A Moving Story, Part 2

Part 1 of the story is here.

Apparently Destiny didn’t put up much of a fight, or the colander Jeff wore on his head had some extra-ordinary properties that gave him an edge in battle. Either way we ended up being doomed to pack and move our shit ourselves after all. I was ready to blow a fuse when my landlady announced we had to repaint the place before we could leave; we (I) had done some renovations to the place (mostly just some new paint and ceiling fans), and I most certainly was NOT going to spend my weekend and money repainting those walls over. I was ready to just duck out on it when my next door neighbor Robin tells me that she was moving in, she liked the paint job, and she wanted it as is. Our landlady warned her she would have to paint it when she left, but apparently she was planning to duck out like me. I guess that’s classified as a win/win/lose.

Now one of the reasons we ended up moving ourselves was Jeff’s debit card got stolen (and abused) over the weekend, so financing the move became extremely tricky. We tried contacting a discount place, Two Men and a Mule but never got an estimate. Maybe they were on siesta. Maybe they didn’t move gringos. Maybe they weren’t even Mexican. Most likely they didn’t like the sound of “moving from a two story townhouse to third floor loft”. I know I sure didn’t like it. Damn my honesty.

The next morning dawned clear and cool, so we we headed over to UHaul to snag a truck. It put us a bit behind schedule, as we got distracted by the two employees making fun of their boss getting a colonoscopy that day. So with the help of our dedicated friend Park we began loading the 24 foot UHaul at around 11.

And loading.
And loading.

And loading some more. It quickly became apparent that we had slightly underestimated exactly how much junk we had to move. Thank god I had given away my queen sized bed frame, mattresses, futon, and futon chair. I went so far as to throw my coffee table and nightstand into a dumpster, which I’m betting was “rescued” by some of my old neighbors not too long afterwards. I was that desperate about not wanting to move it. By the time it was all loaded and we drove to the new place, it was almost four and people were expected to show at six to help us unload. We were dirty, stinky, and exhausted from carrying things down from the second floor of the townhouse: the last thing we wanted to do was carry it up to the third floor at the new place by ourselves. We drove the UHaul over, made a few car trips to get last minute bits, and then settled down for a break. My sister showed up not too long after so we hit the store for steak and beer to bribe my future impromptu movers with…

A Moving Story, Part 1

It’s not what you think.

I’ve posted a few times in the past about my neighbors. It’s a classic love hate relationship: I love to hate them. I probably shouldn’t make such a broad statement as some of them have been pretty good, but for the most part they’ve been really bad. This part of town began slipping down the slippery slope of ghetto-ness in the three years since I’ve moved here, and it’s time to move on. I’ve ignored it as long as possible (I hate moving with a passion, and I tend to combine the moving experience with deep spring cleaning). I’ve also come to associate it with massive upheaval my life, something similar to Army brat syndrome maybe.
Since I’ve lived here, I’ve seen:

* 1 fight in the parking lot over food stamps (With real police action)
* 1 bounty hunter taking a guy away while his four year old daughter stood there and cried.
* Countless screaming matches (Now with and without police!)
* One wreck in the parking lot. The girl’s brakes failed and she managed to clip my old Geo convertible before slamming into the front brick wall and collapsing half. (Once again guest starring the police!)
* One hurricane (In my defense I was at the office most of the time, no problems there. Unsure if the police came).
* One guy arrested for various things, some real some not. (Yes police came, and yes it was me).
* One guy arrested for murder of a gay man at another apartment complex.
* One guy arrested for failing to register as a sex offender.
* One family of racoons run out and shot for setting off a burglar alarm constantly.
* One tree falling into the buildling as three idiots tried to cut it down and managed to pull it INTO the building instead of away.
* One lesbian couple making up after one of the screaming matches mentioned above.
* I got a roommate.

So yeah, It’s been an unforgettable three years: not in a Nat King Cole kind of way mind you, more of a post-9/11 sort of unforgettable. Traumatic, if you will. I’ve said I always try to live my life with no regrets, and it’s hard to say I regret living here. I do some, but it was a good place when I needed it. Had the neighborhood not gotten steadily worse I might have stayed longer.

So the packing has begun once more. It seems like Jeff was just moving in. Who can believe it was six months ago? Not I. We were originally planning to move it all ourselves (with help from friends to unpack) but after realized that the new place was on the third floor, and that it’s going to rain on the moving day it became increasingly clear fate was pushing us toward hiring movers. Who am I to fight destiny?