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Exodus
So I moved a few weeks ago. I love my new place, We (my
wife and child and I) used to live in a quaint little apartment
in the middle of nowhere. It was a nice little suburbia
– you know… quiet, lots of hillbillies. It was
just too far from civilization. I had to pack an overnight
bag to go to the grocery store. What up, yo? So we found
a place “in the city” and we decided to move.
I was excited except for one thing:
Moving sucks.
I don’t know if you’ve ever had to move or not.
Maybe some of you out there have lived in the same place
all your life – if so, you’re lucky. I mean
really lucky. Or sad. Do you still live at home? How old
are you for God’s sake? Move out already. You’re
driving your mother crazy. Mmm… what was I saying?
Moving. Right. Forgive me, I’m still trying to recover
form my relocation. I hate moving. It’s probably the
worst thing a could have to do next to drowning a relative
for the mafia. What made it worse was that I thought it
was going to be really easy this time. I have moved a lot
of people, including myself, a lot of times. I have lots
of experience in this area. I thought I had it all planned
out. I was going to rent a moving van. I had lots of people
to help. My wife, bless her, has been packing our shit into
boxes weeks prior to the dreaded weekend of the migration.
It was all set… then something extraordinary happened.
I fucked up.
It seems that moving at the end of the month on a Saturday
is a popular idea. I hadn’t taken this into consideration.
So when I called to rent the truck on the Wednesday before,
the rental guy was like, “What? There isn’t
a truck in the whole city.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Fuck. Do you have anything?”
He said I could pick up a seventeen foot truck Friday evening
at five, but it had to be back by Saturday at 8am.
“Hmm,” I said. “Fuck. I’ll take
it.”
So, I had a truck but only for an evening instead of a whole
day, and it was the wrong day to boot. I had to make calls.
When I called my wife, she said: “What’s wrong
with you?”
When I called my friend Judas, he said: “ I’m
doing something after work. I can meet you at the new place.”
When I called my friend Katie, she said: “I don’t
get off until later, but I can make it.”
When I called my dad, he said: “(under his breath)
shit… (into the phone) I’ll be there.”
When I called my sister, she said: “If you need help,
I guess.”
So it was set. I had completely changed all the planning
and moved whe whole operation up a day. Fuck.
 The
day comes and I pick up the truck. My pregnant wife decides
to stay with my sister(!) and watch our two-year-old. Minus
one. I am meeting my mother-in-law, who is going to help,
thank God. I get to the old place and Katie pulls in right
behind me.
“Where’s Rachel and your boy?”
“With my sister.”
“Oh.
My dad – who is parked nearby – gets out of
his truck. “Heeeeeeeeeyyyyyy. I’ve had a littlllle
too muuuuch to drinkk.” He grins wildly. Just then,
my mother-in-law arrives.
So me, Katie (who weighs a hundred pounds if she has 40
pounds of shit in her pockets), my inebriated father, and
my mother-in-law load what we can fit onto the truck - that
ended up being nowhere near 17 feet long - in record time.
Way to go team. We load up the circus and head to the new
place where reinforcements are supposed to show up. My sister
and Judas; she has the flu, he’s even drunker than
my dad. We unload the truck in record time (again) considering
one third of us were soused, one third of us had to team
up just to carry the couch cushions, one sixth was incredibly
amused, and one sixth was me. We finished at around 11pm,
having only dropped two pieces of furniture, crushed four
boxes, torn the entire top off of the washing machine, and
having to fish my dad out from under the king size mattress
that fell on him.
The best part is we weren’t even close to getting
it all. Since we had to move it up a day, not everything
was packed. My pregnant wife, bless her heart, and I spent
the rest of the weekend just trying to get shit out of our
old apartment. I suggested setting fire to the remainder,
but she said something about a “security deposit”
and how I was a moron, so I took that as a “no.”
The moral of the story is: Moving sucks. Don’t fucking
do it. Evein if you do have friends and family that will
come to your aid no matter what the odds. And beware if
they grin wildly.
If anyone would like a weight bench,
rocking chair, end table, or extra lamps, please feel free
to email Tadd.
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