Moving up, and a mile to the east.

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Literally up, up three flights of stairs.   Or in one rather dazed and exhausted trip, up two flights into the apartment of a man who’s probably going to start locking his door now.

But I’m  getting ahead of myself.

First was the saying goodbye to my tiny dog and huge view.  RJ asked if my friends were sad that they wouldn’t be able to just drop in anymore.  I gave him a blank look.  “No.  They’re still going to just waltz in anytime.  They have squatter’s rights, and keys.  Make sure you have cheese for Twinnie.”

Then there was the packing, which was uneventful, other than wondering how I acquired so many stuffed animals.

Then there was the loading of my car, during which Ryan never once asked why I own a three foot tall light up toy soldier holiday yard decoration.

Renting a truck was a good idea, although I did have a few panic attacks while attempting to change lanes during heavy traffic.  At one point I yelled out the window, “GET AWAY FROM ME, DO YOU WANT TO DIE OR SOMETHING?!?!”  But I’ll stand by my statement that I did rather well.  Especially considering that there are no rear view mirrors, or even ones on the back of the sun visors.  I had to resort to taking pictures of myself to assure myself that I was still beautiful.  Traumatic, truly.

Some advice I would now offer is to really guard the health of your friends, because hauling everything you own up three flights of stairs is pretty brutal.  After my accidental trespass, and subsequent awkward attempt at an explanation to a man to whom English is not a first language, I started counting my steps.  Later, in passing, I informed our building’s maintainence guy that he was precisely three eights of the way up the stairs.  He informed me that I’d spent too much time on the stairs.

By the end of the day, my hair was defying gravity in way I’ve never before seen, and I’d prolly lost 16 pounds.  And I don’t just mean 16 pounds worth of stuff I’d abandoned on the stairs.  (Who cares what great-grandma looked like, anway, she’s dead now.)

By the end of the next day I’d unpacked it all, and then I looked around.  I had this sudden feeling that I’d always lived there.

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12 responses »

  1. While you’re giving advice on hauling junk, I have to add, “Get rid of the typewriter, salad shooter and camping ice cream maker you’ve never used if you decide to buy a house in a flood plain and store the extras in the basement.” Carrying one’s own junk out of the basement is brutal, but junk that’s never used is just plain painful.

  2. I say keep the typewriter. It’ll be collectors’-item valuable one day, if it isn’t already.

  3. YAY! Glad you made it out alive (barely)! The Grandma joke killed me! Can’t wait to see your home sweet home!

  4. SS – I’m already really good at not owning useless stuff. It was really all my books that were killing me.

    HW – I don’t own one. My sewing machine is heavy enough.

    Amber – Pictures coming today.

  5. I was making a specific complaint about helping myself take all of my junk out of my basement before it flooded yesterday.
    The camping ice maker is indeed, crazy (I’ve only used my home ice cream maker once). It was a gift from my brother whom I love and who probably thought, “well Sis likes ice cream and Sis likes to camp, I’ll give her something to combine the two!” But really, it makes absolutley no sense.

  6. My books are my big problem also, but I do not keep them in my basement. Until I hit 28 or so I was the kind of woman who could (and did) move cross country with all of her posessions (juggling equipment and in-progress quilts included) in a Mazda sedan. Home ownership, a great thrift store and throwing lots of parties did me in.

  7. Pingback: Neighbors. « Valancy Jane

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