I'd Like To Smash And Burn Every Futon, But I Can't Move My Neck After Sleeping On A Futon

Why the F--- do people buy these things? Well, I was sleeping in my old bedroom at my pappy's place. That's this guy:

In a fit of rage the next morning, I demanded that my husband smash the futon with his fists until his fists were busted. He met me in Connecticut because we finally found a place to live! We're leaving Philly and moving back to Connecticut because his candidate lost the primary election to be the Democratic gubernatorial candidate for governor. We stayed with my dad while looking for a decent place for our crummy stuff and all these danged animals.

Things have been a little somber at home, it was a tough loss for my husband and his friends on the campaign. It was also tough to listen, ever since September, to my husband coming home at night, ranting about sexism in the media during the dinner I made him in his clothes I washed. . .

He worked for his first female candidate and that was pretty good for our marriage. He was already pretty sensitive to stuff, but now he's even better. I mean, not that she campaigned on her period or how much she loves chocolate, but he saw up close the different standard set for a female candidate. When she gave her concession speech, my husband was swarmed with idiot reporters who asked things like "did she cry? I thought I heard her voice crack. Did she cry during practice?" and I'm very proud of his response: that's a clown question, bro, anything else? I'm so happy to be celebrating two years married to that dude on Monday! Yee-haw! Since the second anniversary is cotton, he'll be getting a pair of boxers from Personalization Mall that say "Property of Rachel Bergman."

There's not a lot I'll miss about Philly. We lived above a bar and a Walgreen's, so it was loud and there was garbage everywhere. Our alley was the perfect place for the area restaurant workers to smoke a joint, so there was always that. They called me "Mama" and offered me some, most nights. They probably thought my husband was a narc. I will miss my library. I did K-4 and it was the highlight of my week. Kids who go nuts for books, reading, and listening to stories are totally the best little smart and savvy people.

We spent $69.03 on moving supplies today, but I'm trying to think of what I can smash to save myself the effort. It's going to be a long weekend of smashing stuff. It's what the veterans would have wanted. Happy Memorial Day!

Truffles Has A Coke Nail

Check it out:

We would trim it ourselves, but the one time my husband tried to do it on his own, he practically chopped her paw off and she bled all over the floor. It was early morning, I was asleep (all of his bad decisions happen when I'm not around to nag him away from making them) and he decided it was time to try it out. When she cried and blood spurted out of her foot, he woke me up for help. Groggy, I stumbled downstairs to blood splatter all over the floor and my mom, sitting at the kitchen table reading a grocery store circular as if she wasn't sitting in the middle of a trauma scene. Truffles was still bleeding a lot, and my poor husband was really starting to freak out. I think he envisioned her bleeding out on our kitchen floor and us holding her limp, lifeless body with asymmetrical toe nails. So I took the same first-aid steps I take with any injury/illness, human or otherwise: I googled it. This led to dipping her paw in a bowl of flour (or cornstarch, or tapioca starch, or gluten free baking mix - whatever powder you have on hand) because it acts as a natural styptic and it's ok if she licks it, which she did. She didn't really limp afterwards, either. Not so bad. My husband and I have a new joke about him falling down the stairs and breaking his leg so that the bone sticks out and while he passes out from the pain, I google treatment and he wakes up with vacuum cleaner parts strapped to his leg as a makeshift splint. "Sorry babe, co-pays at the hospital are ridiculous!"

As of this weekend, we're in our new apartment in Philly and in our neighborhood is a place called The Pampered Pooch. Now that the smoke has cleared, we can think about these things. The move was stressful. Packing sucked, my scooter didn't fit in the truck when it was all loaded, so I had to wait for a tow truck at the last minute to take it to a safe house (my dad's backyard - let me know if you need anything stored). The drive down to Philly was rough, with Truffles and a bunch of cats. We're fostering my mom's cat Olly, who is a big fat loudmouth, and he cried through half of the three and a half hour drive until my husband finally threatened to drown the two fattest cats in the sink. I guess Olly understood because he shut up. When the movers arrived with the truck, my husband was out buying pounds and pounds of kitty litter so he missed their struggle to squeeze the truck into murder alley, where our doorway is located. They turned into the perpendicular alley to try to get to our door and crashed into a table of diners at an outdoor cafe. The umbrella was wedged in between the truck and the wall, but nobody was hurt. The poor driver was shaking, but the restaurant manager was very kind and comforting. She didn't ask me to pick up anyone's tab, thank god. Most of our belongings have at least one chip, lots of scratches and dents or missing pieces. They worked really hard, though.

Today is day 1 of being alone in the apartment and everywhere I turn there's a cat. Truffles has diarrhea and I've been nauseous and cramping and I've narrowed it down to Philly water. According to the NRDC website, it's got high levels of contamination from sewage, industrial waste and there is lots of runoff. I had to go buy a few jugs of Poland Spring after Truffles hopped into a potted plant on the sidewalk and acted like a hot chocolate machine. She's also peed in the apartment twice, which is infuriating. I'd like to go off water entirely and just drink wine, but Pennsylvania has some insane and backwards drinking laws and it's practically impossible to buy a bottle. Thin ice, Philly. THIN ICE.

Happy New Year! Special Treat: My Mom Is Staying With Us

Unfortunately, I can't tell you the most traumatic things that have already happened because lives would be destroyed (mine). It involves saliva in the salsa jar, among other things.

The real question is, what will the year 5775 bring? We're all moving soon, and luckily, in different directions. My mom's cat is here, too and my dream of having my own reality t.v. show called Pussy Wars feels like it could finally come to fruition. Cats like to fight. I'd like to turn my living room into a battle dome and get them all hopped up on cat nip while laser pointers shoot red dots all over the floor. Whenever a new cat enters the dome, I'd play that sound from The Highlander when the immortal senses another immortal nearby.

My husband is already living in Philly and pulled a no-show on my hard-won appointment with Comcast yesterday. He's "busy." He's "working." He has a "job." Pffft. Truffles and I spent the weekend with him and one of the toughest adjustments for her is the lack of greenspace in Philly. For her, this translates to nowhere to poop. We walk her around a four foot patch of grass and try to think of helpful things to say to coax turds out of her.

I'm heading to San Francisco tomorrow for a few days to celebrate the release of my friend's book The Edge Of Normal. I've never been to San Fran, but my dad had a heart attack there once, so it must be cool. Also, I highly recommend the book - it's a fabulous thriller that she loosely describes as Clarice Starr meets Elizabeth Smart.

The trip was planned before the "moving to Philly" bombshell, so I still haven't really packed anything. I've thought about it a lot, though. I've looked at stuff and imagined it in a box. I've also thought about burning my apartment to the ground and starting fresh, but other people live here and that's frowned upon. Plus, I'm too busy visiting everyone I love to say goodbye and talk about how much packing I have on my hands.

The Worst Part Of Moving? Setting Up Cable

Calling a utility company of any kind typically takes a really long time. (Side note: I hate when people say "real long time." In that instance, you need the -ly ending because "real" is modifying a noun, long time, and as such, is an adverb. Also use it as an adverb if you're modifying an adjective. It is not "a real good Pop Tart" - it is "a really good Pop Tart," moron, so if you want English to be our national language, then use it properly.)

I have placed 2 calls to the good people at Comcast to try to get internet, cable and phone service started in our new apartment in Philly. The first call was 25 minutes long and the second call was 17 minutes long. There is still not even a service order to start service. I'm not aware of any historical data saying that it happened, but I believe that if they could have, Comcast would have helped the Nazis. You can't even hang up on them in disgust because you'd just have to call back and wait another 20 minutes to speak to someone again. I hate them. So does everyone else.

We've nailed down one detail of the move: a place to live. It's nice, but expensive. It's in a good neighborhood, but the only entrance to our building is a back alley where you can't fit a car. If someone were going to murder me, that alley would be the perfect spot. Meh, I had a good run.

4 Trips To The DMV Later And We're Leaving The State

My husband swears the two aren't related, but at the end of the month, we're leaving Connecticut. We have this thing, he and I, where we like to get our major life changes planned and executed in about four weeks.

There are many things I'm excited about - I love big cities, the excitement of moving to a new locale and learning a new neighborhood. On the minus side, I've lived near family and friends for almost four years and I'm sad to leave them. My mom just moved back to town, too! Well, maybe I'd do the same thing if all of a sudden I lived ten minutes from my mother-in-law. As my friend Nina puts it, "mother-in-laws are a gift." Which is true, and nobody should have too much of a good thing because then it would be less special. Actually, my M-I-L is pretty great, except for that time last year when she sat me in front of a computer for two hours and made me pick a bunch of stuff I didn't want from Uncle Crate and Colonel Barrel for a wedding registry that I now have to pack and schlep to another State.

Who will police New Haven's sidewalks for illegal bicyclists? The frozen yogurt wars have only just begun in this city and I won't be here to pick a side! The local newspaper reported on the frozen yogurt wars a few days ago because there will now be 5 establishments serving the build-your-own froyo, so that is totally a valid regret. This does give me an opportunity to "gift" my '89 Honda Accord to a less fortunate family member, although I use the word gift loosely since giant plumes of white smoke have been billowing out of the hood recently. I asked my friend if that was normal and he said yes, that's how cars work when you're poor. Hah!

I'm trying to stay positive while still feeling very sorry for myself. People keep asking me what I'm going to do in my new location, since we're moving because of a job opportunity for my husband, and I've come up with a stock answer that nobody has laughed at yet: volunteer interpretive dance.

One thing I struggle with in marriage is no longer being the star of the show. It's times like this when I am relegated to the role of sidekick and maybe even a stereotype. I'll be doing some solo apartment hunting and I feel like I should be finding a place with a spare cubby where I can iron his ties.