Moving into a New York City apartment

And...we're in. After a curse-worthy move up four flights of stairs, four trips to Bed, Bath and Beyond and a mild electrocution (not even kidding), we are finally in our brand new New York City apartment. Is it being pessimistic to say that I'm already dreading moving out?

On Thursday, three movers showed up to our 1910 walk-up and after they surveyed the building that is sans elevator, they called for two more guys to help. It was impressive too...basically one guy brought boxes in, another took it up one flight of stairs and passed it off to another for the next flight, and so on and so on. I kept apologizing for the awfulness of it all, but the mover reassured me that in 10 years on the job in New York and New Jersey, he's dealt with plenty of staircase shenanigans. I can't even imagine how tough it must have been, considering I get winded even carrying a five-pound Chihuahua up to our apartment.

As they brought furniture and boxes in, we were quickly running out of space in our tiny one-bedroom. The mover said to me, "Didn't you downsize before you moved here? I replied, "Well, we also lived in a one-bedroom in Chicago, so I'm not really sure how to downsize from that." Seriously, what am I supposed to get rid of? My husband?

The movers continued unloading when suddenly they found out about our dirty little secret. We have a King bed.

Throughout the process of looking for an apartment and moving, whenever we told someone we have a King bed, they would say, "Oh" and look at us as if we just told them we are swingers. Apparently King-sized beds are as rare in New York City as empty space. The bed fits...barely...and for Mike to get in, he has to get a running start from Brooklyn.

So throughout the entire weekend we unpacked and unpacked and basically put everything we don't immediately need into a storage bin. Then on Saturday night, I rewarded myself with a nice, long hot shower. After I got out, I tried to plug my cell phone into the bathroom outlet because our bedroom was too crowded to find one. Since our apartment was recently gutted, we have all new electrical wiring so it's really tough to plug anything into the tight outlets. So as I was pushing and pushing...apparently I got electrocuted. Mike said I screamed...which I don't remember doing...I only remember dropping my phone and feeling a sharp pain in my feet. When I later shared the story with my worried mother-in-law, I told her since I didn't poop my pants or forget who I was, I'm presuming I'm okay.

So I guess now we're the couple in the building who has a King-sized bed and lets out blood-curdling screams at 10 p.m. I wonder what they must be thinking...

Correction: As one of my TV friends reminded me, electrocution is a "death caused by electrical shock." No I didn't die, but since being electrocuted sounds much more dramatic than being shocked, I'm keeping it in. As my southern friends say, "why should facts get in the way of a good story?"