The Migration Continues...

Now that I have found my little ocean side piece of heaven, I meet my Mom in NJ, jam our cars full of my stuff from the basement and drive (on 4th of July weekend let me remind you - yes, my Mom rocks) to little Rhody.

I have been stressing to her how uptight the landlord is, how he really wants a nice, quiet person, not a party girl (me? a party girl? what had he heard? So I still wore my Donut Shop t-shirt - the infamous sink your teeth into these tee- once in a while as a joke - how could he know that?!?!). I assured him I was his girl but he was still leery. I wouldn't feel secure until I had the apartment keys in my hand. As we approached the street, my Mom calls me to say she wants to stop for gas. As I pump her gas, she's complaining about how hot she is. Well, no kidding Dick Tracy.

The year is 2000 and the temperature is 92 degrees. The outfit my Mom has chosen to wear to drive 4 hours and move me into my apartment is: beige shorts (ok, this makes sense), socks and sneakers (my feet crave flip flops but whatever), a t-shirt (also makes total sense), and a giant, over-sized, brown furry Express sweatshirt I bought as a high school sophomore in 1991. I call it her flying squirrel sweatshirt because it is so huge on her that it hangs to her knees, the "sweatshirty" part (you know, the soft fuzzy inside you like to curl into in the winter) is on the outside (I think that was a trend in the early '90s), and when she raises her arms, it looks like wings.

We finally get to the apartment where my uptight landlord meets us, clutching my precious keys. He eyes my Mom's car (a sensible, boxy Volvo - that screams respectable), and my BMW (hello, how yuppie can one family get - I'm so not portraying myself as a party girl - give me the keys already). He has me go inside the apartment to sign something and hand me my keys. My Mom is still getting "organized" in her car so I head in. As he is handing me the golden keys, my Mom busts through the door, she's clutching a box, her pocketbook is hanging from her wrist - dangerously close to the ground - she has sweat pouring off her nose so her sunglasses have slipped down...she misses the stair into the sunken family room...stumbles...tries to catch herself...gets caught up in her flying squirrel sweatshirt...loudly proclaims, "aw shit, I'm going down" and then promptly falls at the feet of my landlord. To her credit, she never drops the box though it is labeled in large block letters, "BEER MUGS TAKEN FROM VARIOUS BARS". Grrrreat. I get her up, grab my keys and the lease before he can change his mind and usher my landlord out the door. My Mom and I go into uncontrollable hysterics and decide we've had enough unpacking for today...let's regroup and go buy a couch. Sounds simple enough, right? As if.......

Stay tuned for the final installation of the migration....CeeCee and Mom shop for a couch.