Mar 182012

You never know who your true friends are until you need help moving. That’s a fact. For awhile it seemed there were a ton of boys willing to help me move, but I figured it out- that was only because I’d changed my Facebook default to a picture of me in a bikini hanging off the back of a fire truck. I do not always look this way and for a man to think I am going to actually *move* while wearing a bikini and a plastic yellow helmet is utterly ridiculous . . . but men are stupid.

Really, really freaking stupid.

As it got closer and closer to the actual moving day, I began to panic. For awhile, I was all packed with nowhere to go, but I wasn’t panicking then- “moving nowhere” was a bit liberating in a way, I knew the universe would take care of me. But after I found the perfect place, I started to panic over how I was going to get my stuff there. When you’re a one hundred thirty pound blonde who doesn’t drive and you’ve got to figure out a way to get three rooms of furniture over a mile on your bicycle, you will panic too. I thought back to all those dudes who’d offered to help the bikini clad fire girl- okay. I was that desperate.

The first guy who offered to help was a head case. Freaking looney tunes. I found this out *after* I gave him my phone number. THIS was the text conversation:

FREAK: I will help you move.

POOR BRI: You will? Fantastic! You’re a life saver! What time can you be here?

FREAK: Well, I don’t have a truck and I’m tired from working 11 to 7 so I can’t help you for about a week, but I’m a good guy with a great heart. Are you seeing or talking to anybody?

No lie! That actually happened. What a sneaky way to get my phone number! I honestly thought it was a joke, but things like that *kept happening* . . . it was unreal!

Then came the “What’s in it For ME?” people. First of all, I’d like to say that I find that question disgusting- people are so flipping selfish it’s pathetic! “What’s in it for me? What’s in it for ME? What’s in it for *ME*?” Makes me ill. Whatever happened to just being *decent*? Helping someone out simply bc you can? If I *can* help and I’m not doing anything, what the hell? I never ask, “What’s in it for me?” Why would I? Unless you’re some guy with a broken arm in a dark, empty parking lot, asking me to help you lift something into your Beetle Bug, I’ll do what I can. I’m *human* like that.

Of course, when I’d say something about this was when the self righteous bragging would start- “I’m willing to help you! Totally! I’m a great guy, I’ll give you the shirt off my back if you need it! I’ll help you move if you take me to dinner.”

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MOVING DAY~ March 10th, 2012.

Brilliant. This guy was my favorite. Not only would he have cleverly landed a *date* with me, he’s also worked it so that I’D be buying!

Yeah. *That* will happen. Help me move, you get beer and pizza. It’s standard.

And then there were the “What’s your Address?” people. Guys I didn’t know who were plum pleased to help me move, they just needed my address. I was so desperate that this *may* have worked if I hadn’t started moving early. I moved all my movies except the one that was already in the tv, which happened to be American Psycho. Seven days of watching Christian Bale running around with a chainsaw makes you really *not* want to give out your address.

I thought of one more idea and honestly it was only the image of a bloody and grinning Christian Bale that stopped me from doing it. I was going to write an ad looking for a bunch of hot young studs to help me move. I would pretend to be a vulnerable divorcee on the run from her vicious ex hubby! I would wear cutoffs and serve lemonade to Vinnie and Ronnie and the three Mikes as they lifted all my heavy, heavy furniture quickly before my mean, mean ex husband got out of jail!


I ran this idea by some friends and they told me I was over estimating the response I’d get, but OH NO, I WASN’T! Never underestimate the power of the Damsel in Distress Card! Men would have jumped at that opportunity! A vulnerable chick in short shorts, carrying a tray of lemonade and begging all you big, strong boys to lift heavy things? Please. That’s just like porn . . . but with clothes.

But all my sexy clothes were packed.

In the end, some awesome friends came to my rescue and helped me move. I mostly supervised, I didn’t want to break a nail.

Yet that’s another story . . .

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