Well, I have somehow survived the trauma of moving. For those of you not on the immediate call list, I will quickly regale you of the events revolving the great exodus from the Avocado House in Mugwump.
I woke up bright and early that morning: 6am. No, I was not planning on getting up at oh-dark-early, but my brain had other plans for me. So, I was bolt upright, wide-awake at 6am, listening to the thunderstorm roaring overhead, thinking the weather would surely do this uncharacteristic torrential downpour ALL DAY. The rain only lasted an hour, but the humidity lasted far longer.
So, after taking a shower, packing up the rest of my bathroom stuff, loading up my pregnant roller skate car, I made a quick trip to Dunkin Donuts for food to bribe my co-workers with when they came to help schlepp stuff to my new place. I then headed from Mugwump into Westfield, about a fifteen mile drive, to the U-Haul rental place. I parked my pregnant roller skate car at a nearby closed chiropractor clinic, and waited for U-Haul Boy to open up the doors. Their parking lot had several trucks of varying sizes. I had reserved a ten foot "mini mover," since trucks frighten me, and I really don't own that much stuff. Earlier in the week, I had confirmed my reservation over the phone with U-Haul Boy. So, I hoped everything would be in order. I had been psyching myself up to drive the 10-foot mini-mover for nearly five days. I can handle ten feet of truck. That's not that big. I'll be fine. Ten feet. That's all. Yep, totally psyched up to drive the ten foot mini-mover.
Then, U-Haul Boy behind the counter asked me if I'd reserved the 17-foot truck. I guessed that nothing was in order. Lovely. I told U-Haul boy with the acne and greasy hair that NO, I did NOT reserve a 17-foot truck. Do the words OH HELL NO mean anything to you. I'm pretty sure I turned several shades whiter and grimaced. I showed him my computer printout detailing my reservation of a "mini-mover," and he gave it a cursory glance, typing something in his computer (probably an insulting notation about how stupid he thought I was). And then, U-Haul Boy gave me this line of BS about how they don't rent 10-foot trucks. I gave him this incredulous look, thinking if you don't rent 10-foot trucks, why are there three of them in your parking lot right now? And, if you don't rent 10-foot trucks, why was I able to reserve one on-line and then confirm that reservation over the phone? I didn't ask either of these questions. Why should I? Clearly I was thinking much too rationally about how to interact within the boundaries of Planet U-Haul, a place where they can lure you with 10-foot trucks and then foist 17-foot monstrosities upon you instead.
So, after listening to his excuse about only renting 10-foot trucks for one-way moves--like that makes any sense at all--I was awarded keys to my own diesel guzzling, 17-foot leviathan. With about as much grace as beached whale, I hoisted myself into the driver's seat and cranked the ignition. The truck literally belched into action, roaring like a 747. Terrified, I eased the truck out of the parking lot, managed to make a left turn without taking out any pedestrians, and started my way back to Mugwump. Sweet Jeebus. I was really glad to pull into the driveway of the Avocado House, let me tell you. But the thought of backing the 17-foot leviathan out of the driveway made me want to puke.
Fortunately, Chris and Adriel showed up soon after. We chatted for a bit, and then Jack arrived. I gave them the grand tour of the Avocado House. Chris loved it. I think it may be his dream home. Of course, we are talking about a man who has not one but at least two velvet paintings with tigers on them. Anyway, they took one look at the pile of my stuff in the garage and asked if that was it. Yep. We loaded up the truck. Took a donut break. Finished loading the truck. And then, I made Chris back the truck out of the driveway.
Just before leaving, Sabine arrived with her little four-year-old daughter, Marlena. I gave Marlena the special task of watching a teddy bear I built at the Teddy Bear Workshop. She was very good at this job, insisting that the bear should ride in the extra car seat in her mom's car.
So, after Chris backed out the truck and pointed it in the right direction, I took the wheel and led a caravan back into Westfield. There I was, sitting atop this monstrosity, the diesel engine roaring and rumbling beneath me, my teeth clenched so hard I was getting a headache, and my shoulders so tense they were up by my ears. By the time I reached my new place half an hour later (I couldn't bring myself to go over 40mph in the 17-foot leviathan), I was feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Whether that was from the diesel fumes or from stress I'm not sure. All I know is that it took every last shred of will power not to fling myself out of the truck and onto the ground and scream LAND!
We had the truck unloaded in about an hour. Like I said, I don't own that much stuff (and really, the truck was only about a 1/3 of the way filled once everything was loaded up). Then, everyone stood around chatting for the next twenty minutes. I stood around sweating, smiling, and nodding, hoping people would get the clue that I had other things to do that afternoon beside weave in and out of boxes and furniture making small talk. I had a 17-foot leviathan to feed and return to its idiot handlers, and a little pointy footed dog back in Avocado land to rescue, not to mention a former landlord to see about a shower curtain.
When, at last, everyone left, I hauled myself back up into the driver's seat of the 17-foot leviathan and went barreling down highway 20 to the nearest gas station to fill up the tank. $30 later (and that wasn't even a full tank, that was just getting the fuel gauge back up to where it was when I'd picked up the 17-foot leviathan), I went barreling back down highway 20, through the center of Westfield, hoping I could make it the last mile or so without killing anyone, namely myself. With a big grin, I handed the keys back to U-Haul boy, who promptly asked me if the truck handled all right. It had, and he seemed surprised if not disapointed by my answer. Sorry, no carnage, no bodies left in the path of the 17-foot leviathan of DEATH today. Maybe tomorrow.
So, I forked over an obscene amount of money, trudged back to my pregnant roller skate car, and went to forage for lunch and rescue my little black dog from a 1970s prison of shag carpeting and avocado appliances. Boy was Teddy glad to see me. I took him for a quick walk, loaded up the rest of my stuff, and headed off for Southwick to talk to a man about a shower curtain, and really to pick up the odds and ends that I had left at my old place.
Ryan (Wayne's son) was visiting with his little dog, Rudy, so Teddy got to play in the backyard while Michael showed me around. They've got my old bedroom all decked out for Ryan. And the builders have put in a door at the top of the stairs. This is where my shower curtain met its tragic end. Evidently, because of how the heat works in the apartment, the builders had to leave an opening in the side of the wall next to the new door. To keep his mother, Terry, from trying anything (like going downstairs, falling downstairs, thinking about downstairs), Michael cut up my shower curtain and duct taped over the opening. Why this couldn't have involved an old bedsheet, or perhaps his own shower curtain, I don't know. He held up a rather large, leftover chunk, a misshapen piece with jagged edges, and asked me if I wanted to take a piece of it back with me. Ummm, no. That's all right. I can mourn the loss of my shower curtain without taking one of it's disembodied limbs with me.
Anyway, I picked up my other bits and pieces, said hi to Terry (who does not look like she's doing so well), and took a look at the big hole that's been dug and the foundation that's been laid for the new addition to the house. I gathered up the little dog (my little dog, Ryan can keep his miniature poodlely ball of fluff), and I bid them all farewell. Finally, I have landed at an apartment of my very own, a cracker box with three rooms, four windows, three very small closets, a bathroom with absolutely no storage, and a kitchen with a filthy stove and no burner cover thingys. Home sweet home.
By the by, I received a fabulous shower curtain in the mail from my brother's fabulous fiance (I'm figure Eunice picked it out, since it doesn't seem to be something Erik would find and select on his own, but perhaps I'm wrong). It has pink flamingos on it, and it now adorns my bathroom instead of the brightly colored cartoon dogs and cats. Actually, the new shower curtain goes with the towels and bathmat I just bought as well as my old towels. I've also bought several over-the-door organizers (and sanded down the tops of the doors with my trusty dremel rotary tool so they would close with the over-the-door organizers--I figure that can be my revenge for leaving me with a filthy stove . . . take THAT Management Man . . . besides, it's not like I'll ever see my deposit again anyway).
And now I'm working on unpacking, getting things set up, and getting ready for the new school year. Yikes! I've got a lot of work to do in the next ten days. And, it's Taste of Westfield this weekend--remember, the outing Chris and Adriel went on last year with a cheap bottle of vodka and several friends . . . let's hope I can escape such a fate, but we'll have to wait and see.
