Rifle in hand and two in the bush

Like relationships, I think people can become gun-shy regarding their jobs. I don't really know anyone who is comfortable in his or her job. Everyone has the lazy eye, keeping watch for new opportunities while at the same time trying not to get canned from their current positions.

I've become gun-shy. When I first started interviewing for my current position, I refused to get excited about it or even tell anyone. When they offered me the position, I smiled and thanked them, but I still lacked excitement. I should have been jumping up and down that my 4 month unemployment spell was over and I would be making good money again. Unfortunately, I've been canned before and jobs for me became my figurative boyfriend--I didn't trust them and was fully expecting them to screw me over.

My coworkers began questioning why I haven't decorated my cubicle. I told them I had a few things, but they were still in boxes from my last move. Truth is, if they let me go, I just wanted to grab my keys and leave, I didn't want to go through the shame of having to collect up my pictures and paintings. You feel like a big enough loser as it is without having to hang around to take things with you. You take down artwork and immediately loathe it for making you stay behind while everyone watches and whispers.

Before I signed my lease, I went to my boss: "I'm about to sign a year lease on an apartment I love, but can barely afford. Before I enter in any contracts binding me to this place, is there anything I should know?" That's how skittish I am.

She had a good laugh and told me to take the apartment.

I love my job. For the first time I have an actual career that can take me places. I have a job that requires a college education. It requires me to think. I'm a specification writer: I write legal binding documents for architects and engineers. So after 4 months, I finally hung something up in my barren cubicle and my coworkers can't stop laughing:

It finally happened

It only took 7 years but

I HAVE A BETTER BODY THAN BRITNEY SPEARS!

No, I didn't go on a fancy diet, and, no, I didn't up my hours at the gym. I did nothing; Britney just got fat.






















This is the woman you men foolishly adored. Now she's reminiscent of Elvis's last years when he flew to Colorado to eat this peanut butter and jelly sandwich served in a loaf of bread and deep fried. Look at her with her Panama City body. Blech. Do you still want her, men? DO YOU?

I didn't think so.

25 wasn't so bad. I think...?

Drinks consumed for my birthday outing Saturday night:

• 1 cosmopolitan, made by me in my apartment. Nasty, but v. strong. Should actually count as 2 drinks.
• 2 vodka martinis at posh martini bar.
• 1 big ass margarita in Virginia Highland (Things went downhill very quickly from here. Never add tequila to the mix unless you're on a mission. I was.)
• 1 pink panty pull-down, weak.
• 2 blow jobs, so strong they burned my throat going down.
• 1 Bud Light.
• 1 Red Snapper (?), memory gets fuzzy from here. It was a shot and it was dark.
  
• 1 more pink panty pull-down, but bartender didn't know how to make it, so it was a really an amalgamation of vodka and pineapple juice, among other things.

• 1 Natty Light, I think. I saw the cans the next morning.

The result:

• I was completely housed, or "plantationed" according to Ryan and Eric's standards.
• I crowned myself the champion for outdrinking everyone. Self-congratulations and waving may have occurred.
• The drunker I got, the more vulgar I became. Highlights include running into 2 bars and 1 gas station asking for whip cream. When they asked why, I said only, "I want a blow job." Another time included getting a round of pink panty pull-downs for free by telling the bartender I was wearing them.
• Walking became a challenge. I did my best impression of escaping alligators, zig-zag style.
• It took me about 30 seconds to actually fit the key into my door lock. Concentration was required.
• Woke up fully clothed on top of my bed at 2:47 the next afternoon. Lights were still on. Things were out of place.
• I had one of the best nights in such a long time.

Good News

More details to come if anything actually develops from this.

The Birthday Problem

I'm not doing it. Nope, not me.

I'm not turning 25.

It's a decision I made. I'm going to have to stick with it. I think I'll just turn 22 again, that was my favorite year as well as my favorite birthday celebration. At 22 I was at the height of my party days and still managed to weigh 5 pounds less than I do now.

Almost a year ago, A* scared the living hell out of me with life after 25. There used to be a bit in there about not bleaching your hair blonde anymore and becoming a more mature brunette. Pphffaw, not happening my friends.

I'm not growing up. I'm going to drink my cheap beer and occasionally crave Ramen noodles so much that I'll eat them voluntarily. I'm still going to watch the Real World even though I am now to old for it. I'm staying blonde and keeping my ridiculously short skirts. I'm still going to walk through the toy isle at Walmart (if I can find one, apparently Atlanta hates Walmart). I'm still going to grocery shopping after 10 pm. I'm keeping the leather pants and the backless shirts, just because. (Er, but actually I may not wear those anymore). I'm still going to wait until midnight to go out Saturday night. I'm keeping my college t-shirts. A pony-tail is a perfectly acceptable hair style for work. And you know what? I'm keeping the slutty shoes!

Obtaining the Cookie

So, uh, I didn't want to admit this.

I thought I would get away with it and no one would ever find out.

But of course I feel the need to write about it.

I rented "The Real World You Never Saw: Hookups."

*Hangs head in utter shame*

I rented it because I wanted to see the threesome from the Las Vegas season. I still can't believe I missed one episode and they basically have a group orgy. Actually, I was a little disappointed and am questioning if an actual threesome transpired. When Alton came in the room and ripped the sheets off, only Trishelle was naked (shocker). Steven and Brynn still have their "cash and prizes" covered. Then Brynn made out with Alton a little.

But the most noteworthy part of the 60 minutes I can never get back is when Coral and Dan interviewed Teck from the Hawaii season. They talked about how Teck was the most successful player of any Real World cast member and his advice to aspiring players. Teck looks straight into the camera and says, "Girls want to give the cookie as much as guys want to eat the cookie. Guys just have to learn not to be stupid along the way."

My mouth fell open, bits of the cracker I was eating fluttered away. I think he just nailed it. I can't believe this 27-year-old asshole just spoke so succinctly and articulately about men versus women. I do want to give the cookie! But, you guys, you do some stupid shit.

And now I present you with my list of

Stupid Shit Guys Do That Will Never Earn the Cookie:

• You don't call when you say you will. This one is easy. If you don't plan on calling, then don't say you will. It's irritating.
• You have bad manners. I'm not your best friend. Your best friend doesn't have the legs I do. Opening doors and other gentlemanly behaviors go a long way with girls.
• You ask for our advice and then blow it off. When anyone else says the exact same thing, like a girl at your work, you then choose to take it. This kills me. I'm a smart person with moments of brilliance and, sometimes, even bloody genius. I don't need to be made into an idiot, especially by someone I care about. Don't discredit everything we say just because it's coming from your girlfriend. I'll give you 2 examples:

Ex-boyfriend number 1 adopted a dog, an unruly one at that. He expressed his frustrations with the dog and asked for help. I raised and trained my own dog. She was a shit when she was a puppy, but now she's very well-behaved; I know what I'm doing. I gave him advice which he promptly ignored. He then spent hundreds of dollars and got a private dog trainer. When she said the exact same thing, word for word, he followed it. He didn't even give me credit for saying it first.

Ex-boyfriend number 2 and I had very different musical tastes. If I drove and played a CD in my truck, he would go out of his way to mock it because it wasn't his music. Years later he moved away. His new circle of friends recommended the. Same. Damn. CD. His website now reads, "I love 'Neutral Milk Hotel.'" He discredited the CD the first time just because I introduced it to him.

Because apparently I have no brains and bad taste. I don't even know why they would even date someone they thought so little of mentally. Just because we date you, doesn't mean we're stupid.

As much as you apparently think a girl must be stupid to date you.

Pimp His Blog

I first met Will Mosher when he was writing editorials for the Red and Black, UGA's independent school paper. Okay, I didn't actually meet him face to face, but I made sure to always read his column when it came out (Wednesdays? Thursdays?). I loved Will's quick wit and how he always left a piece of himself in his writing. I felt like we were already friends and shared the same jokes through reading his column.

Then my day came to work at the Red and Black, I wrote for the variety section and made $7 an article to do great things like interview Butch Walker. I saw Will but never approached him. I figured he was too smart for the likes of me.

From that point, I just couldn't avoid him. This guy was everywhere. I'd go into the basement of the library to read magazines and Will would have his book bag spread open on the next table. I signed up for a Rhetoric, Wit, and Writing class, partly because I knew the teacher was a breeze, partly because I truly wanted to learn to write "funny." Who sat at the desk in front of me? Will Mosher! I spent an entire semester staring at the back of his neck. By then, too much time had gone by and I couldn't possibly say, "Hey man, I've been seeing you everywhere for like a year now." My statute of limitations had passed.

The semester had ended and summer came and went and I thought I had rid myself of Will Mosher. I began dating someone and one night he told me he was going to bring his roommate out with him to go bar hopping with us. I'm sitting at Molly O'Shea's, drinking down my ladies' night 25 cent watermelon jolly rancher when my then-boyfriend walked in, roommate in tow. I looked over his shoulder and I saw him, Will Mosher.

Quite inebriated, I knew I finally had to speak to this guy. I opened my mouth and spewed the previous year's events to Will. I heard his voice for the first time and we laughed at the weird kid who sat next to us in our wit class whom I kept confusing as the lead singer of eLeMeN.O.P.

And then I basically lived with him for the next 6 months through the course of my relationship with his roommate.

And I take full credit for Of Mirth and Matter because, without me, Will would have never met Drew. I think a 5% cut of all proceeds would be a nice thank you, which is probably the equivalent of half a can of Schlitz, but whatevs.

Anyways, Will is a good friend of mine and a very talented writer who still leaves a piece of himself at his blog. It's like I never graduated from school, I'm still sitting on the bench in North Campus, opening up the paper, and reading what Will has to say. Check him out, otherwise you're only hurting yourself.

It's so funny, yet so sad

There have been two times in my life where I have simultaneously laughed and cried. And before you say it, no I didn't laugh so hard I cried (although that tends to happen too), I truly felt conflicting emotions and didn't know how to deal with them, so they both happened.

The first time was my 21st birthday (T minus 6 days till the birthday). My ex-boyfriend asked what I wanted for my birthday and I said more than anything, I wanted an ice cream cake. My dad used to get me those for my birthdays at his house when I was little and I really wanted one.

So he went to Baskin Robbins and ordered me a cake. When it was ready, he picked it up, brought it back to his apartment, and put it in the fridge.

Do you see his error yet?

It was my birthday and for reasons I don't want to get into, it wasn't a great day. I think I cried a total of 5 times on that day, including the birthday cake incident. Patrick opens the fridge to retrieve my cake...

...and it was melted on the floor of his fridge.

Dumbass didn't realize that ice cream and ice cream products both go in the freezer. I started laughing because he just stood there and ice cream was dripping everywhere. But then I realized that that was my birthday cake and I would not be getting an ice cream cake that year and I began to cry. I didn't know if the incident was more funny or more sad so I just stood there in front of the refrigerator in his kitchen alternating laughing and crying.

The second time I simultaneously laughed and cried was when I saw this picture this morning:

I really need to clean up my posts

It is acceptable to search for "wild coolness" to find my site. Not only is it fine by me, it's a bit flattering. It is not, however, acceptable to search for the other term. I actually don't know which is worse: people who search for that on the Internet, or the fact that the search didn't take the pervert to a particular post, it just directed him to my general blog.

Edit: (11:11 am) I mean, really! What the hell have I written to make that come up as a search term?! The search engine didn't take him to a particular post- a post that had both the words "butt" and "baby batter" in them would have been understandable (I do not want to encourage Yahoo! any more), but Yahoo! just said, "You like heines? You like spooge? You'll *love* the Shrinking Mokey!!!!" Come on! I have written about my butt on several occasions (as many of you will agree it is a postworthy topic) but I have *never* written about the nectar of the gods. This just completely befuddles me. "My boyfriend spanks me when I am bad" was funny. The post linked to it was funny. But this? For the record, *nothing* has ever been near the backdoor. Hmph.

Yeah, I'm pulling the child of divorce card

Remember this? Scratch that.

This isn't my first apartment, even though everyone is acting like it is. This isn't even my second or third place. It's not the first apartment I've had by myself either. This is nothing new to me. With the exception of the last 5 months, this is what I've been used to for the last 6 years.

My parents keep calling me. All. The. Time. I'm getting twice as many calls because I have twice as many parents. Some nights I'll hear from all four of them within one hour. It's exhausting. They want to know if I'm sleeping okay "because of my new place and all." Is it weird, lonely, or unsettling?

No. Not at all. I sleep just fine.

Then they call again. "Are you eating? Do you want me to cook for you and drive it down to you?"

And this is where I sound like a brat. Having your parents cook for you and bring it to you is probably some people's wet dreams. I hate it. I just want to do my own thing. If this is the worst of my problems, then my life must be pretty fucking great.

Here's the thing: I'm an extremely independent person, to the point where I become proud and never ask for help. I like the taste of Hamburger Helper because I made it. I hate the idea of being one of those spoiled girls whose parents do everything for them. I'm turning 25 next week. My other 5 siblings were all married by the time they were my age. They didn't have my parents calling to ask if they are going to work on time, or coming over to drop by food, or to bring crappy ugly lamps into my apartment.

It may be because I'm the baby of the family. But I think it's closer to I'm a *gasp* unwed girl living by myself. My father says things like "When you move next year, you better have a fiance to help you carry some of this shit."

Subtle hint, Dad.

Yesterday was Easter. My father called me on Tuesday and invited me to dinner. As a part of my trying to maintain the relationship, I agreed to go. I really wanted to spend Easter in my underwear, watching the Haley Mills marathon on the Hallmark channel, but whatevs. "Pollyanna" and "The Parent Trap" will have to wait. Then my mother calls on Friday, wanting to know what I'm doing for Easter. I tell her my amended plans. She begins to cry, "But this is your family, not them!" The 20-year-old divorce still rears it's ugly head, and always will I'm suspecting.

She says she'll be all alone. She doesn't know where my brother will be. I can't stand making my mother cry, and I also saw the opportunity to finally be "the preferred child," even if only for a couple of hours, so I told her I would drive over there for lunch.

I spent my Easter watching my mother finish a bottle of wine with the neighbor and gab about how much men suck. My step-father took his cue to leave and took my dog for a walk while I sat at the dining room table and chewed off every single fingernail.

My father kept asking why I haven't been to the cute bakery by my apartment yet. I haven't because I'm driving all over the damn state every weekend to appease my parents, I have yet to spend any time at my place. It was the first year I didn't get an Easter basket. The grandkids all got one and I said since I didn't have any kids, I should have get a basket but they just laughed at me. So no peanut butter and chocolate eggs for me this year.

It's Monday morning and I'm so tired, I'm cranky. I'm glad I live in a gated community so my parents can't pop by and I feel like an absolutely rotten person for thinking so.

A Good Friday quiz

I'm not taking these Internet quizzes anymore. I don't like the answers I'm getting...

How Evil Are You?

Fun at Five

Trying out my new hobby.

Little known fact: I'm actually quite proficient at origami, I've been doing it since I was 8.

I'm the maker of all things origami

I'm a really outgoing person in case you haven't noticed. I am your classic type B personality extrovert. Remember Joe and Brian from "Wings?" I'm Brian.

Because I'm the office clown, I often get "introduced" and "thrown together" with shy people by my boss. It's no big deal, I'm used to it. I can carry the conversation. Except I always get asked the same question by the introverts: (do they teach this to you?)

What do you do for fun?

I effing hate this question. No, I mean I REALLY hate it. I don't like answering it because here is what I do for fun:

• Knit while I watch TV
• Enjoy "Pantsless Wednesdays"
• Drink copious amounts of Natty Light
• Read
• Sing to myself
• Tease my dog
• Work on some short stories that I started 2 years ago and still haven't finished

• Make fun of people

That's me. That's the naked truth.

Of course I can't tell anyone this.

Other people's answers:

• Ride my motorcycle
• Hike and kayak
• Build houses for the homeless
• Snowboard and rock climb

I, on the other hand, stand in my kitchen and eat crackers.

So Jamie, what do you do for fun?

I drink beer without wearing any pants on Wednesdays while I knit in front of the TV. Oh yeah, and I love American Idol.

It just doesn't sound the same.

I need a hobby. Yeah knitting, reading, and writing are all hobbies, but they are also solitary activities, and not very interesting to talk about. I need to pick up bocce ball, powder puff football (is it still called that if you're not in school? I don't know), or arm wrestling.

Or I could just make one up, because that sounds like a lot of effort.

I practice origami.

Can you pass the 3rd grade?

It took me 3 tries.

Fun with statistics

If you live in my neighborhood you are most likely:

• A black man 30.9 years old who lives in an apartment occupied by 2.17 people.
  
• There is a 68.2% chance he graduated from high school.
• There is a 60.9% chance he currently has a job.
  

Hello, potential suitors!

You'd have to be a drinker to understand

I found this article:

It looked promising. They are warning not to eat while reading it. Pink's pretty good at not hiding anything. I thought I found some good material to make fun of her.


At first I had a good laugh. It's been years and years since I drank so much I've thrown up. Pink is 26 and still doing it. Way to go on not ralphing inside the limo -- they'll charge you extra if you do that.

Then I remembered all the times I have thrown from drinking too much. No one has ever jumped out of a moving vehicle to hold my hair back. Humph.


Wait. Not only does he jump out of a moving vehicle to hold her hair back, but he offers to puke with her? No one's ever thrown up with me either! I think Drew once held me steady so I could get sick in his bushes, but that's it!

I get you, Pink. It is romantic. He jumped out of a moving vehicle to hold your hair back, then he puked with you.

Forget Prince Charming, that is true love.

When I was unemployed, I got really into watching reruns of "Judging Amy," the best show on at 1 pm. My favorite part of the whole series was when Amy was complaining to her mother after a break-up.

"I want someone who thinks I'm the meaning of life," she complains.

"Don't be so full of yourself," her mother retorts. "Find someone who doesn't care about the meaning of life and is happy enough with you."

That's the key. Don't build love up so much that no one can possibly live up to your expectations. I don't even think I would want a man who thinks I'm the meaning of life, sounds too clingy to me. I want someone who will puke with me, jumping from moving vehicles not mandatory.

It's official:

I had been living in Atlanta for exactly 30 minutes before I was accosted by my first homeless man. The first 20 minutes I sat on my couch and stared at my walls while thinking how much my legs hurt from moving everything. Then I got up and drove to McDonald's for dinner. I was at the second drive-thru window waiting to pick up my Big Mac when a homeless man walked in between my truck and the drive-thru window.

He leaned in, "You have any money so I can get a burger?"

I stared incredulously at him, he had an iPod dangling from his ears.

I don't have an iPod.

None of my friends have iPods.

Pictures from the newspapers flood my mind. Images of homeless men talking on cell phones, posing with their PO boxes. And now listening to their iPods. I already have sensitivity issues regarding the homeless as seen here and here, but this is too much.

"No I don't have any money," I said.

"But you're getting yourself a burger," he protested.

"I don't have any cash, I charged mine."

"Well could you get me one too?"

And this is what I wanted to say, but didn't: "Sure, for your iPod."

One of those moments where you realize you're a lot weirder than you originally thought:

Jamie: *Yawns*
Eric/k: And that concludes our conversation on "Superman 2," regardless of your yawns. I think we just spent entirely too much time talking about it.
Jamie: You know what I hate?
Eric/k: What?
Jamie: I hate it when you yawn and someone jabs his finger in your mouth. I mean, really. For my list of "Things that make me want to punch you in the face," it's up there.
Eric/k: People stick their fingers in your mouth when you yawn?
Jamie: Yeah, like 4 different people. (Pause) Wait. This has never happened to you?
Eric/k: No, I've never even heard of it before.
Jamie: What's wrong with me?!

Addams Family Values

So it turns out I'm moving tomorrow.

This fell upon me fast.

When I was looking at places last weekend, I told agents I wanted to move April 22nd. I'd have another paycheck coming in and I'd have time to organize myself for the move. The apartment I found had a special and in order to qualify for it, I'd have to take possession by the 14th. No big deal, I thought. I'll just move in the 22nd, because the 14th is Good Friday and no one is going to want to help me move Easter weekend. Then the leasing agent tells me on Monday that she's letting me have my apartment the 7th, tomorrow, at no additional charge. Okay. I revamped my plan to move this Sunday. After talking to my mother last night, she tells me that moving on Friday will be better for their schedule. My father and stepmother admit Friday would be better for them as well.

So I'm taking the day off tomorrow to move.

I am completely not prepared for this.

And if you promise not to tell anyone, I'll admit something to you. I didn't have any time to mentally adjust moving out from my father's house. I'm not only going to miss the home cooked meals, the maid, and driving my father's Mercedes convertible on the weekends, but I'm going to miss him and my step-mom as well. I've never lived with my father before. For the last 5 months, I learned more about him and my step-mom than I knew in my previous 25 years. It turns out they're good people. They were supportive of me with anything I wanted to do with my life. When I decided I'd rather live in Charleston than Atlanta and I went and stayed at the beach house and tried to get a job up there, they were all for it. When I was looking for an apartment here, they wanted to come with me and see what I was looking at, even though I've always chosen where I live on my own. While my mother is having a hernia over me living by myself in downtown Atlanta, my father and step-mother congratulate me. They tell me they're proud of me with everything I've accomplished since the disastrous events of last August.

I get along with them. Not once did they yell at me. Not when I drove over the flower pot or when after a night of drinking I parked my truck against the house.

We became a fixture in each other's lives for the first time ever. I don't want that to end when I move out, and I'm slightly afraid it will. We'll adopt new routines and I'll no longer be invited to the "other" family's outings.

It's going to require an effort on my part as well, one I'm willing to make. Visits with both sets of my parents have an expiration date of 3 hours ever since I was 18. 3 hours and I'm gone, any more time and I start getting anxiety attacks. Since I've been able to establish good memories with my father and step-mother, hopefully I'll feel compelled to visit more frequently and break the 3 hour barrier. I want to with them. I want to feel like a member of a family, even if I do have the Addams family.

Cybersexcapades

My e-mail address is very simple: it's my first and middle name. I had the e-mail address for about a year when I started getting e-mails that thanked me for my order at Avon Canada.

First of all, I don't shop from Avon. Secondly, I'm not Canadian.

I freaked out, thinking that someone had my credit card number and was using it to buy face cream. After several frantic e-mails with the company, I learned that someone else mistakenly entered my e-mail address. The only thing that separates our addresses is one of those underscores. She has one and I don't.

The other Jamie Sarah is very forgetful about this. Oftentimes, I find myself e-mailing her back her work attachments that she meant to send to herself, but sent to me instead. I still get receipts from Avon Canada. I never really gave it too much thought, just a minor annoyance.

Today I check my e-mail and a letter made it past my spam blocker. I didn't recognize the guy, but it didn't look like spam. I thought maybe I gave out my e-mail address to a guy when I was drunk and just forgot. I have a collection of napkins documenting unrecognizable memories, so I wouldn't put it past me.

I opened it up and this it what it read:


That, I would have remembered. Apparently the other Jamie Sarah has a membership to Adult Finder and enjoys naughty on-line chatting. This I didn't need to know.

And I didn't forward the e-mail to her.

Goin' to the Home Depot

"I'm an old man, you know. I can't keep helping you move every year," my father says. Sometimes I think he can't wait to grow old. "You need a boyfriend to help you with this stuff. And do better than the last one, you could lift more than he could."

"I tried to bribe someone with a case of beer and showers of manly compliments," I said. "But if that doesn't work out, I can always go down to Home Depot and get a Mexican."

My father chuckles, he knew exactly what I meant. I spoke as if I could go down the aisle and pick one off the shelf and put him in my cart. At the checkout, we'd scoot him over the scanner and then take him home with us.

In reality, you pull into the Home Depot parking lot and take your pick of "migrant workers" standing on every corner in small groups and pay them each $20 to move your furniture. I haven't done it, yet, but my friends have and swear by it.

Go to Home Depot and get a Mexican -- the statement struck me as odd. I'm sure you can also to go Lowes, maybe even a Pike Nursery. Roswell Road will also work. I said it matter-of-factly like it was the easiest thing to do, like it was as simple as taking one of the shelf. The truth is, it is.

So it looks like I won't be residing in my Explorer

I finally found it. Not just any apartment, but a kick ass place to live. It's in Midtown, but it still borders the parks: the exact location where I wanted to be. The amenities are stupid ridiculous: valet trash, valet dry cleaning, free movie rentals, free bike rentals, free 24-hour cafe (self-serve) with wi-fi and flat screen TVs.

The cafe

My apartment is small, but the layout is really space efficient and it's loft style, so the openness makes it feel larger. It's the nicest apartment I've ever seen and I'm completely in love with it! I put in A LOT of work to find the perfect place and I don't think I could have done any better.

My kitchen

Model living room. (I forgot to take a picture of mine.)

My bathroom

The best part is that I got the greatest deal on it, which made it $80 cheaper a month than everything else I looked at; they are even letting me take it a week earlier than we discussed for free. The only downside is I wasn't planning on moving next weekend so I'm completely not prepared. 90% of my stuff is still boxed from my last move, so it shouldn't be too terrible.

All house warming presents may be sent to my office.