There are many fun and gratifying experiences that we are fortunate to have throughout our lifetime. I have been lucky enough to have encountered numerous good times in my dumb little life. I've been to both Disneyland and Disney World, I have been on the "surprised" end of a Surprise Birthday party and I've had a Bar-Mitzvah, in which the only surprise is your voice cracking during your "hilarious" speech where you thank your parents, brothers and Rabbi before stating to the audience that you want to grow up to be a handsome movie star, an Oscar winning filmmaker or a Playboy Photographer. Spoiler Alert: I never became any of those. One experience that I've been a part of a few times that will never be fun and enlightening is packing up your apartment and moving halfway across the country.
For the past 10 1/2 years I've lived in Los Angeles. I loved it there - met lots of wonderful people, enjoyed the gorgeous scenery and shook hands with a fair number of Superheroes on Hollywood Boulevard. The greatest thing that happened while I lived there was meeting the love of my life, the apple of my eye, the Barbie to my Ken. Just to be clear, I'm not comparing myself to Ken because of his lack of genitalia. I'm comparing myself to Ken because we both love pink polo shirts, ascots and... alright, you got me, because we both have shockingly minuscule "junk."
Within the first 2 years of living in L.A., I met a girl. She started out as a friend of a friend, then a friend, then a girl who let me close mouth kiss her for 3 1/2 minutes one night, then a girlfriend, then a live-in girlfriend and now a fiancee. She is now, and has been for awhile, my best friend, my hero and my reason for living. She shockingly seems to still kind of like me after all of these years and if I play my cards right, I might be able to talk her into an extra couple minutes of kissing one day.
We lived in 2 different apartments together in Los Angeles. One directly across the street from the other so our move was just wheeling all of our belongings down Rodney Drive 25 steps at a time. I distinctly remember how annoying it was though. One box at a time, walking across the street, took a full day. I was thinking, "Oh, we're right across the street. Moving will take no time at all. I'll put on the Jagged Little Pill album and be done with the move by the time Alanis is letting everyone know that one of her hands is in her pocket." As it turns out, this is not the case. It was as if one hand was in my pocket, and the other one was pushing a 250 lb. fridge across a busy Los Angeles street.
As irritating as the across the street move was, I'd rather do that once a week for seven years than to do another move halfway across the country. It is roughly 1500 miles from LA to Austin. 1500 miles in a completely filled to capacity budget rent a truck with limited radio antennae and no AC through the desert is definitely not one of the more comfortable experiences of my life. And when I say filled to capacity, I'm not just talking about the back of the truck, I'm talking about the entire truck. Up front with me was: 2 suitcases - one filled with clothes and the other filled with toiletries, a set of dumbbells (5, 8, 10, 15 and 20 lbs.) Two toolboxes, Three re-usable grocery store canvas bags filled with the contents of our pantry and a decorative wreath that my lady and her friend made while drunk and angry after a Minnesota Vikings home loss to the Chicago Bears. The wreath is very pretty, but could probably do without a Jay Cutler voodoo doll in the middle.
After packing up our entire life and squeezing it, and myself, into the belly of the Budget beast, it was time to hit the road. First stop: Phoenix, AZ. Arizona is known for many things: The Grand Canyon, The Gunfight at the OK Corral, the birthplace of Stevie Nicks. What it is not known for is, "World's Best Smelling Motel 6." We brought our dogs with us so our only options of sleeping were either laying our heads on the rock hard mattress of an I-10 frontage road Motel 6 or throwing down a Los Angeles Dodgers fleece blanket, rewarded to us for being one of the first lucky 25,000 fans to attend a useless September day game for the 4th place Dodgers battling out with the last place Pittsburgh Pirates, and laying down next to a bed of scorpions. We chose the motel and, upon entering the room, realized that we would be breathing through our mouth the entire night. The room smelled like a skunk's asshole after battling a case of food poisoning from eating an expired tin of sardines.
As bad as the odor from the Arizona Motel 6 was, I'd rather have it bottled as a cologne and then drink it, than to spend another night at the Motel 6 in Fort Stockton, TX. Texas is known for many things: The Alamo, the Assassination of JFK, the birthplace of Randy Quaid. What it is not known for is, "Home of the Motel 6 that you are least likely to get murdered at." If the rabid 100 lb. Pit Bulls that greeted us upon entrance by jumping on our car didn't give us a clue that we may not last through the night, the freshly broken lock on our door might have. After complaining to the Meth filled representative at the front desk, she gave us the key to their "most nicest room we've got." As it turns out, the nicest room of the Fort Stockton Motel 6 comes equipped with a family of spiders who must have seeked shelter in room 239 so they could settle down on the very comfortable bed of pubic hair that filled up the bathtub drain.
They say that every seemingly horrible experience becomes a cherished memory. I can say that it is completely true. From the back-breaking physical labor of loading everything we own into a 16 foot wannabe Uhaul to the loneliness of driving 15 hundred miles through the khaki colored rocky hills of the Old West to the haunted walls of the most terrorizing motels since the one named Bates, I will always cherish these memories because I was able to share the nightmares with the woman of my dreams.
