Just a few miles further out. An old restored farm house.
Why? Fuck you. That’s why.
Lib I feel for 'ya man. Moving Suxks with a capitol “S”. I used to move every couple of years, I had it down to a science. I could pack up all my possesions in a few hours and fit them into a single U-Haul.
And I still fucking hated it. Even if I hated the dump I was in and was moving to better digs, it as a massive pain in the ass.
This IS pitworthy.
I suspect it’s in the Pit because moving stinks! Two weeks ago today, I was up in Maine helping an old friend pack up the rest of his stuff because he’s getting divorced. This old friend is a writer. He, another friend, and I hauled over 50 boxes of books from his office down to the garage/staging area, and loaded a total of over 100 boxes of books alone onto a 17 foot U-Haul while his soon-to-be-ex-wife tried to act like we were up there looking at the leaves. I then helped drive the chase vehicle back to his new home, a two-day drive. During the first hour of the drive, I was alone in the chase vehicle, dealing with a constantly yowling cat and my own emotions at knowing I’d never see an once good friend again. The funny thing is, two years ago, I’d helped them back the accumulated stuff of over 15 years in one house when they moved to Maine.
It gets worse, folks. You see, next week, another friend is moving. It’s a nice apartment, accessed by a beautiful spiral staircase. I’m acutely aware, however, of what it’s going to take to haul his stuff up that beautiful spiral staircase. This will make two moves in one month. Both of them are well worth 100 moves, but I realize that next Sunday, my back, legs, and arms might disagree with that.
Oh well, at least the bruises from the last move are fading!
Good luck, Liberal, and, if you can find them, there are patches called “Salon Pas”. I’ve found them in big chain pharmacies here and in Maine, but if they don’t have them in your neck of the woods and you’ve got an Oriental grocery store within reasonable distance, check there. They’re 1.5" x 3" sticking plasters coated with menthol, camphor, and God knows what else which you put directly on top of the sore muscle. I looked a bit funny while I was wearing them, but they did spare my arms. If you can’t find them, American companies are now making similar stuff for backs, but the patches look bigger and I don’t know how well they work.
CJ
We just finished cleaning the apartment. Landlord happened to be there. Nice fellow. He looked around and said, “Thanks for taking care of the place.” We packed up the cleaning supplies, prayed to give thanks and a blessing on the apartment and its new tenants, and drove away. Here we are. It’s over. I appreciate everyone sharing the misery. It’s somewhat mitigating to know that the burden is familiar and therefore understood. We love this house. We’re old now. No more moving. We’re going to die here.
Oh, and sorry for snapping at you, IF6was9. Maybe when I’ve recovered, I’ll Pit modern disregard for the subjunctive mode.
You wish.
As a transient 24 year old pack-rat, I absolutely appreciate your suffering.
I recently moved (last month), and still have boxes and bags of random mail, garbage, loose change, and old clothes that probably don’t fit, scattered around my place. Books piled up, waiting for me to find some shelf space or corner in which to put them.
sigh It’s painful to even think about.
The last time I moved it was horrendous. I had a whole apartment to empty, and being the bright guy I am, I figured I could leave it all until the day before the new folks moved in. And, I figured that it’d be fine that I had to work until 5 that afternoon. Fortunately I had a friend volunteer to help me (even though I assured him I didn’t need any help). We worked from 5:30 until 1:30 without stopping. I hadn’t gotten a truck, so we were carting things back and forth in our cars (two friends with larger vehicles had helped me move furniture earlier). When he went home, neither of us could even pick up a 10 pound box; our muscles were so fatigued that we just couldn’t feel enough to apply the appropriate pressure. I fell asleep on the floor for three hours, woke up and kept working. The landlord came in at 7. I was almost done so he was fine with it, and I finally left the place at around 9:30 in the morning. It was miserable. I started just throwing things away. Extra dishes I didn’t need, some I did. Recyclable bottles, empty growlers (worth $5), other random stuff I don’t even remember. I’m sure I left something important in some closet or other. I threw so much out that I filled our dumpster, and as the sun came up one could see me furtively racing against the light as I snuck across the road with garbage bags to fill the neighbor’s dumpster undetected.
Never again. Never. Again.
I have to be out of this apartment by next Saturday. I’m moving back in with my dad in SE Michigan until I can find a new place, so I took last weekend to drive a carload of books and clothes from my current home in NE Pennsyvania. But I still have to move about 20 percent of the books, all my shoes, my movies, the electronics, my kitchen stuff, maybe a third of the clothes, and – sweet fluffy Jesus!-- all the furniture. I’ve not done any packing since I got back from last weekend’s trip; I keep thinking a genie will pop up and do it for me, I guess.
Please don’t get me started on renting a 6’x12’ trailer, given this area’s dearth of proper U-Haul outlets and the vagaries of their reservation system. I’ve heard all the horror stories, and I’m doing my best, but I’ve not yet talked to anyone who’s led me to believe I’ll have something to move my stuff in.
Just thinking about going down to my car and getting the broken-down boxes out of the trunk makes me want to cry.
Brilliant response!
LOL
Seconded! I’ve been sitting here giggling for the past few minutes; my wife finally came over to see what was so funny, I explained and she just looked at me strangely. 
Darn if that isn’t the stupidest question I’ve seen in a while!
I’ve read in a number of places (sorry, no cite) that after death and divorce, moving is the most stressful experiences in life. I concur. I have been all over this city, and the first times I moved I wasn’t but a lowly student with very few material possessions. As time passed I seem to have acquired an infinite number of *stuff *, that serve no purpose but to be dragged around from place to place.
The last time we moved we did so with only our clothes, personal things and the TV. It was still a drag. A lot of things are still unaccounted for, taken, no doubt, by the ‘moving trolls’, who as we all know are closely related to the ‘dissappearing-sock trolls’.