I had a great weekend, spent mainly in DC. I hung out with three good friends and their associates, which made for a really entertaining mix of activities. To list the highlights, in the past three days, I: hung out with a two-year-old, made friends with a three-legged dog, became acquainted (on friendly terms) with a bouncer named Big Tony, danced at a total dive bar in Adams Morgan while sharing pitchers of vodka (!!!), ate brunch at an vegan soul food restaurant, discussed the pros and cons of anarchy at a African bookstore/smoothie shop, attended an outdoor drum circle, and received a pen with the name of a Bethesda diner waiter’s website on it. I love the variety and continuity of my friendships, and how many wonderful things they reveal to me as we grow and change as people. To give you on example, I went dancing (and drinking) with my friend and her boyfriend. My friend was wearing her hair down and styled, dangling earrings, a tight sexy blue dress, and three inch blue sequined heels. When I met her, junior year of college, she’d never had an alcoholic beverage and never wore any shoes but her sneakers. People change so much!! And when they change but only manage to become even more awesome, I feel so lucky to be their friends.
In other news, it’s only been 2 weeks, and I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think I love my new job. I’ll give you a moment to illustrate why. In my first treatment, which I did with my predecessor supervising me, I put my super cute kid patient (his teacher calls him Guy Smiley, if that gives you an idea of the level of cuteness) on the swing, let him get some proprioceptive input, and then, when his torso wasn’t strong enough to sit up on the swing, rearranged him down on the mat, sitting up inbetween my legs so I could give him full body support. At one point, I realized I’d just been sitting there hugging him (supporting him, really, but it was basically a hug) for three minutes while I was discussing treatment plans with my supervisor. “Sorry, A, I know this isn’t really therapy for you,” I told him, but then I realized that I was wrong. It was therapy for him. I’m working somewhere where hugging a kid is therapy—accepted, funded, appropriate therapy. How can you not love it?
Ok, so now that you know it ends happily, let me tell you a story. It is a story about moving. Specifically, about how hard a move can be when both the universe and the mover’s previously identified psychological/emotional issues can conspire together to create a clusterfuck of quite stressful dimensions. I’m sure most of you move, if not easily, then simply and un-heinously enough. I am, for better or worse, not one of you.
Let’s start by listing the really REALLY good parts about this move for which I forever grateful. First of all, outside it is currently raining so hard I expect Noah’s ark to come floating by any second (they probably will try to tell me I can’t take my cats because they’re both female, but I’ll refer to them to that stupid Jurassic Park female dinosaur plot and hopefully squeeze us on), and I am sitting securely in my apartment unpacking. It could have rained this hard when we were packing the UHaul, when we were unpacking the UHaul, or when we were packing and unpacking my car. It very graciously did not rain at any of those times, so I am grateful. Second, you will notice I was able to use the plural form of “were packing” every single time. As alone as I often feel in my eternally single state, it does me good to remember that actually I am not anywhere close to alone in life. Maggie and Jake, my parents (well, really just my mom, since Dad’s contributions were limited to sarcastic encouragements over a phone line, but I’ll give him a shout-out anyway), Cary and Chris, and Karen all deserve gigantic rounds of applause for being the best support system a borderline hysterical, not-terribly strong or coordinated or organized would-be mover could ask for. They have carried not only my seemingly endless stuff but also my sorry self throughout this process, and I love them/owe them forever. Hopefully one day I can repay them. Third, on my third and final trip up to Baltimore in four days, I passed a UHaul broken down on the Beltway right inbetween Wisconsin and Connecticut Aves, the poor driver sweating and swearing as he attempted to help the tow truck driver attach the pull. I was never that driver. Thank you, universe, for that mercy.
So, now let’s get to the less boring stuff—the “wtf” stuff! I was kind of asking for trouble from the get-go with this, because I only took a week off between jobs. This was a financially motivated decision, and I am going to appreciate the paycheck, cause DAMN is moving expensive, but it really did not take into account my mental sanity. I didn’t have a place to move until last Saturday, I didn’t have a truck until Monday, and I didn’t have movers locked down until Tuesday when Maggie generously offered herself and Jake to help with the Charlottesville load. Because of this uncertainty, I had no trouble convincing myself packing and everything could wait because why bother, nothing was set in stone yet anyway! Besides, packing makes me sad. Donating to Goodwill is awesome—it does good, and it also serves to remind me that sure, I can always buy new clothes, because think of all the clothes that means I can donate!! (yes, I am aware of the flaw in this thinking, but isn’t my way more fun???) On the other hand, I definitely cried while assembling the bags (6 this time, 2 less than I ended up with when moving from Boston—progress!). I decided that since I’d had that comforter since August of 2001, and it was no longer moss green but vaguely dark yellow, it would be fair to donate it. But—but—that was one of my oldest compatriots. It saw me through 4 years of college (pushed on the floor under the ridiculously hot metal roof of Brecon 4th, huddled under on Pem West 2nd since the heating system literally didn’t reach to our room, packed in storage in Rhoads for the half year I was in London, and snuggling my mom in the Pem West Towers for our graduation day nap after taking the Red-Eye from LA post Cary’s graduation), two years of DC on that old bed of Tracy’s that Ginny still uses in Norfolk, and two years in Boston, tucked in my windowless bedroom in the Fenway apartment. True, I’d bought a new duvet and duvet cover in Charlottesville (petal pink to go with the floral bedroom décor—I figure, if you’re a girl with a sad lack of testosterone in your daily life, you might as well go whole hog with the femininity in your bedroom decor), but the old one had been a much-loved cat blanket there. It never tore or spread its synthetic stuffing, no matter what it went through. And I was just (cleaning it first but then) tossing it in a bag, and giving it away??? I felt like I was betraying it. This is my example of why I find packing and downsizing so challenging, which is why moving turns into such a nightmare every time.
I was going to write the rest as a narrative, but I think it works better as bullet points. Here is what happened when I moved.
• Monday: I drive to Baltimore and sign my lease. I ask to move in Thursday and they say, “fine,” but the woman makes a big point about me being there on Wednesday to pick up my keys—my lease, she emphasizes, starts on Wednesday, and I need to be there then. Fine.
• Monday night: my mom tells me she cannot move me on Thursday. By “move me,” I mean, emotionally and logistically support me. She and my dad made a formal statement vowing to never lift furniture again after they helped me move into my fourthstory walk-up senior year of college. Heh. Can I move in on Friday, she asks. If I can’t, I’ll be doing the Baltimore part by myself.
• 9:30 Tuesday morning: I call and beg the apartment complex to let me move in Friday. They make a big effing deal about it, but say yes. And even agree to let me pick up the keys on Friday, as long as I swear I am not trying to change the terms of my lease and trying to skip the financial responsibility of the two days of Wednesday and Thursday. For Pete’s sake. I reserve the elevator for 1-3 on Friday afternoon (an elevator, I tell my mom. No stairs!! She gives me a “This time.” Again, heh.)
• 10:00 Tuesday morning: I lock down the Uhaul reservation. They guide me through reserving movers to load me in Thursday in Cville and then unload me in Bmore on Friday.
• 11:00 Tuesday morning: I call Comcast to “transfer” my service. The man says he cannot lock down my agreement because I am apparently late on my August bill, and until I pay it I cannot make any other arrangements. He tells me how to pay it on the phone and then assures me after I do that, the transfer will automatically process. I pay the bill on the phone with an added $5 “convenience fee.” Convenience that guarantees my payment may take up to 48 hours to process. Gotta love it.
• 9:30 Wednesday morning: The movers I’d “locked down” call me. They operate out of DC and will charge me $500 to come down to Charlottesville for that part of the move. The Baltimore part would be covered by the fee I already paid. I agreed to just have them come to Baltimore, arranging for them to be at that very specific 1-3 time slot and send a panicked email to Maggie, honestly intending to just vent, because all of sudden, I was on the line to either pay MORE money to reserve new people within 24 hours or to singlehandedly carry a loveseat, chair, etc, into a UHaul by myself. She tells me to not be stupid, that she and Jake will come tomorrow night to help me load. I swear I will be ready.
• 1:30, Thursday afternoon. Maggie comes by to drop me by the Uhaul place. On the way, I return a call from the Bmore apartment complex. Apparently there has been a mix-up, and the cleaners are not going to be done with the turnover until Friday at about 4. I remind them that THEY wanted ME to move in WEDNESDAY, I was the one who delayed it, and that I have movers coming at my originally reserved time at 1. More grumbling, but they tell me they will arrange it, don’t worry. We arrive at the UHaul store and Maggie then attempts to follow me back to my apartment. I say “attempt” because, to travel the 1 mile back to my place, I lead her through the most winding, around-your-elbow-to-get-to-your-toe route through Belmont possible. It is near impossible to u-turn on Monticello Avenue in a 10’ truck. So instead, we drive through the neighborhood, including down that super steep hill! I only take out one tree branch though, so it was a success. Once we get to my house, Maggie unsurprisingly is unwilling to watch me try to back the UHaul into the space most convenient to my apartment, and does it herself. Flawlessly. She then helps me load a few things—very sweetly managing to not laugh when I say things like, “How do you use a dolly?” Then she leaves me to go to work, promising to return with Jake that evening.
• 6:00, Thursday evening. Maggie texts me that she and Jake are on their way. I respond, “Thank God, I am in need of your superior spatial reasoning!”
• 6:15, Thursday evening: They come anyway. Despite all cosmic signs telling them to run far far away. Don’t worry, I’ve since sent them flowers.
Let’s take a break to review the reasons I suck at packing:
--I am a packrat that gets emotionally attached to her stuff.
--I am extraordinarily clumsy. If there is a way to bruise myself on a box or a bumper, I will find it.
--I am not strong. True, I am trained enough to get a 200lb man with hemiplegia from a bed to a wheelchair using pure body mechanics, but when it comes to lifting, carrying, and gently placing heavy objects, my twiggy little arms tend to give out.
--As much as I hate to be a cliché kind of girl, I have NO spatial reasoning intelligence. I look at a space and at the things I need to put into it, and find a way to make sure it DOESN’T fit. It’s a gift.
Ok, back to the timeline.
• 6:25, Thursday evening: Maggie and Jake learn to stop asking me where I think we should put things and to start just stacking it in, knowing if it was up to me, the toaster box would somehow end up under the loveseat. Because that might make sense to me at the time.
• 6:31, Thursday evening. Stuffing things were I’ve been told to inside the UHaul, I hear, “THUMP THUMP THUMP” and then “giggle giggle giggle” from the stairways. No one can confirm exactly what happens, but one of my boxes of books is newly smushed. At least it wasn’t the Kindle. Again.
• 6:45, Thursday evening. I realize we’ve been locked out of my apartment. Fortunately, the leasing office is having a party, and someone is there to give me a spare key. Good thing, since the other option was scaling the wall to my second floor balcony.
• 7:00, Thursday evening. Everything that I’ve managed to pack is in the truck. Maggie and Jake peace out and I go back to my apartment, which I assure myself only contains a TV, my laptop, two cat scratch stands, and two moderately stressed cats.
• 1:30, Friday morning: The cats demonstrate their stress by sitting on my rib cage and waking me up for some emotional assurance.
• 6:30, Friday morning. I wake up and put just a few more things I found in the apartment in the truck.
• 8:30, Friday morning. I leave for Baltimore.
• 8:45, Friday morning. I pull over to try to fix my right side mirror since I can’t see out of it.
• 9:00, Friday morning, I stop to try to RE-fix my right side mirror.
• 9:10, Friday morning. After stop number 3, I give up on seeing out of the right side mirror, unless I lean all the way forward in my seat and turn my head all the way around. Hey, who can’t drive a ten foot truck through three of the busiest highways on the East Coast using just one mirror?? Right??
• 11:30, Friday morning. As I think I have mentioned, my normal driving speed tends to err on the side of “speed demon” vs “granny.” This is not possible in a UHaul. Because of this, I am still in Virginia, 3 hours after starting. My mom is on her way too, and is very nice about the fact that she will beat me there.
• 12:30, Friday afternoon. I arrive and meet my mom. The lady at the front desk of my apartment building tells me the cleaners are not done, and therefore, I cannot have my key. I remind her about my movers, and she says that it’s fine, I can just put my stuff in the room the cleaners have finished while they work in the other. I fight the urge to remind her that they gave me hell for not moving in two days before. Would the cleaners have been one by 10 on Wednesday, I want to ask. I do not. I let her reserve the elevator for me, and go to show my apartment to my mom. There are no cleaners inside. The floor is wet, but the place is empty. We go back to sit by the Uhaul and wait for the movers.
• 12:45, Friday afternoon: The movers call. They are stuck in traffic, but swear they will be there by 1:20. My mom decides to go get us some sandwiches to eat while we wait.
• 1:30, Friday afternoon: I call the movers. They don’t know where they are, but they swear they are coming. Apparently GPS stops working on I-95. Did you know this? I remind them gently of the elevator reservation.
• 2:00, Friday afternoon: I call the movers again. They have started moving again, and will be there in 20 minutes. I remind them of the reservation, they promise they can move a 10 foot truck in 30 minutes.
• 2:30, Friday afternoon. The movers arrive. They are very friendly. They look at my truck and say they can do the move in like 25 minutes.
• 4:30, Friday afternoon. They finish moving everything. We wish each other the best, I pretend I will call them if I need to move again, and they head off.
• 4:35, Friday afternoon. My mom and I head to the Uhaul place, 1 mile down the road, to drop it off.
• 4:55, Friday afternoon. Despite traffic, we arrive, I drop off the keys. We get back in the car and I realize I can’t find my glasses, so we go back to my apartment to find them.
• 5:00, Friday afternoon. The uhaul place calls. I forgot to fill up the half-empty tank, and they will charge me $60 to fill it for me, and he insists I should come back and do it myself.
• 5:15. I go up to the apartment to look for my glasses, leaving my cell phone in the car with my mom.
• 5:25. I give up on the search, trying not to panic. I go back down. My mom lowers the car window and holds out my glasses case. They were in my purse the whole time.
• 5:45. We get back to the Uhaul place. As we pull in, another driver pulls in and blocks in my truck. I jump out and do my best “lost girl” talk to convince him to move so I can get out. If I’m spatially unintelligent, this driver is spatially retarded. After various hand gestures, we finally arrange things.
• 5:55. I complete 4 left turns and a u-turn in a CVS parking lot, and return with my filled gas tank. $40 to fill half a tank. What a way to save $20. My mom and I decide to avoid rush hour beltway traffic, and head downtown to kill some time.
• 6:05. Abundant traffic and a largely purple-clad pedestrian population helps us realize there is a preseason Ravens game happening downtown.
• 6:10. A car with four male yuppies in Ravens jerseys cuts us off in a intersection.
o Mom: “What chowderheads.”
o Me: “Mom, be nice, those guys are my new dating pool.”
o Mom: (Meaningful silence). “Maybe you should just date in DC.”
• 6:15. We park, and go inside the gallery to get Starbucks. My sister calls and we make plans for a Cville breakfast tomorrow morning.
• 7:00. We decide to brave the traffic and leave. Getting on I-95 is fine. “Club Can’t Handle Me” comes on the radio and I start to sing along, because my mom has to love me even if I’m tone deaf, and because I feel pretty good about having moved. I moved, dammit!! I’m such a grown-up!
• 7:45. We slow down on the Beltway, right by Tysons, where they are building a new Metro line and five lanes turn into four and every driver is obligated to lose their effing mind at the sight of white concrete construction walls.
• 7:47. Thunder rumbles, lightning strikes about half a mile away, and the heavens open.
• 7:49. Half a mile from our exit to I-66, we slow from 40 MPH to 10 MPH. As we crawl along the construction, the road slowly turns into a river.
• 8:20. We finally get on the I-66 ramp. The radio tells us that I-66 has 3 of its 4 lanes closed due to flooding. Have I mentioned it’s still raining so hard I begin to suspect the Rapture is happening and I’m going to be left behind because I was bitchy to the apartment people?
• 8:45. We make it to the part of the road that had been closed. It’s not actually closed anymore. Still, I find myself wishing for a Boston Duck as we roll through the waves in the cute little dip in the road.
• 8:49. It stops raining.
• 9:25. We get off I-66 and find a nice Chick-Fil-A in Warrenton for dinner. I’m a simple girl. Chick-Fil-A makes me happy, for several reasons. For one thing, I love the food, and a good waffle fry helps my desperately low blood sugar rise a bit. Secondly, it’s a Christian restaurant, and when I hear the Christian music playing in the bathroom, I figure since the workers are still there, maybe the Rapture hasn’t come. Wooohooo.
• 9:30. We drive out of the suburban sprawl of Warrenton. Watch out, rural section of Rte 29, I think, you’re about to be our bitch.
• 9:50. The gas tank “Empty” sign turns on. Exactly as we pass the sign that says, “Culpepper, 15 miles.”
• 9:52. It starts raining. My mom and I start laughing. I mean, seriously? We try to figure out what we could use as weapons should we end up stuck on the side of the road.
• 10:05. We finally see a Exxon sign and head off the ramp.
• 10:06. We get stopped at a police checkpoint.
• 10:07.
o Police officer: “License, please.“
o My mom: “Here it is. Um, if we run out of gas, could youyou’re your friends help push us out of the way?”
o Police officer: (Pokes head into window, looks at gas sign.) (chuckles.) “All right, ladies, move along.”
• 10:09. We pull into the Exxon.
• 11:25. We arrive at the hotel in Charlottesville.
• 9:30, Saturday morning. Cary asks me if I’m pretty much ready to go. I say yes, but apparently am not convincing. My mom tells me it’ll be ok, and I can’t possibly be in a worse state than Ginny was the day she was supposed to move out of Vanderbilt.
• 10:00, Saturday morning. My mom opens the first cabinet she sees in my kitchen. “Um, Annie?” she says. “Did you check your cabinets?” “Some of them?” I offer.
• 10:30, Saturday morning. I take a break from visiting the dumpster to call Comcast since my cable box reminded me they never called me back. They turn off my service right there but say no one can come pick up the box. I call Cary and ask if she’d mind dropping off the box. She asks if she and Chris need to come over and help. My mom yells “YES” from the bathroom.
• 11:10. Chris says to me, “Ok, we are going to have to come to terms with the fact that this is not all going to fit in your car.”
• 11:15. My mom agrees to take some of my things home to Norfolk for me to retrieve later.
• 11:17. I start crying, because I am the worst packer ever and it’s taking four people to finish a job I thought was done and I hate myself and my life and it’s all a disaster. My family says they still love me, but I notice they don’t disagree with anything else I say.
• 11:30. The cats’ spirits are officially broken. I find them cowering in the same bathroom shelf they used as a shelter the first day they came home with me from the SPCA.
• 12:30. We close the doors on my car and my mom’s trunk. Everyone gives me half-hearted, sweaty hugs. “How long is your lease again?” Chris asks me, sounding a bit terrified. I swear I will not fully unpack in Baltimore. Cary pats me on the shoulder and tells me that new beginnings are a great time to start new habits, like the habit of downsizing. We all say good-bye, and I am alone. I finally manage to stop crying.
• 12:45. I turn in my key. Yes, key. Since one is missing. The leasing lady is very nice about telling me how much it will take out of my security deposit.
• 12:55. I load my broken cats into the carriers and into my car.
• 12:56, Saturday afternoon. I drive out of Stone Creek Village for the last time as a resident.
• 3:00, Saturday afternoon. I drive into Baltimore for the first time as a resident. Karen pulls in at the same time to help me unpack, and I realize that, just maybe, things might be ok.
So there. The saga of my move. I’d really rather not move again, but I say that every time, and somehow it keeps needing to happen. At least we had some laughs. And despite some emotional scars, I feel my friends, family, penguin babies, and myself are starting to recover, plus I think I’ve learned some things about how to make the next move better. Until then, I’ll be reveling in my new apartment. And trying to downsize.
Much love!
No comments:
Post a Comment