Rosie Rants: Movin' On Up.

Clayton, Clayton, Clayton. Birthplace of Charles Manson, home to the world's largest rat and boasting the country's biggest insane asylum. On a warm day, it's nothing but thick, tip breeze as you stroll past concrete lawns adorned with fountains and eagles. It's a place where you can really make a difference, by kicking a buck to a bum or putting out a car fire. Oftentimes, the Greeks congregate on street corners, speaking in their language to one another as they stare at you and point (presumably asking, "How are you? Do you speak Greek?"). Heck, I even personally birthed and buried 10 children in old Clayton town. Despite all these things (or perhaps because of them. I always get those confused), about a month ago now, Ben and I decided to make a skip and a jump over to Glen Iris.

We'd been looking to move for a while, but gave up on attending inspections that were often during work hours and were always disappointing. Our mate Adam invited us to his place in Glen Iris one night, asking, "Do you guys want this joint? I'm leaving." We answered, "Heck, yes, mo fo!" and the rest is history. How do you like that for Life working in our favour, little bitch that she is?

Prior to living with Ben, I'd always been in furnished share houses and had no experience moving bulky items. I found packing to be an overwhelming task (but then, I find getting out of bed overwhelming) and still had some untouched cupboards come moving day. I’d been a dainty moron with the packing earlier in the week, slotting items into boxes that fit into perfect spaces. This practice became laughable when time was of the essence and I began boxing any which-what together: the hot iron and my bedspread; the cutlery and the toilet brush, etc, etc.
True to her Taurusian nature, Ben's mum Kerry was like a bull at a gate and helped me to clear out those last final areas in no time. Kerry's efficiency did result in her throwing out the first rose Ben ever gave me, however, which I'd preserved for 10 years and, to be honest, had imagined showing our children! Feeling terrible for the mistake, she then secretly asked Ben to buy me another rose, signifying our new start in Glen Iris (which he simply told me about, instead of doing. Close enough, I guess).

Our friends Tony and Duwey also loaned a hand (suckerrrrs!). Gratitude alone prevented me from opening my mouth when Duwey sat down in my antique chair mid-move to eat his bowl of tomatoey pasta!
Duwey and I were clearly the macho men of the group, going for the coffee table when we saw the moving truck arrive. We couldn’t understand, though, why John proceeded to park the truck on the neighbour's naturestrip, and when an Indian man (looking very unlike my father-in-law) jumped out of the driver’s seat, we were relieved we hadn't donated the coffee table as a housewarming gift! Crazy timing, eh?

Another unexpected, confusing arrival was a man who'd seen our house advertised on the net for an open inspection. Our damn real estate agent, who had been unexpectedly lovely when we gave notice to vacate, had reverted to his true nature in the final week of our tenancy, arranging inspections when he'd promised he wouldn't. The poor visitor was very surprised to find us mid-move and I regarded him like a spider, in that he was more afraid of us than we were of him! So, after allowing him a quick tour, I caught him with a glass and sheet of paper and popped him back outside.

When the physical side of the move was almost over and I was making one of my final trips to the new house, I ran into our next-door-neighbour to be. He hesitated a moment before approaching and introducing himself (awww, Glen Irisians are so nice!). After flashing my most retarded 'I-want-you-to-like-me!' smile and muttering a weary hello, I took a moment to assess what would've been his first impression: I was wearing my ugliest clothes that I didn't care about getting dirty (which they did, as did any protruding flesh), I smelled like shit and my hair was in a mental frizz from the steamy bathroom scrub I'd just undertaken at the old joint. Awesome. Haven't seen much of that neighbour since!
Aside from scaring the neighbours, our Glen Iris experience has been utterly dreamy. I don't wanna sound snobbish, but living here makes me way better than you. I have stairs (that I invent fun ways to go up and down. Such as tripping) and a drawer for plates! (That's totes rich people, right there. And if the upper-class don't say 'totes', they do now, bitches.) Walking around the neighbourhood, it's nothin' but tree swings and beautiful gardens, some sporting cute signs that read, "To the person who eats a mandarin here every day, this garden is not your rubbish bin!" (Seriously...) When we saw a giant net around a big tree, we figured, "Wow, this neighbourhood's so perfect, they don't even let leaves fall into people's yards!" We were later told the net's for possums (and that we're idiots).

Ben was the first to visit our local supermarket, returning home with stars in his eyes and stories about fresh vegies resting on beds of ice. It was apparently a little more impressive than our previous supermarket which was run and frequented by booger eating mutants. For the first week or so after the move, I spent my days at work and my nights unpacking and began to feel a bit cabinfeverish. The cats and I were like a secret dungeon family, relying on Ben for tales of the outside world (oh, to see this magical supermarket for ourselves!). Whereas I quickly came to relish in our new home and area, however, the cats took a little longer to get acquainted. As Ben pointed out, they were initially strays who came from the outside world and had to get used to indoor living. It was interesting, then, to see that work in reverse at the new house. They were first released indoors and made sure they were familiar with everything before exploring outside. Whenever I opened a cupboard, they reacted like ladies for whom I'd opened a door, stepping inside with all but a verbal, "Why, thank you." They had also never used stairs, before, or a cat door (another brilliant feature of the new joint!). I'd only ever seen cats jump through those doors with ease, so it was funny to watch Mal and Dee cautiously press their faces against their door before sliding out like slugs. They are now jumping through very gracefully, whenever they care to take a break from sleeping, which they do just as well and as frequently as they did in Clayton.

We are all very happy and comfortable in our new home, and if the good life begins to make us feel hollow inside, there's a clinic just down the road that treats 'depression, anxiety and traquilliser dependency.' Ah, let the gin and tonic sessions begin!