Ah, the frustrations of moving. Did I say that this would be grist for my mill? Apparently, I’m an idiot.
When the moving van backed up to our house in California, it was already packed with two small loads. I looked at the space in the truck and asked the driver, “Are you sure that all my stuff will fit in there? I’m pretty sure we filled a truck coming out here and I didn’t get less crap while I was here.” He assured me that it would all fit, no problem.
About 2 pm that afternoon, I caught him standing around the side of my house leaving a voice mail message for his office, he was saying, “This is NOT a drill, I need an overflow truck now!” So, who would have thought that my spatial relations would trump his? Not me.
My next door neighbor, Jackie, dragged over two lawn chairs and we watched them try and try and TRY to force everything into the one truck. Then they gave up and moved the overflow into the garage. We’d already drank a bottle of wine, so I wasn’t too upset at this point.
When we got to the Tulsa end and unpacked the first truck load of stuff, the lack became pretty apparent. What was in the overflow truck was all my clothing from the master bedroom closet, all DH’s tools from the garage, and the vacuum cleaner.
So, what do you need most when you are unpacking and setting up in a new house? A vacuum? Tools to hang pictures and assemble disassembled furniture?? See the dilemma here?
Yesterday, almost two weeks later, the overflow truck arrived. With all the missing stuff for the house. With the “parts box” that had all the hardware they’d removed from our desk and shelving. I’m getting a migraine just rethinking all of this.
So the lesson for the writer? Moving is VERY stressful. My youngest child is 26 years old. The last time my ankles swelled was when I was pregnant with her… until last week when my cankles started bothering me.
Home at last.
All the frustration aside, I am glad to be back in Tulsa. I might be a little too sensitive about moving to try and include this ‘feeling’ in my writing. Unless I write a murder mystery where a packing estimator meets his death under the wheels of a runaway semi… yeah, that’s the ticket. I feel my muse calling.
–Sandee Wagner
