Well, the worst of the move is over. Saturday we got every scrap out of storage. There wasn’t so much as a mouse turd left to take out of there. We then went and loaded up some of the most $diety-awful heavy shit from my mother’s house — namely Pac, a hexagonal picnic table, a crawfish table, a table saw, an antique dental chair and two monster televisions. We then proceeded to haul all that shit into the new house. Fun. And permanent disfigurement.
Sunday, I loaded up the rest of the crap from the garage, the side yard (including the BBQ pit) and the attic. Once again, fun was had by all. And lifelong emotional scarring. That was a free bonus.
I would like to send a hugeamongus "thank you, thank you, in the name of all that is good and holy, thank you" out to my fellow members of the Goon Squad™: Krazy, Pounders, Raul, Snap and Mensa. Without their raw muscle, I would have never moved our monumental amount of seemingly concrete-weighted crap into the new house. Krazy even went without sleep for 120 hours, and he still showed up to help — bright eyed and full of lethal hallucinations.
You know, I’m looking forward to a morning when I can wake up and get out of bed without having to roll and thump off of the mattress because my back feels like my vertebrae have fused, and my liver is trying to escape by chewing it’s way through my spine. A morning without stiffness and pain. What a novel fucking idea. Call Ripley, he ain’t gonna believe that, and he might make it an exhibit in one of his cheesy museums.
Now comes the part of moving where you spend an eternity trying to find a place to unpack all your shit to. Some spots are obvious — "Well Martha, quite frankly I think the sofa would look better if it weren’t mounted to the side of the fridge. — but, inevitably you have shit in boxes that you forgot you owned, and now you need the perfect nook to stick it in. This is our own little game of hide-and-go-seek.
So, until we’re completely moved in, expect more of this sort of nonsense from me. The house and the move are all-consuming activities. Until I have a weekend to lay around in my pajamas watching DVDs, it ain’t done.
Congratulations on getting everything in there! Really wish we could have been there to help. I generally hate moving, but it’s so much more fun when it’s someone else’s stuff. Even funner (!) when you’re moving someone you care about.
We’ll hopefully be available for ya’ next time…if there is a next time. 🙂
Love y’all!
Don’t forget that there will also inevitably be something that you will never ever find again. The moving gremlins always steal something away from you.
Moving gremlins? I don’t know; I saw Snap trying to sneak away with that 5,000 ton dental chair in his back pocket… Oh, no wait, that would have killed him. Right. My mistake.
You wear pajamas? And you still have the Dental Chair?
I am learning so much…..
I only put the pajamas on when there is the threat of company coming over, which is fairly often actually. They’re authentic Jack Skellington "Big-Boy" footie PJs. Cost me a fortune.
A’yup, I still have the dental chair, and we moved all 27,048 pounds of it this weekend. Actually, it’s been residing on an old wagon which has, thanks to the move, lost almost all of the rubber on it’s wheels. I intend one day to restore it and put it in my studio. Of course, my grandkids may be throwing the thing out of the garage, untouched, after I die. Time will tell, but it’s still in the family.
I’m glad your grandkids will have the super-strength to throw that damn thing.
Perhaps genetic engineering will allow you to infuse your kids and their subsequent spawns with Krazy and Mensa’s super-strength, as well as your attraction to heavy shit, and Rhonda’s love of wine. God bless science. Of your choice.
Well, I know of ONE way Krazy and I can get our DNA into Mike’s grandkids, but I don’t think Mike wants us doing his daughter.
not til they are 15.
wait. that is packrat’s kid.
nevermind.
Neither one of you are allowed to date, "do", or otherwise have anything other than polite conversation with anyone in direct genetic relation to me. If I suspect either of you so much as looking in their general direction for more that about… oh, let’s say thirty seconds, DeJockamo the Tiki God will have a few new playmates buried in the garden next to him in eight or nine strategic places.
*me and mensa look at each other*
"what?!"
"Neither one of you are allowed to date, "do", or otherwise have anything other than polite conversation with anyone in direct genetic relation to me. If I suspect either of you so much as looking in their general direction for more that about… oh, let’s say thirty seconds, DeJockamo the Tiki God will have a few new playmates buried in the garden next to him in eight or nine strategic places."
Yep. What he said.
Glad that’s only Krazzy and Mensa. Hear litttle daughter! Muhaha!
Let me be so generous as to extend the same courtesy that I expressed to Krazy and Mensa, to everyone I know or can think of — past, present, future, and phase shifted… real, imaginary, and extraneous personalities in my head… male, female, pre-op & post-op transsexuals, transvestites, and trans-gender neomaxizoomdweebies… heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, trisexual, and asexual. Human, alien, angelic, and demonic. Oh, and you too, Pounders.
I think that covers all the bases, and if not, then consider those already covered too on a case-by-case basis, by sheer extension of my will.
damn. that list almost covers theo.
BWAH HAHAHAHA!
Ya Kraz you, that list almost does. Now what about Spink tough?