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ursulav

…Not…Dead…Yet…

So I’m back.

whew.

It’s been a long ten days.

As some of you may recall, I was helping my dad and stepmom pack up their house and driving everything from Arizona to Atlanta.

Packing up a 4500 square foot house is hard—packing up such a house that is jammed to the rafters is harder, packing up such a house when it is largely jammed with craft supplies and dollhouse parts, which are all Very Very Tiny And Require Individual Wrapping…well.

The best analogy I will come up with for packing a craft room, if you’ll forgive me, is a violently dead chicken.

A live chicken, for the most part, is a pretty compact object. Everything fits together very neatly and it makes a small clucking package that wanders around and pecks things and is susceptible to complicated avian diseases.

If, however, you have ever borne witness to what happens when a stray dog gets ahold of one, you will know that a chicken unpacks amazingly. One chicken plus one feral dog equals an entire Civil War battlefield. It is carnage as far as the eye can see. There is a great deal more contained in a chicken than could possibly be accounted for by the relatively sleek shape of the average specimen. Chickens are a sort of TARDIS stuffed with guts.

Craft rooms are like that. They’re all packed in there, and when you go to pull the stuff out, it’s a huge horrifying mess that could not in any way have fit in the room in the first place, and also there are feathers.

There were two such rooms. There were eight people packing. I personally belong to the Genghis Khan school of packing, which assumes speed, fury, and a certain number of casualties. We still ran over our deadline by a day and a half.

When the house had been packed into two giant Penske trucks and a trailer—and the amount of sheer human labor and grief I am glossing over with that phrase boggles the mind—we hit the road. I was driving a dog-grooming van, and was the most maneuverable member of the convoy, which included a large RV, and the two Penskes pulling trailers.

About four days spent on the road with my companions, we shall say little, as they are all alive and use the internet. (Hi, Dad!) Suffice to say that very small character flaws are like grains of sand, and you wouldn’t even notice them until they get in your eye and stay there for days (and I do not exempt myself from this at all, as I’m one of those obnoxious people who wakes up, slams coffee, and is twitchy to hit the road in fifteen minutes, which I know is annoying to deal with.) Sleeping in an RV with three other people and several geriatric poodles who began whining hysterically whenever Their Person left the vehicle is difficult for everybody. Plus we ran out of water and thus showers and the generator didn’t work the first night and…well…it was a long couple of days.

We made dreadful time, as these vehicles are not equipped for speed, and we started late, and then the RV blew out a tire in Texas and we sat by the side of the road for four hours waiting for somebody to come out, and the various roadside services were convinced that we’d need an RV-sized jack (we already had one) and thus kept being unable to send anybody, and it was all just a dreadful clusterfuck.

By Friday it became obvious that we weren’t going to get into Atlanta in time to get the keys to the storage unit (in the South, everything closes on Sunday) and so I took off in the van and drove like a bat out of hell, crashed at a La Quinta somewhere on the far side of Jackson, Mississippi, and managed to squeak into the storage place Saturday before it closed, five or six hours ahead of the rest of the convoy.

But I lived! Flew out Sunday, ran into Kevin’s arms, plastered myself to the hood of my own car (my car! Which is not huge and van-like and has brakes that actually respond when you push them and a turning radius smaller than the orbit of Jupiter!) and then came home and spent two hours wandering through the garden, which has grown enormously. That was better than Christmas. If you ever have to leave a garden for a week, do it in mid-spring. The growth when you get back is the purest delight available to adults (unless you’re one of those people into the laughter of children and so forth, I suppose) and I am still squeeing and doing little dances today as I discover that things I had written off completely, which have exploded out of the ground and are suddenly ALIVE! gloriously ALIVE!

Anyway. So I’m alive. And in a day or two, I will be sane again and able to answer e-mail and stuff, but for the moment, I am a thin layer of Ursula-shaped goo plastered to the floor of the house. But we lived!

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.


Glad you made it back lol we've missed you

White text on black background is difficult to read. Makes my eyes go crazy. Just thought you'd want to know.

Moving sucks. I just did it myself. I really don't want to do that again, but inevitably, it will happen. Moving is a fact of life.

You can always view it in your own style.

Sounds as of it went as well as could be expected. *shudder* Moving makes Hell look like a luxury vacation.


(edited on account of that everhelpful autocorrect)

Edited at 2012-03-26 11:32 pm (UTC)

Welcome home! My sympathy for the madness you have endured knows no bounds. Go have a honking huge cup of something hot (with or without an equally honking huge spike of something strong), snuggle Kevin, and slaughter untold millions on your computer or video game of choice.

Good to see you're still in top form after such an adventure. (smudges away the tears of laughter)

oh dude. get some chocolate and chillax :D

Ahh the joys of moving!

You have my sympathies. I've moved 3 times in 12 years and I never ever intend to move again, especially as I'm nw <100yds from where I ended up after the first move. It's just too stressful, and I don't do stress.

"in a day or two, I will be sane again"
Erm. There are 70-odd episodes of a certain podcast to demonstrate that you weren't sane to begin with. However, we love you anyway.

How long until most (if not all) of this entry makes it to Metaquotes, e.g. :

"One chicken plus one feral dog equals an entire Civil War battlefield."

"Chickens are a sort of TARDIS stuffed with guts."

I'll be giggling over this for days. Welcome home!

MA

I rather liked
I personally belong to the Genghis Khan school of packing, which assumes speed, fury, and a certain number of casualties.
myself.

The imagery goes well with the Civil War battlefield.

So glad you survived. Hopefully not to move another day.

Packing and moving long distances is very, very, special. It takes a strong mind to not go completely batshit insane about the time you cut yourself on the tape machine for the 134th time, or realize that something you need has been packed and put in the very first row of boxes in the van and it is now behind 13 more rows of boxes and an antique oak sideboard, or when you realize you've missed the off ramp, take the next one, and discover that there is no easy on ramp back on and you have to turn the Penske and trailer in a space that was designed for compact cars or... yeah.

My sympathies, but I'm glad you survived!

Or when you realize your bottle of coke has a leak in the bottom and has fried your cellphone sitting in the next drink holder over, thus negating your ability to communicate with the rest of the convoy or even figure out where you are.

(In fairness, that happened to my Dad and not me, so I can't speak from personal anguish.)

So, did you ever figure out what that warbler was?

Welcome home! It's amazing how much SPRING has happened in the last couple of weeks.

I'm sending seeds out tomorrow. I haven't figured out where the 'safe place to put the seed box' is yet, so the weird gourd seeds will likely be a bit behind, but they like more heat so it should all work out.

Brilliant metaphor that.

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