The Piano Is Moving

Piano movers are currently attempting to bring Father's first piano into my apartment.

My instinct is to help - one of them just said "SHIT" and "My body is sliding down because I'm on the pad" and "Can you hold this for a second?" There is obviously nothing I can do. It is difficult to watch people suffering in your house and to be helpless. Witnessing this makes me think that the $400 I am paying them to do this, which I originally deemed "Ridiculous!," is not enough.

It is also ridiculous that people routinely suggest that I move the piano myself. D used to be one of these people. Clearly most people have never seen a piano coming up stairs.

I didn't want to take Father's piano. I was trying my best to find a better (preferably free), less emotionally distressing piano on Craigslist. I found and instantly became attached to one - an ancient upright grand with ivory keys, big sound, amazing action, and, most fabulously, a coat of white paint making it the weirdest, most wonderful piano ever. Slated to buy it, I worked out endless details with its owner, including her having to remove the stairs from her bulkhead entrance so the piano could be craned out of her ex-basement (the stairs wouldn't hold the weight, it would require 7 guys, etc. etc.). She didn't anticipate the absurd cost of replacing basement stairs, thus trapping my piano in her basement for eternity.

I took this as a sign, and immediately scheduled a move for Father's piano.

This means piano practicing in my last week and a half of unemployment. It's amazing how quickly it's going. Project Convert-VHS-Home-Movies-to-DVD is consuming all of my time. This is a project more happily accomplished in poor weather. It was frustrating yesterday being confined to the couch when the sun finally came out.

I'm copying one right now in which my 12-year-old-self said "Brother, you're such an idiot!" while awkwardly playing non-basketball in our driveway. Oh, the awkward years immortalized and revisited.

This project has been a bit more traumatic than I'd anticipated. It's fascinating to see where you came from - why you are the way you are. Watching my parents as a youngish married couple has been enlightening. Watching the endless lip syncing and dance routines and slew of insane child behavior has been a riot. Seeing my high school friends has me longing for a gang and stalking people. I am realizing that I was as happy as I was angsty, but for some reason I remember only the angst.

And somehow I forgot the horrific fashions. The 80s were a cruel decade.

And what happened to the extended family? Is it because we moved away? Is it because we did something different?

Right now there are pink tights, three pairs of socks (scrunched, of course), and high tops, folks.

I'm off now to have full priced martinis and happy hour sale food with Sister.

Until tomorrow...