I will move no more again forever. (long and bitchy)

The BBQ Pit
1

I mean move as in relocate all my possessions from one residence to another, not as in sitting immobile in a comfy chair until my body atrophies, although that last option is sounding really damn good right now. I hurt.

Why do I have so much crap? Why is it all really really heavy crap? Where are my socks? Did they notice what was going on and make one final desperate leap en masse into the wormhole that’s currently active in my dryer? I’m tired. My feet hurt. The new place is on the second floor. My legs hurt.

On the plus side, I love it. It’s got four bedrooms, one huge space that serves as living room , kitchen, and dining area, and a massive bathroom. It’s in a really nice neighborhood that is very well patrolled by both city police and private security because it’s right across the street from the school for the deaf. Rent is $500 a month, which is a bit more than we were paying, but the utilities should be a lot cheaper, since this place isn’t a leaky, falling-down, energy inefficient, old, non-heat having, below standard electrically wired Pit of Despair like our old place.

It’s also not quite as big, and there’s already some furniture in there; I gather the previous residents left in a hurry. A big hurry. There’s a queen size mattress and box spring, a twin size headboard and frame, a full set of fine heavy non-stick pots and pans, and a washer and dryer that are better than the ones I was going to bring with me. Nice stuff, but the point is, what with the furniture I brought with me, and the furniture that’s already there, we now have to slither, jump, climb, and rappel our way through the living room to get to the bathroom. Try that with a full bladder.

We were up until 5 AM yesterday morning loading the truck, driving it across town, unloading, rinsing, repeating. We still have half a truckload left to bring up; by tonight I imagine I will be too stiff to even type. My husband, who has bursitis in his joints, is suffering even more than I. His knees look like a pair of volleyballs. And may I just take a moment to say a hearty “FUCK YOU HARD UP THE ASS SIDEWAYS WITH A RUSTY FECES ENCRUSTED DOLLY!” to the squirrel-humping rat bastards who told my husband they would help us move stuff out and then never showed up or called. I hope next time you need help the only thing you get is shit on by a flock of low-flying geese. If you had no intention of helping why the ever-loving fuck did you say you’d be there?

sigh I just keep repeating to myself, “it’ll all be over soon, it’ll all be over soon…” In the meantime I’ll gratefully accept any donations of whatever old painkillers anybody might have hanging around the house, as my back is trying to make me its bitch in retaliation for making it do some work for the past few days. At least I’m off work for the next couple of nights (downside: no internet access yet at the new house) so maybe I can give my body a bit of a break.

Oh, yeah, and it’s been drizzling steadily for 3 days.

(Just had to get that last little whine in.)

2

You can rent a 4 bedroom apartment for $500/mo? :eek: In a nice neighborhood? :eek: :eek:

Around here, $500 gets you a place the size of a closet. NYC is even worse, you’d share the closet.

I feel for ya anyway, I once moved the vast majority of my apartment all by myself, and damn was it tough. Down 2 flights, into the truck, and up 1 flight to the new place. 95 degrees and high humidity. ugh, never again.

3

HAHAHAHA! Sucker! Anyone that moves is a sap!

Of course, I can say that now. Five weeks go I was in box and crumpled newspaper hell. And worried about how I would fit a five room apartment’s stuff into a studio. Yuck. I’m glad it’s over.

No kidding. In Boston, $500 wouldn’t even get you the hangers in a closet.

4

You have my complete and utter sympathy.

A year ago we made a major move from the Great Lakes to the Desert Southwest. 1800 miles. Left our cat back in NY with my parents, as he was too old to face a move, and he had a great home with my 'rents, but he died back in June without us being there.

Moved into a lovely apartment, but slowly discovered we had jerks for neighbors, so three months ago we bought a house twenty miles away and did the move thing all over again.

We have never been very materialistic people, and yet before we left NY we had to have a big yard sale. Nonetheless, packing and unpacking is a major trauma for me. What is all this junk we own? Why do we have all this stuff? The agony of endless carboard boxes, inky newspapers, my breaking back, sleeping on brick floors with only sleeping bags, no fridge, no food, no lights, feeling dirty all the time. UGH!

We adore our new house in the mountains with only the coyotes for neighbors, and, as God is my witness, I will never move again.

Please take it easy. You will feel settled in a month or so, and you will forget all of this agony!

(Buy beer in cans, 'cause you KNOW you won’t ever locate that damn bottle opener.)

5

I completely sympathize. I hate moving… hate hate hate. About two and a half years ago my wife and I and our three children moved into our first home. I hope to never move again.

6

If I have anything to say about it, the next time I move will be into a pine box. I moved four times in two years and that’s enough for me.

7

I’ve been in my new condo 6 days now.

The move was a bitch and a half and I have been told by family members/movers that I am not allowed to move again, unless it’s into a rambler. To move out was a flight down, to move in was a 50 yard hike to the main door, then a flight up, and (if it was bedroom/bathroom stuff) then ANOTHER flight up.

One ‘mover’ wrecked EVERY damn lampshade. Every one.

The first night, while I was lying on the couch whining to myself, the police loudly visited a neighbor. They visited last night also. And yet the city’s police department stated there was VERY little police presence needed there.

I hate not knowing where anything is. The box marker died, so stuff was simply tossed into boxes. Still cannot find any drugs (sorry, Marlitharn, otherwise I’d send some to you). Can’t find my nylons. Have NO idea where the cookie sheets are.

Hate having 2 floors. I have an arthritic knee already, and snap, crackling, and popping everytime I need to pee or go into my room ain’t helping none. Today it is slightly less large than a grapefruit. Slightly.

8

Thanks, guys. I’m feeling a bit better now that we FINALLY got all our belongings into the house. Now all I have to do is unfuck it all. Thank God it’s my night off; right now I can just picture myself at work picking up the phone and saying, “911…you think you’ve got problems?”

Spooky, I’m fresh out of beer in any container. I do have half a bottle of Captain Morgan’s; any idea what it tastes like mixed with cherry Pepsi?

Only casualty we had was a computer desk. Knocked one whole side off it. I don’t even care.

We’re worlds apart, folks. Down here in the boonies, $500 a month is the standard price for a middle-middle class house. I couldn’t imagine living somewhere where I’d have to pay two or three grand just to ensure my kids wouldn’t have to have an armed guard to get to the bus stop.

I’m gonna get my little witch de-witchified, put her to bed, and take a loooooooooooooooooooooooong hot bath. While eating pizza rolls. Then I think I’ll fall asleep on the couch watching whatever doofy horror movie is playing. I’m not going to worry about the mess tonight. I’ll think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is…well, it’s Friday, isn’t it?

You thought I was gonna do it, didn’t you? That whole Scarlett O’Hara bit, where she says the thing about tomorrow being another day. Well I didn’t. Fooled you, didn’t I? Good Lord, I need sleep…

Thanks for the sympathy, y’all. You guys rock. :cool: