I’ve been avoiding my first post from Brooklyn for awhile now. What if I was changed? What if this site became much worse…. OR BETTER? The thought was more than I could bear.

No, I’m just lazy.

So here I am! This neighborhood is called Park Slope and I love it. Like OMG it is so cool and original of me to move to Park Slope! I am a Slopester. Watch me blog about it!

But first: last photos of the Village.

Here I am in the Pink Palace, just moments after the three movers lugged out all of my crap from it… and just before I got stuck in a 90-minute traffic jam in a cab because I was too shy and rejection-fearing to bum a ride in the moving van. (The woman on the phone said it was illegal for them to drive me… I’m not sure why I listened to her. I think it was so that I’d have a good excuse to not ask for a ride, even though it was all I wanted/needed in my life at that point. So basically, the prospect of saving up to $95 (the extra hour on the move + $20 for a cab) was not worth the effort of a few lines of awkward conversation between me and strangers. I need to develop some new priorities. Hence, the move to Brooklyn.)

Speaking of awkward, I certainly played my part in making the scene between me and the movers as uncomfortable as possible. It took them maybe 30 minutes to haul everything out of the place, but I still kind of had to be in there to answer questions and generally get in the way. So I pretended to busy myself with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Tilex Shower Fresh cleanser. When they’d leave the room, I’d relax and put both items down; when they returned, I’d be furiously scrubbing the oven top for the fifth time. I also did a number on the closet and bathroom floors. None of this was necessary. All I really wanted to do was clean behind the bed, where I knew would be an assortment of sugary cereals, hair things, and broken glass. Finally the bed was gone, and I was right. The broken glass was more like a broken goblet. It was this huge beer chalice from Munich, and I loved it. I almost didn’t want the guys to move the bed so I wouldn’t have to bear the sight of its pieces. (Keep in mind the glass broke over a year ago and I just never bothered to pick it up. I’m cool.)

The most awkward few minutes occurred after I realized there were still some popsicles in my freezer, and decided to start gnawing on one while the movers were still in the thick of things. It was an Edy’s Whole Fruit strawberry bar and it was absolutely heavenly. So good, in fact, that I started feeling extremely guilty about eating the treat in front of the mover men. Here they were hustling and sweating their asses off, and there I was gingerly sinking my teeth into each bite so as not to incur brain freeze.

A few bites in, the scene became too traumatic to handle, so I started rushing and developed brain freeze anyway. The whole time, I wondered if it would be appropriate to ask the guys if they wanted one. It would have been so weird. We were barely speaking, but they had to notice how delighted I was by the popsicle. I’m positive I was swaying around in a deep swoon, trying to catch my balance on the countertop. I was pissed I never got to enjoy the other bars in the package. I ended up leaving them for new tenant Kate, but first I had a fleeting notion of asking the guys if they wanted one. I wonder how I would have phrased it, because their English wasn’t so hot.

“Want a popsicle?”

“Would you like a delicious popsicle in a strawberry flavor?”

“Here.” [shoves it]

Either way, it would have been weird. Think about it. I’m paying them to carry crap downstairs at 10 in the morning and suddenly I’d be like “No, stop and have dessert with me.” I’m positive they’d have said no, so I never asked, Plus, I knew I’d be offended if they declined. When people say no to things I suggest, I get really mad. Not because I want to win, but because I really want others to enjoy what I’m obsessing over at that moment. It makes me feel less insane and selfish. So seriously. Humor me.

My my, check out how much more pink and loserish the Palace looks when it’s empty! It also seems smaller, if that’s possible. Did I really live in that thing for two years? (A: Yes, and you adored it, so stop that right now, young lady. I mean it!)

I expected to be teary-eyed and blubbery during these moments; instead I was thrilled (see above photo, in which I swear I wasn’t trying to look that excited on purpose). I think the most appropriate term is “giddy.” I like that one because when I say it, I seem to feel the need to add an extra syllable, a sort of “ehn” sound before the g. It comes out like “nnngiddy.” People have mocked this. They’re like, “Say giddy again.” But I don’t. I’m not their clown.