I never said *which* weekend to expect more news
Anyway, haven't most of you switched to the mini-blog that is Facebook?
In a nutshell: the big, noisy vortex known as peak wedding-singing season touched down and briefly consumed my life. I'm still recovering. Home inspection revealed our little masonry Cape Cod to be...well, a brick house. In all the best senses. Which isn't to say it doesn't require a little electrical work, but that's much better than the one I almost bought in December, which was literally sliding off its foundation.
The last two weekends we've spent packing and lugging boxes around, and this one we're spending cleaning and bickering (stress levels are rather high all around). The cats are spooked and depressed and demanding constant reassurance. Closing is set for Monday; we turn the keys over to the crazy landlady on Wednesday and are homeless for two nights; Friday morning we hope to high heaven that the nine-count-'em-nine Salvadorans the slumlord sellers have stuffed into the house have all departed; we bring in the cleaning crew and locksmith. Friday night we move in. (Saturday, first houseguests.)
Y'know, I'm generally something of an experience junkie and can usually glean something worthwhile from just about everything (don't let my dyspeptic facade fool you). But the whole process of moving? I'm at a loss. There's really nothing redeeming about it. The entire painful experience just seems like karmic revenge for having Too. Damn. Much. Stuff.
In a nutshell: the big, noisy vortex known as peak wedding-singing season touched down and briefly consumed my life. I'm still recovering. Home inspection revealed our little masonry Cape Cod to be...well, a brick house. In all the best senses. Which isn't to say it doesn't require a little electrical work, but that's much better than the one I almost bought in December, which was literally sliding off its foundation.
The last two weekends we've spent packing and lugging boxes around, and this one we're spending cleaning and bickering (stress levels are rather high all around). The cats are spooked and depressed and demanding constant reassurance. Closing is set for Monday; we turn the keys over to the crazy landlady on Wednesday and are homeless for two nights; Friday morning we hope to high heaven that the nine-count-'em-nine Salvadorans the slumlord sellers have stuffed into the house have all departed; we bring in the cleaning crew and locksmith. Friday night we move in. (Saturday, first houseguests.)
Y'know, I'm generally something of an experience junkie and can usually glean something worthwhile from just about everything (don't let my dyspeptic facade fool you). But the whole process of moving? I'm at a loss. There's really nothing redeeming about it. The entire painful experience just seems like karmic revenge for having Too. Damn. Much. Stuff.
2 Comments:
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Italophile said...
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- 1:46 PM
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An especially smug Italophile said...
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- 1:47 PM
Post a CommentI always pat myself on the back when describing the time that I had, literally, 36 hours to move out of Seattle (due to crazy work schedules and UK immigration requirements). I paid a moving van to take all my sellable stuff to Goodwill, recycled almost everything else, and ended up taking just 5 suitcases and my bike to London.
This sounds like a really fast closing. Congratulations!!!
And if I'm feeling especially smug, I say, "Well, one suitcase and one duffel bag and three not-very-large bags."
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