ombré white-to-grey-to-black boots (which looked cool as shit). They like to say things like, “Ssssh, we should be quiet, we have neighbors now.” It’s a good thing the Viking is a deep sleeper because the neighbors hang out on their porch chatting and such well into the night (after 2am). There may be some stern admonitions in the future ….
Because before we lived in our place, no one did. And before that, there was construction of our current building. And before that, it was an empty lot. Chicago has a lot of empty lots, many more than I saw in San Francisco. Yes, I know that Chicago is a much larger city than San Francisco, and I’m not comparing them one-to-one, but I’m still amazed at how many empty and neglected lots I see in what seem to otherwise be viable neighborhoods.
Just after a couple of days of very warm weather, it cooled down significantly, something that seems to be common to Chicago springs – a few really nice days followed by several days that require heavier jackets, if not gloves and hats. But all through it, we can open our windows if we choose. I think our gas (furnace) and electricity (air conditioning) bills will be much less than they were at our old place because we’ll be relying on fresh air more often, and because the new building likely has better insulation considering it’s new.
There’s a “bar & grill” – read, “nightclub” – in the building right next door. We can hear the thumping music through the walls on the weekends. Still, it’s quieter than the L trains were at the last place, even with the windows closed, and if we ever have guests who drive we can offer them the valet services that are right down stairs.
Our living room has a Juliet balcony so on warm weekend nights it can be quite entertaining to look down on the nightclub’s drunken patrons. Drunks can be entertaining.
The lots in this neighborhood are huge! Lincoln Park’s lots are smaller, due to property values as well as the L tracks cutting off a lot a real estate. And of course they’re larger than San Francisco’s. Really, I’ve not seen yards of this size since I lived in the ‘burbs as a child. One yard that’s fenced, but not gated, and strewn with trash, Isis and I treat as a grassy “park” where she can snack on grass (which she does in the spring) and poop. Of course I clean up after her even though the building’s tenants don’t seem to give a fuck. There’s another building that’s grass is overgrown and which I’m pretty sure has no tenants; Isis loves the overgrown grassy yard. We have no yard at all; the real estate that’s not taken up with building is parking.
We (Isis and I) have met Leo, the local feral cat man. He assured me the local kitties, which he feeds via food from a neighborhood rescue organization, are fixed, and tame enough for him to pet. All I know is that I saw a shit ton of rats in the alleys of the old hood, and I’ve seen none in the alleys of the new hood, and I’m pretty sure the outdoor kitties should be given credit. I told Leo that I volunteer for PAWS, which clearly gave me some cred, since he told me he had adopted his dog from the organization.
I wasn’t lying, I do volunteer for PAWS Chicago. The adoption center is only a bus ride from our current apartment, but it was just walking distance from our old place; I should have begun volunteering there just after we moved to Chicago, over two years ago, but I didn’t know about the place. Now, I go in for shifts at either Kitty City or Dog Town about once a week. Yes, that’s what the organization has named its cat and dog areas, respectively.
After attending a volunteer expo, I found several organizations to which I’ve decided to give my time, including PAWS Chicago, the Lincoln Park Zoo, and the city pound. The private organization, PAWS, is the one that’s been easiest to actually do things for since there’s so much less bureaucracy to deal with. For example, to volunteer for the city pound I had to go to City Hall to submit my finger prints so a background check could be run before I could actually begin walking dogs and socializing kitties for Chicago Animal Care and Control. I was fingerprinted in late March and I’m still waiting – in early May – to hear from the City that I’m good to go. I understand that the Chicago doesn’t want animal fuckers “playing” with the dogs and cats, but I can’t imagine the excessive wait does’t cause a lot of potential volunteers to lose interest.
I’ll attend a daylong orientation at the zoo next week, and then begin gardening on the zoo’s grounds soon thereafter, but I’ve already done a few shifts of actually volunteering at PAWS. Lincoln Park Zoo is free so it relies on volunteers and City funding. I’m not fully supportive of zoos – those animals should not be kept in pens – but I like gardening (and don’t have any other opportunity to do so) and feel that if there is to be a zoo it should be as nice as it possibly can.
Gardening at the zoo is another chance for me to get fresh air, albeit whilst wearing strong sunscreen. I had really missed fresh air in our last apartment, but I think this one will allow me to appreciate Chicago anew.
I swear. True story.
Today is my sister’s 44th birthday. When watching “Mad Men” recently I realized that the shitty outfits and hair of 1968 were when my parents met and married; they were married in November 1968, when my mother was pregnant with my sister. The fashions sucked.
My sister is a very new mother, much later than our own parents’ foray into parenthood – 20 by 3 days (our father) and 22.5 (our mother) – as her son, Lake, was born just 16 days ago. I’m sure becoming a parent, something she’s wanted for a very long time, is a wonderful birthday present for her.
We all know that once we’re “adults” we’re not supposed to give a shit about our birthdays any longer, but getting someone we’ve wanted in what seems like forever is a great birthday present, and a reasonable way to acknowledge a birthday. My sister was told most of her life, by our step-mother, that she took our father’s youth considering she was born just three days after his 20th birthday, as if she had a choice in the matter. I’m pretty sure there were condoms in 1968, and I know people had heard of the pull-out method, so that one would be on the two people who were fucking, not the person that the fucking conceived.
I can’t speak (or write) for my sister, but if I had my choice I’d've been born to different parents – parents who were prepared for children, wanted children, and who could at least mask their obvious favoritism for one child over the other. My choice would have parents with better genes – no early-onset Alzheimer’s or alcoholism or obesity or height-challenges – and without any history of sexual abuse. Also, they and their spouses wouldn’t be judgmental asses. But we have what we have, and there’s no changing them, just as there’s no changing us.
My mother always told me that so long as I was happy she was happy for me, and I’m sure she’d say the same if she had her wits about her, but my father and his wife of 35 years never said anything so nice. They are judgmental shits. Now that we’re adults I know they don’t like us, that but for the biological we wouldn’t have relationships. That’s fine, because they’re not needed.
I have no doubt that Lake will never be told he fucked up his parents’ lives in any way; this is a child who is loved and cherished, and not a thief of anything, youth or otherwise. Rather, he’s a wonderful gift to his biological and adoptive parents. Sure, when he’s a teen he’ll be a pain in the ass, but that’s what kids are supposed to do. When he’s a bit older he’ll realize how blessed his life has been. Hell, I may even step up as the cool aunt who understands that his parents just don’t understand.
My sister has her own blog, True Adventures of Humboldt Jen, where lately she’s been writing about the journey to becoming a parent.
Happy birthday, Jen. I’m so happy for you. I’m so glad you’re happy.
I swear. True story.
Our new place is both better and worse than our old place.
The major better is that it has a different landlord. Our old landlord lived in California, didn’t bother to hire a local management company, threatened us often, and generally neglected his property. Our new landlord grew up in the area – not the Chicagoland area, the neighborhood area. His father, whom I have met, owns the bar/liquor store a couple of buildings to the west. His mother, whom the Viking met, works as a caterer out of the commercial kitchen one floor below our apartment.
Separately, the parents were friendly, nice, and helpful. These are good signs. We’ve met their son, our landlord, once, and he was quite pleasant. The only way we knew who he was by sight was because we had Googled him earlier in the day. The guy is a model. Not joking. He’s a model, complete with an amazingly fit body and a very pretty face. Our landlord is a model. More importantly, he’s nice, he’s local, and he has his parents to answer to.
Yes there are some issues with the building, many of which have to do with locks. For example, the front and back gates have locks that must be manually unlocked before exit, and then key locked after. Exterior gate locks should function thusly: able to leave simply by turning the knob, lock automatically upon exit, no way to leave unlocked. We’re in a neighborhood that is essentially Chicago’s version of San Francisco’s Mission (where I lived for seven years) so locks that function without needing the input of drunkards (myself included) are absolutely necessary. Also, because there is a night club literally right next door, if the gate isn’t locked it’s possible that a drunk dude who needs to take a leak will wander in and do so by the building’s front door – fucking gross.
The locks on the common doors into the front and back stairs of the building include deadbolt and knob locks, both of which allow the user to leave the doors unlocked, and that require effort to lock, again that shouldn’t be allowed to happen.
There is no way to get into our mailboxes at this point, as we’ve not been given box keys, and the US Postal Service doesn’t yet have access because the postal worker key lock is not yet in place. We received mail – inexplicably placed on our stoop – but we don’t have confidence that we will continue to do so without access to our mail box.
Our apartment was not clean when we moved in; I left the old place much cleaner than our current place was when we moved in. The “not clean” includes a significant amount of man pee on the toilet rim in one of our bathrooms, a bathroom which we have not yet used except for the animals’ storage on moving day and Joaquin’s litter box. I think between the lack of towel bars, shower curtain rods, light bulbs, and clean floors we should be given some sort of discount on our rent.
The reason there are no towel bars and such is because the building is brand new. That means the drains haven’t been gummed up by years of tree roots, storms, hair, and so on. Everything is new. New can be nice, and in this case it is.
We don’t have a dishwasher. I’ve not lived without a dishwasher for about ten years. Yes, I am capable of doing dishes, and I’d rather wash dishes than dry and/or put them away, but it was the Viking who championed moving into a place sans dishwasher, as he is the “kitchen fairy” in the household. Generally, the Viking does what he says he’ll do so I’m pretty confident that he’ll fulfill his kitchen fairy dudes appropriately.
The kitchen cabinets have the modern soft-close hinges and no handles. We can’t slam the cabinets; they simply close slowly and quietly. I listen to an iPod pretty much constantly and the cord to the ear buds would often get caught on the cabinet handles in our old place, consequently annoying the shit out of me. No more.
The refrigerator opens backwards. Refrigerators should open into the kitchen, not the living room. We asked that this be remedied and the response was basically that we should be happy there’s a refrigerator at all. So I solved the problem by turning the refrigerator from directly next to the sink to facing the side of the sink. I changed the shape of the kitchen from an L- to a C-shape. Really, I’m quite clever when it comes to arranging furniture and such in a space.
To that end, I decided our big steel shelving unit that was in our pantry in the old place now lives down the hall by the back door. The shelving unit is huge and there simply wasn’t any room for it anywhere else. So if we need to use the mixer or the waffle iron or the toaster we need to walk to the opposite end of the apartment to retrieve an appliance. Not the most convenient, but it’ll have to work.
Our bedroom is much larger than any bedroom the Viking and I have had together. There’s plenty of room for all of our bedroom furniture without feeling crowded; no need to sit on the bed to open dresser drawers. We even have room for one of those benches that sits at the foot of the bed, something I’ve always wanted but never had room for.
The bathrooms are so much larger than the bathrooms at our last place. It’s a little odd that there are is no en suite bathroom, just two bathrooms next to each other, but the fact that we can actually walk around in both of them more than makes up for that. The Viking likes that the bathroom sinks aren’t cold metal for times when he needs to give his dick a quick wash.
We don’t have a balcony or porch. We’ve placed our grill and outdoor furniture in the back “yard” of the building. Really, the yard is just the small concreted area within the fences of the property. We need to get cables so we can lock everything together so they don’t get stolen (see above for gate locking issues), and the setting isn’t exactly idyllic, but at least there’s no deafening train noise to deal with.
We love our new neighborhood. Our closest grocery store is a Puerto Rican market that has a great produce section with, among other things, a crazy huge selection of root vegetables. Of course it carries El Pato and tomatillos so I’ll be making some tasty, tasty chili soon. We are very close to Chicago magazine’s #1 bar, Scofflaw. We are even closer to a good Thai restaurant. We’re walking distance to a good farmers market that stays open into the afternoon (we often missed the one by our old place because we couldn’t get up early to make it before it closed). The drunk revelers in this neighborhood aren’t the privileged, white, private school attendees; they’re basic club and bar goers who can be loud on weekends, but I find the people watching somewhat entertaining.
Overall, we are happy in our new place and hope the various issues will soon be resolved.
I swear. True story.
Amazingly, we’re completely unpacked. We used Redi-Box so we had to get everything out of the boxes so they could be retrieved by a company representative today. I was worried that we wouldn’t have time to get it all done, but we did, and all the red plastic boxes are awaiting pickup outside our back door.
This is going to seem like a commercial for Redi-Box, but it’s all true. I wish they’d paid me, but we paid them an extremely reasonable amount. I found them on Yelp when I looked for “Chicago movers.” Redi-Box is not movers per se, but they do help in the move. You know how when you move you have to beg for boxes from grocery stores and such, and then buy some? Well, if you could do that you probably had a car to get the boxes from their original location to your home. We don’t have a car and we like it that way.
After our last move – the one from San Francisco to Chicago – I was so frustrated with all the waste. We had movers who packed everything for us and shipped it to our new city. It wasn’t cheap, and dirty pictures and books were placed in boxes in such a way it was clear they were passed around. (Otherwise how does something from the bedroom end up in a kitchen box?) In addition to losing some of our things, including a quilt my mother’s aunt had made, they used so much fucking paper. Yes, I understand that they wanted to assure that nothing was broken, but the amount of paper and number of cardboard boxes was insane.
I gave away a lot of the boxes and some of the paper via craigslist, but I ended up putting much more than I felt comfortable out to “recycle.” (I’m not sure Chicago truly recycles but I keep putting my recyclables in the proper bins.) Guess what I’m not doing right now? Dealing with cardboard boxes. No, I’m having an adult beverage and writhing this.
Redi-Box is a service that rents out sturdy plastic stackable boxes for moves. They have the expertise to know how many boxes a household will need based on the number of bedrooms and have plans to accommodate. After an easy online order, someone delivers the designated number of boxes to the place from which you’re planning to move.
The usual rental of Redi-Box is two weeks. I thought that was a crazy short amount of time because that meant just one week to pack and one week to unpack, but I hadn’t moved in a while. Because we had used movers to move to Chicago, I hadn’t packed a house myself in about ten years. And because there was so much paper, the last move had taken a long time to unpack. Because of my doubts as to the time, I had the boxes delivered a full ten days before our move day.
When packing in the “traditional” way – in cardboard boxes – a significant amount of time is spent assembling and taping boxes, something I didn’t have to do at all. The ten days of packing were leisurely: every evening the Viking and I had no problem watching tv and, well, not packing. I packed a lot while the Viking was at work, but I’m pretty sure that even if I worked outside the home, we would have had plenty of time.
The boxes are sturdy plastic so while I didn’t pack our glasses and dishes without paper, I didn’t use nearly as much as I would have had I been using cardboard. As a matter of fact, I “stole” many more copies of The Onion, Red Eye, and any other free “newspaper” issues than I ended up needing. I am happy to report that absolutely nothing was broken in the move.
I am also happy to report that the pre-packaged number of boxes was plenty. Well, we did end up using a few cardboard boxes for kitchen things we had been using until the end, and I had quite a few grocery bags of things I moved after cleaning the old place, but for the most part the “duplex 2-3 bedroom” package was accurate.
So because we had allowed ten days before the move, that meant only four days after the move. There was no fucking way we’d be able to unpack in four days, so I figured on extending the time of the rental for at least some of the boxes. Financial motivation is a powerful one so we unpacked all 45 Redi-Boxes as well as the few cardboard boxes – with a break to go to a local free WiFi coffee shop – within three days of moving. Also, we’ve culled a lot of extraneous things that we’ll be donating to the Brown Elephant.
I thought we’d have to just throw our things out of the Redi-Box containers onto the floor, but we have made significant headway into being settled well in advance (two days) of the pickup. Yes, the folks at Redi-Box pick up their boxes from the new place. This is the greatest thing ever for urban dwellers sans cars, as all urban dwellers should be.
We still have to do the little things, like setting up the bed in the guest room, putting up art (exactly one small mirror by the front door is now up), organizing the kitchen properly, but we could definitely have an apartment-warming party next weekend without being embarrassed. That is, provided our landlord puts towel bars and toilet paper dispensers in the bathrooms, shelves in the linen closet and laundry room, and functioning lightbulbs in all the fixtures. Yeah, and that he has someone clean the place. It’s clear we moved in before the place was done – shouldn’t we get our rent discounted?
I swear. True story.
The movers showed up at 9am, by which time I had already taken Isis and Joaquin to the new place and put them in one of the bathrooms. I had done some thinking, and the Viking agreed, that it would be better if they weren’t around for all the commotion. I took a cab with a driver who had no qualms about taking Isis, and who was surprised that I had a cat in the bag I was carrying.
After giving each of them food and water, and putting a temporary litter box in the bathtub, I left both of the animals with their respective beds shut into one of the bathrooms of our new place. I then place Post-Its I had filled out the night before: “DO NOT ENTER: ANIMALS WITHIN,” GUEST ROOM,” “OFFICE,” “MASTER BEDROOM” on their proper doors. Then I went out to wait for the 73 bus that took me pretty directly between the two places.
By the time I got to our soon-to-be old place the movers were well underway. It looked like they were advancing quite quickly. I packed the last few things as they were loading up the truck. The Viking had packed up a couple of bags and went out to the bus so he could meet the movers at the new place and let them in.
Things started to slow down. I can’t say for sure that the movers purposely went slowly, and I can’t imagine being a mover for a living, but it seemed to take a long time for the rest of the stuff to be loaded up after the Viking left. There were three guys: one seemed to be sort of in charge, a white guy with teeth missing; a relatively cute, young, white guy who lamented his car being towed; and a Latino guy who had moved from South Central LA to Chicago in 1988. I think I just haven’t actually moved in so long that I have no idea.
I realized we’d need to tip the guys and that the Viking didn’t have access to cash so I waited until the movers left to go to the bank and take the bus to the new place. While I was on the bus, I saw our moving truck just ahead of it. What the fuck? After they left, I had done some cleaning, walked to the bank to take out cash, and then waited about 15 minutes for the bus. And then the bus ride took at least 20 minutes or more. Maybe that wasn’t our truck.
Only it was. When I showed up at the new place the Viking said the movers had just showed up. What the fuck? Apparently they didn’t have our correct address even though I had confirmed before they left. Ends up when I said, “Armitage” someone at the company heard, “Hermitage” so the guys went to the wrong street and drove around for a while. When I left the new place they were moving our stuff into it.
I took another bus back to the old place so I could clean. And clean. And fucking clean. I cleaned all fucking day. Yes, our former landlord is a complete fucking dick whom we will be suing, but I wanted to leave the place in a state where no one, including a judge, could say that we didn’t deserve the return of our deposit plus interest. This is just more fuel for when we sue the motherfucker.
At one point, the front bell rang repeatedly. It was the Viking, who had already relieved himself of keys to the old place, saying the payment to the movers hadn’t gone through. I assured him I had transferred funds to the proper account and that it should have been fine. Then he told me the price, which was twice what the estimate had been. Uh, we simply did not have twice what we expected to pay.
In the mean time, we were still being charged since the card had been declined and the movers had to drive the Viking back to our old place. What a fucking disaster. Moving truck parked on the street, young, cute mover no longer looking so cute sitting there in the truck smoking and talking to some chick at the company.
He handed the phone over to me. This bitch had an attitude. I assured her that I didn’t deny that I owed the full amount, but I simply didn’t have the money at this time. She told me I should have told the movers to stop when the bill accrued to the amount of the estimate. I’m not even sure how that would have worked, with most of our stuff still on the truck. I mentioned that they wasted an hour going to the wrong place and she blamed it on me, as if I didn’t know the address of the place to which I was moving. I said I could pay half now and half later and she said they weren’t running a charitable organization. It was at this time that the Viking pointed out that the side of the truck indicated that the company has a pink ribbon indicating it supports a certain charitable organization.
The young, no longer cute, smoking guy said they’d have to call the police. What the fuck?! They were going to throw me debtors prison? When I said again to the chick that I simply didn’t have the money, she asked about my “boyfriend.” Yick, she meant the Viking. How can a man in his late 40s be considered a “boyfriend”?! I assured her that his money was my money. The bitch wouldn’t budge.
So I let the Viking take over. Everyone likes the Viking. He negotiated a deal that kept me (because the contract was in my name) out of jail, which I very much appreciated. Even in law school, where I was supposedly taught how to negotiate, I was shitty at it. Also I think the moving company bitch just didn’t like me, and the Viking just sounds so fucking reasonable. The guy’s a charmer.
Then, when I thought I had a cleaning helper, the Viking had to return to the new place with the movers so they could collect our collateral, and start unpacking. I handed him some of our stuff that hadn’t made it onto the moving truck originally and said goodbye.
Then I spent several more hours cleaning. I lived with my step-mother for quite a few years, so I can’t help but scrub baseboards, dust individual slats on blinds, and literally lay on the floor so I can get to parts on the freezer that need a proper cleaning. That apartment is fucking clean.
We still had Internet at the old place, and I still had my computer, so I was able to arrange for a ZipCar to get the rest of our stuff to the new place. I am a good, if erratic, cleaner, but I had the forethought to have plenty of plastic grocery bags so I could easily move the remaining things, mostly cleaning supplies, the vacuum, my computer, and some remaining food from the fridge.
I got the ZipCar at 9pm, more than 12 hours after I’d taken the animals to the new place. I parked in the alley and because I couldn’t figure out the hazard lights, took a chance on loading up the car with our one live plant and the other things. Then, on one of my several trips between apartment and car, I saw that a car was trying to get past “my” car; I parked so shitty that even though it could have been easy for another car to pass, I’d not allowed for that. So I hopped in the car so it could pass, and drove around the block. Then I parked much closer and got (most of) the rest of our stuff (I retrieved a doormat and a shelf liner the next day).
I was fucking exhausted but I still had to drive to the new place, unload the car, drive back to the ZipCar’s spot, and go back to the new place. In all, I took seven fucking trips between the old and new places in a day. If I never have to see that stretch of Armitage again, I’ll be ok.
The Viking had put our bed together and made it. The Viking is one of the most wonderful and kind and considerate people I have ever met. And I get to fuck him! He had also assured that our gas service would be turned on on the day we moved in, so I was able to take a hot bath (we don’t have shower curtain rods, or even towel rods in our new place yet), put on my comfy clothes, and go to bed.
Only I had to go back the next day so the shithead owner’s agent could look at the place with me, confirming we’d left it in good condition.
I swear. True story.