The Long, Hard Road Home
So
We finally close on the house Tuesday. It seems like forever since we started this mess, but it's finally coming to an end. The stress alone has made it so that I can't turn my head all the way to the side. This is what happens when you put all your stress in your shoulders, I guess.
Fuck, I don't know anymore.
The packing was mostly done already, since my wife decided to get a jump on it before we even found the house. She was packing up the upstairs while we were still looking. I guess it's a good thing, though since we'd probably still be working on it today if she hadn't. I keep wanting to drag out my copy of Spalding Gray's Terrors of Pleasure, just because I think that now I can truly comiserate with it. For those of you not familiar with it, Terrors of Pleasure is a monologue that he did back in the 1980's about buying a house with his then-girlfriend Renee Shafranksy. Anyway, I really think that now it would really make far more sense to me, just due to the fact that I now have this sort of experience under my belt.
Moving really sucks.
I really hate it. It's not the change of houses or anything like that, it's just the fact that I have to take everything and put it in boxes. Part of the problem is that packing up is tedious. It also shows you exactly how long it's been since you've done certain things.
Like vaccuum behind the dresser.
Or dust the top of the refrigerator.
Or dust just about anything higher than eyebrow-level for that matter.
It really becomes an exercise in disgust when you start packing things up that haven't been moved in, say, three or four years. You really get this bad, grimy, dirty feeling when you find an inch of dust on something. And the first thing you think is, "Why didn't anyone dust this?" Of course, you have to pass the buck in the Blame Game here, because it certainly can't be your job to dust the top of the refrigerator or the top of the bookshelves. Certainly not.
So this week is going to be a constant disruption; especially since I was stupid and I never thought to just take the whole week off from work. So I get to work and move at the same time. They should give you manditory paid time off for moving, like they do for Maternity Leave. Even if it's just a week, it would be more than helpful. But we can't have that, can we? OH NO. We have to make sure that everything is as difficult as possible.
Or at least I do.
At least this time we got smart and we hired some movers. There is no way in fucking hell I am moving that god damn stove again. Or the refrigerator. Unless it's broken and headed for the curb, it can suck my dick. I've had it with moving appliances. I'm too old and far too uninterested in manual labor to want to put up with that shit again. I'd rather just throw money at it and make it go away. So to speak.
We finally close on the house Tuesday. It seems like forever since we started this mess, but it's finally coming to an end. The stress alone has made it so that I can't turn my head all the way to the side. This is what happens when you put all your stress in your shoulders, I guess.
Fuck, I don't know anymore.
The packing was mostly done already, since my wife decided to get a jump on it before we even found the house. She was packing up the upstairs while we were still looking. I guess it's a good thing, though since we'd probably still be working on it today if she hadn't. I keep wanting to drag out my copy of Spalding Gray's Terrors of Pleasure, just because I think that now I can truly comiserate with it. For those of you not familiar with it, Terrors of Pleasure is a monologue that he did back in the 1980's about buying a house with his then-girlfriend Renee Shafranksy. Anyway, I really think that now it would really make far more sense to me, just due to the fact that I now have this sort of experience under my belt.
Moving really sucks.
I really hate it. It's not the change of houses or anything like that, it's just the fact that I have to take everything and put it in boxes. Part of the problem is that packing up is tedious. It also shows you exactly how long it's been since you've done certain things.
Like vaccuum behind the dresser.
Or dust the top of the refrigerator.
Or dust just about anything higher than eyebrow-level for that matter.
It really becomes an exercise in disgust when you start packing things up that haven't been moved in, say, three or four years. You really get this bad, grimy, dirty feeling when you find an inch of dust on something. And the first thing you think is, "Why didn't anyone dust this?" Of course, you have to pass the buck in the Blame Game here, because it certainly can't be your job to dust the top of the refrigerator or the top of the bookshelves. Certainly not.
So this week is going to be a constant disruption; especially since I was stupid and I never thought to just take the whole week off from work. So I get to work and move at the same time. They should give you manditory paid time off for moving, like they do for Maternity Leave. Even if it's just a week, it would be more than helpful. But we can't have that, can we? OH NO. We have to make sure that everything is as difficult as possible.
Or at least I do.
At least this time we got smart and we hired some movers. There is no way in fucking hell I am moving that god damn stove again. Or the refrigerator. Unless it's broken and headed for the curb, it can suck my dick. I've had it with moving appliances. I'm too old and far too uninterested in manual labor to want to put up with that shit again. I'd rather just throw money at it and make it go away. So to speak.