This was what meant I post yesterday, had I not managed to RUIN EVERYTHING by missing a NaBloPoMo entry:

The Stripper moved out a couple months ago, and last month John the Landlord rented her apartment to a couple of guys. They’re in their mid twenties, and virtually indistinguishable from the guys in the Penthouse apartment (they of the Molson Cold Shot of Considerable Damage). We rarely saw them, because they tend to use the back entrance – but this weekend, there was trouble in paradise and we heard all about it.

They fought all the way up the block, stopping on our front steps to scream at each other. From what I gather, they are both motherfuckers who no longer rely upon each other as a bro. Guy 1 was furious at Guy 2, who was trying to salvage the relationship: AM I NOT YOUR BRO? WE’RE BROS! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN MY BRO! Guy 1 wasn’t having any of this though, and let the entire neighbourhood know about it: YOU’RE NOT MY BRO, BRO. YOU’RE A MOTHERFUCKER! FUCKING SHIT DUDE, NOT MY BRO! This went on for quite some time, with Guy 2 pleading his case: YOU’RE MY BRO, I GO TO BAT FOR YOU, I GIVE YOU CRACK, I COVER YOUR BACK, WE’RE BROS, BRO.

Wait, what?

I GIVE YOU CRACK? This is why they should remain bros?

Oh good god.

Strangely, the reminder that Guy 2 has shared crack with Guy 1 did little to patch the bromance. They brought the fight indoors, where it turned physical – we could hear the thumps and the walls shook (the wall in the entryway has a huge hole in it where someone kicked it in) and doors slammed. It would have then been quiet, if Drunk Bettie didn’t stick her nose in – she started crowing to Admiral Ackbar about the fight, and I think she went downstairs to confront the guys. I don’t know if she did, but she came back up and loudly said something about calling John the Landlord and then somehow got locked out of her apartment in the rain, because Andy couldn’t figure out how to open the door. Good times!

I can’t wait to move.

Well, shit. I was so busy this weekend that I completely forgot to update yesterday, meaning I fail at NaBloPoMo for the first time ever. I am thoroughly overflowing with remorse, although that may just be the tired: I am very, very tired.

I’m also starting to panic a little. Things won’t be officially official until we’ve signed a few more papers and handed over a large amount of money, and I keep having nightmares that everything falls through and we won’t get this place, either. Ed assures me that this won’t happen, but WHAT IF IT DOES. I’ll feel a lot better when conditions are lifted, even if that means that I’ll have less than three weeks to pack and organize the move.

I can’t let the possibility of (crushing, horrible) bad stop me from preparing, though, or I’d go insane. We grabbed a few boxes from Miranda and Reilly on Saturday, and so far I have two giant wardrobe boxes and one medium box done. We’ve ordered some packing crates from Frogbox, which we’ll supplement with stuff from M&R once they’ve unpacked – but the Frogboxes won’t come until the 7th and I need to be busy now or I’ll get overwhelmed and explode into chunks (which will then need to be packed into boxes).

November has been an exhausting month, and I’ll be glad when it’s over. We moved Miranda and Reilly on Saturday, so they’re in their new place now and it is awesome. Josh and Shan are all set up on the mountain, and that just leaves Ed and I. It’s a good thing there’s a three-weekend break before our move, because I think we’re all worn out and in need of some downtime before we do it all over again.

Plus, there are parties.

Hey, it’s the last day of November which means Ed can FINALLY shave off his moustache. There’s still today though, so feel free to donate to his Movember page – each dollar donated will be matched by his company, for double the cancer-fighting goodness. I had originally asked him to grow a moustache because I’ve never seen him with one, and now that I know, I can’t WAIT for it to go away. It makes him look even grumpier than normal, and I don’t like Grumpy Ed. I will do a dance while he shaves it off, and then I will pack a box.

*cough*

Dirty.

hey look it's ed's moustache

I have TWO BOXES! TIME TO PACK!

We moved Miranda and Reilly into their new place today: two down, one (us!) to go. The last two weekends have been a whirlwind of moving other people, but it is all good – we are storing up the moving karma. Plus, none of us will be moving again any time soon. Hooray for new homes!

I shouldn’t celebrate yet, though. We’ve signed papers and have an officially accepted offer, but we still need to hand over our deposit before conditions are lifted and we are officially officially moving. We don’t foresee any problems, but .. until we’re actually in the new space and surrounded by boxes, I will not feel safe.

I’m off to pack my two boxes now!

I’m having trouble coming up with a name.

I name things: cars, pets, areas, homes. I like having a familiar name to refer to, such as The Ghetto of North Vancouver (our street) or the Mazdabator (the car). This habit tends to rub off on other people, and sometimes they name things too – Josh and Shan’s new place is The Mountain, and Miranda and Reilly’s place is The Loft. If we had gotten the place we ultimately had to walk away from, it would have been known as The Penthouse. Everything has a name.

.. except for the place we offered on last night.

Usually a name will leap out at me and be Made Official before we get to stage 2, but this time there are too many things to choose from and I am all aflutter with options. Help me out! Should it be:

• a Lord of the Rings reference? (the sales guy looks like Orlando Bloom and the developer is Aragon Properties)
• Something to do with Pirates of the Caribbean? (sales guy looked more Will Turner than Legolas)
• Shakespearean? (our new home has a Juliet balcony)
• Ultra nerdy? (our suite number is a level 3  prime number: it’s an Eisenstein prime with no imaginary part, and a Chen prime)
• Something else entirely?

SO MANY CHOICES.

Err, and if this post wasn’t clear enough, we signed offer papers last night. The place is brand new, so we’re buying from the developer and not a seller – this means that although conditions don’t come off until next Thursday, we’re pretty much the only ones who can stop it. Take that, CMHC. You shan’t crush my soul again!

We move in three weeks. HAHAH I guess I’m not on strike anymore.

When I got to work this morning, there were ten garbage cans around my desk. I think someone is trying to tell me something, like maybe I shouldn’t be on strike.

I am, though. I am officially On Strike, and have been for a while now. Our apartment has been declared hazardous and unfit for human habitation, but I refuse to do anything about it. It’s really killing me, too – there are spices in the bedroom, unmentionables in the living room, and ectoplasm everywhere. I want to clean and straighten and generally have a home that doesn’t look like it’s about to showcased on TLC as a terrible example of Humanity Gone Wrong, but I am On Strike.

I am not going to clean the apartment until I can pack and purge at the same time.

If this means we live in squalor until we move, so be it. I am prepared to step over the tangle of shoes and entrails several times a day; quite content to walk the delicate line between the mountain of empty pop bottles and pit of sticky porn. I’ve been mentally purging our belongings for weeks in preparation for the move that is hypothetically supposed to happen, and I’m actually looking forward to it – we have so very many things that we don’t need. I’m going to try and pare down as much as I possibly can – books we haven’t read in years; clothing that’ll never see the light of day; furniture that has seen better days. It will all go at the same time I am packing, or it won’t go at all.

We must! We must! We must decrease our stuff!

I would like to reply you that the deliver date will be later than normal due to Christmas effect. The postman explained us most of the airmail letter could not clear up smoothly during this period. I’d be appreciate if you can understand. We hope you can contact us first. We must solve to you immediately.

Damn that Christmas effect! I demand to be solved to immediately!

I need a secret.

Specifically, I need a PG-13 secret; something harmless enough that it can be shared with my co-workers at our holiday party.

We’re doing “Employee Trivia” as a game, and everyone has to submit at least one fact about themselves that people may not know then we guess for prizes. I have many secrets, but none of them are really suitable for this sort of thing:

• “My name isn’t really Kimli” – well, that would defeat the purpose of guessing
• “I haven’t graduated high school” – not something I necessarily want to tell my boss and co-workers
• “I’m a functional retard at Mario games” – not very PC of me
• “My sister is older than my mother” – true, but I don’t need to share my sordid family past with a bunch of casual acquaintances
• “I’ve gone to Dildo School” – I use this on OK Cupid, and it’s brought me nothing but trouble

What sorts of benign tidbits do normal people share?

It’s 9:24 on a Tuesday morning, I’m fantastically and cataclysmically tired, and I have already had an excellent day.

Last night while traipsing through open houses eighteen through twenty-two (which shall collectively be known as Davy Jones’ Locker), I discovered that my necklace was missing. Not just any necklace, either – I lost the fancy diamond necklace that I bought myself back in April to distract myself from the natural disaster that is my vagina. I was distraught because the necklace is a favourite, and I traced my steps from suite to suite in vain. The last time I could recall being in possession of the necklace was at work, meaning it had disappeared somewhere between the office and the Locker. It wasn’t in the car, or the building (as far as I could tell), and outside was dark and stormy – I couldn’t see a thing. When we got home, I carefully shook out all my clothes and emptied my bag and checked my boots, but no necklace could be found.

When I got to work this morning, I asked the receptionist if anything had been turned in. Nothing had, and my desk was free of jewellery (but covered in quarters for some reason). I was a sad, sad panda – I really loved that necklace, and it would be expensive to replace.

But then! I had to run an errand in another department, and there! On the table! MY NECKLACE! It must have fallen off at some point yesterday, and someone found it and put it on the table for someone to claim. HOORAY! I squeaked with delight and I may have done a little dance; such was my joy.

That’s not the only reason my day has been excellent, though. In addition to finding my lost jewellery, I:

• Came into work to a company-wide email saying that Angry Guy has reverted back to his original department (one I have very little contact with)
• Was given a nifty gold iPhone case by a co-worker who had a bunch of extras
• The pop machine is out of Diet Coke – but the secret slot still had some cans, so I got my morning fix
• Job Security Through Incompetence: my boss really, really wants me to get certified as provincial trainer, so they are offering to pay 100% of my diploma on the condition that I don’t go anywhere for 18 months
• I got to use “it’s NEVER Lupus” in a conversation yesterday, and I am still amused

If the rest of my Tuesday can be even a little bit as great as the last 2 hours, I will do a dance.

I’m elbow-deep in CRM, and I’m pretty sure I wish I had gone into Veterinarian Services instead – massaging the inside of a cow’s uterus is probably a great deal less messy than inexplicable data.

Josh and Shan got their shiny new keys on Saturday, and on Sunday we moved them into their new home. The place is fantastic – they have so many bathrooms I don’t know what to do with myself – and I’m very happy for them. I can’t imagine how awesome it would be to settle into something that is your very own home, especially one as nice as theirs. I can’t wait to see it once they’re all set up!

I *am* happy for them, too. I know I’ve been a sour ball of angst over the move, but it was never because I wasn’t happy for them. Buying your first home is huge (so they tell me), and I’d be a pretty lousy person if I couldn’t share in the delight of two of my closest friends. I’m thrilled for them, and always have been – it’s ME that had the problem.

I didn’t want them to move at all. I absolutely loved having Josh and Shan living so close to us – it was basically the only thing keeping Ed and I in the building (apart from sheer laziness). For all my “change is awesome!” cheerleading, I actually hate change. Their new townhome meant no more random visits with a 10-second warning to make myself decent, no more stopping at their door before going home to share news or brownies, no more carpooling across the water or border with little to no planning. My angst had nothing to do with bitterness over their awesome new home, and everything to do with my loneliness.

I know that things won’t *really* be changing – the Gang hasn’t changed; there are still Good Times a-comin’, and we’ll see each other as much as we ever did (but perhaps not in pajamas) – I just can’t help but feel a pang of sad when I see the empty windows of their old apartment. I also acknowledge that it’s silly to think we all would have stayed in the same horrible building forever and ever just because it was fun to live with friends, but I live for the present and that’s exactly how I DO think even when reality inevitably comes crashing down around my head and I spend weeks in a funk because I am seven flavours of ridiculous with bottomless fries.

But! I am slowly getting used to their not being in our building. They don’t live far from us, their new place is many awesome, and they have Diet Coke in the fridge just for me. There is no bad here; none at all. Hooray for Josh and Shan and their new home (of which I am already the Mayor – thanks, Foursquare!)

Saw fifteen again, and 17. Going to pass on both – they’re not quite right.

Short sentences tonight. Moved Josh and Shan into their new home; hostile forces now out number the good in the Ghetto of North Vancouver. Our turn will come, they tell me.

Tired in exciting new places.

Eighteen is tomorrow.