I finally left the oompa loompa apartment. Bless. I don’t think I could have handled one more day of living high atop the Tower of Unbearable Heat™, replete with million dollar a month bills from Cincinnati Gouging and Extortion for gas and electric charges, with the wild haired freak of a landlord monitoring my comings and goings. And I know Stephen is thrilled with not smacking his head constantly on the sloped, dormer ceilings of the apartment that even I, at five feet tall, had to duck under to avoid serious head injuries. July 1 was indeed the beginning of my independence days from a very bad choice made a year ago for living arrangements.

Echoes of, “if you ever move out of this fucking midget apartment, we’re not helping you get your stuff out,” from the guys who helped me move in last July, I knew I had to hire movers. After hearing the refrain of, “a third floor apartment merits a charge for an extra man, plus an additional charge for them going to the third floor, plus plus plus...,” I was thrilled to hear, “we don’t need no extra man. That’s for old people. We can move you out in under 2 hours. It won’t cost more than 200 dollars total.” I nearly proffered my first born child out of appreciation for their lovely fiscal kindness.

You know the adage, “you get what you pay for?” Well, I paid for Bubba and Cletis Movers and that’s what I got. Don’t get me wrong. They moved my belongings in under two hours and not one single thing was broken. It was the total Bubba and Cletis Experience that will have me shelling out the big bucks for a professional mover next time.

When Cletis crested the stairs of the Tower of Unbearable Heat ™, my first impression was awe at the sheer number of prison tattoos gracing his hulking, sweating, hairy form. Stephen decided to abandon me in favor of extorting information about my formative years from my mother downstairs. I had the pleasure of being stuck in the back bedroom of the inferno apartment, with Cletis, who took a shine to me.

“So, uh, that your husband downstairs, hon?”

Oh sweet lord. The whole “don’t lie” thing is so ingrained in me that I said, “Nope. Not yet.”

“He your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“You sure do got a lot of books in this here room.”

Why am I hearing, “you shore got a purty mouth,” in my mind? “Um, thanks. I can read. I mean, I like to read.”

“You an artist or sumfin, honey? You sure gots lots of pictures in here.”

Pictures? Oh God. He means the framed prints I have, my Andrew Wyeth collection. Suddenly I had a vision of his domicile, decorated entirely in early American Milk Crate and Cable Spool.

“Um, no. I just write, sometimes. I don’t paint.”

“You want to be one of dem dere Arthurs or something?”

Uh, do I want to be a short, drunk man in love with Liza Minelli? Oh, an AUTHOR. “Uh, yeah,I guess so. Are you almost finished?”

“Yeah, honey. You just let me take care of *everything*.”

Oh sweet Jesus. Please don’t let him mean what I think he means.

He *winked* at me. I dropped my eyes from his, and of course, my gaze came to rest on the POT LEAF tattooed on his calf. Classy Cletis, class-ay.

When I told Stephen that Cletis was giving him a run for his money, Stephen’s only comment was, “well, with him, you could get the tattoo you want.”

Great, my boyfriend is a comedian.