Calm You Shall Keep

So, yes. It's been a long time since I've posted. I always know it's been a long time when I get emails from people that just say, "so.... when are you going to write a new post?" The funny thing about that is, I don't really feel like I'm that interesting. So the fact that there is someone out there actually WAITING for a post feels like a lot of pressure. The kind of pressure that requires a glass of wine and some extra deodorant.

Those of you who follow my blog know that we just moved. The thing is, I can't just write at the drop of a hat. Well, I suppose I could. But I can't write well at the drop of a hat. When I told my friend that I had just moved and if I wanted the blog to be funny I was going to have to wait a while--otherwise it would just be a rant--she said something to the effect of, "Oooh, that's ok! We love rants. Remember the Ikea post?"

And I was going to write a post earlier. I thought about it several times. I even had some good ones lined up in my mental queue before we moved, but they got seared out of my permanent memory by the heat of my rage...er... frustration with the move process.

I was even going to write this post earlier in the evening, but I had a strawberry seed stuck in my tooth, and let's just face it. There's simply no way a girl can concentrate with a strawberry seed stuck in her tooth. Not only is it true, but I'll take any excuse to procrastinate. And let's just say that if you make it all they way through today's little novella, you definitely earn a gold star.

And as for the title pic... well, I wish I could take credit for that. Barring taking credit, I wish I could give credit where it's due, but it's just a random meme someone texted me. It instantly appealed to my not-quite-secret inner geek chick.

Anyway, the move. Our third trans-continental move in... what? Five years? Our fifth move in seven years? Something like that. Regardless, the process is old hat to us now. Before the movers come, you have to pack all the things you want to keep with you:

When the movers come, you have to be organized and "with" it and be able to tell them what EXACTLY you don't want packed, give them a tour, show them your priceless family heirlooms (remember my grandma's fryer?), and then get the heck out of their way. Then the loaders come, and it's kind of the same thing all over again, only different.

Then you get to your destination before your stuff comes, and you can either stay in a hotel or steal--erm...borrow--a bunch of supplies from your mother-in-law and camp out in the new place. And then you can whine about the borrowed air mattress losing air each night until you wake up with your butt on the floor with your legs and head propped up in a V by the remaining air. And every time you switch position, your little pooch launches right off the end of the bed like someone jumped on the other end of a seesaw and sent him flying. And then you can give in to your husband's pleas to buy a new, fru-fru, double-stacked air mattress with its own pump under the justification that you can "use it for guests". And then you'll sleep on the new, fru-fru, double-stacked air mattress with its own pump and kick yourself for not just giving in and listening to your husband earlier.

Eventually your stuff will arrive, and your husband will conveniently be out of town when they schedule the delivery. Very suspicious, that... but it's probably all for the best--I've done it so many times on my own now that I tend to go all alpha female. Sean being out of town is probably God's way of ensuring that the move doesn't incite a divorce.

But then your husband will have a stroke of genius and suggest that you ask your little brother-in-law to come out and help, who--at all of 17 years old, is one of your favorite people. And then your little brother-in-law DOES come out, and suddenly everything feels more manageable.

But then stuff starts coming off the truck like this:

and suddenly "manageable" is the best you can hope for as you try to tamp down the smoke coming out of your ears. Men are pulling boxes off the truck and calling inventory numbers for you to check off on the list while two unconcerned, uninvested, summer-job teenagers ask for instructions on where to put each box in the house until you feel like your head is beginning to spin around like that girl in The Exorcism. I've never actually seen the movie, but I'm pretty sure that part has been used over and over again everywhere. That's when you thrust the clipboard at your little brother-in-law and go into Alpha Mode.

Alpha Mode allows me to maintain tight control while telling people what I want done, with only the terseness of my voice and the flaring of my nostrils to indicate that I. am. angry. Alpha Mode is what keeps me from busting into tears of frustration when I realize they've lost all the hardware to our bed frame and can't put the bed set together, so it's going to be in pieces until I file a claim. Alpha Mode lets me keep my cool when I realize they've scraped paint off the banister, taken a chunk out of the door jamb, and the appliance installation guys put a ginormous tear in the vinyl floor in the mud room. Alpha Mode allows me to calmly take pictures of all the damage and silently vow that these suckers are going to pay my claims or so help me God.

And my little BIL exuded calming forces, too. The great thing about him is that nothing ruffles his feathers. He is the antithesis of the "stereotypical" 17-year-old boy. He is truly helpful. He is considerate. He is willing. He listens. He's got a natural goofiness that defuses any situation. He's gonna make someone a very lucky girl some day. But I digress. I can go alpha female on my little BIL because, you know... I'm not married to him. He doesn't have to live with me. I can tell him exactly where I want him to put those plates, because who is he to argue? Plus, I try to always ask nicely, and he's able to tell that my anger is not targeted at him.

With my little BIL's help, we powered through unpacking the entire kitchen that evening after the movers left, which is unheard of. I have never gotten that much unpacked so fast. He earned the dinner and ice cream that I bought for him in thanks. He would have earned himself a beer or two, but you know... the whole 17-years-old thing. His mom still thinks I'm a good influence. Ha!

And then--and then--my little BIL is SO COOL that he offered to come back again the next day to help me. Once I squared things away at work I took the rest of the day off and he and I powered through the closet and the master bedroom, guest bedroom, and even part of the living room. And we even went on a fruitless, hour-long search for our silverware, until I gave up and called my neighbor in NY and asked her to check the kitchen--and of course she found our silverware right in the drawer where it's always been. Sean had to go back for business, and you can bet your bottom dollar the TSA searched that suitcase when they saw all the silverware rolling through their checked bag x-ray.

And then I burnt out on unpacking and nearly two weeks later we're still in kind of the same spot, but that's neither here nor there.

In fact, I got so far along with Little BIL's help that I moved on to unpacking decorative stuff, which is normally the last thing I worry about. I excitedly opened our brand-new, never-been-unpacked standing mirror, completely oblivious to the two "handle" holes in the cardboard. It wasn't until I pulled the cardboard off that I realized those weren't handles.... two identically-sized, evenly-spaced holes had been punched straight through the frame.

Entry wounds on one side, exit wounds on the other. And a very nice set of Little BIL legs in the reflection. It takes a very special kind of person to run a pallet lift all the way through a mirror until it punches out the other side, and then not say a dang thing.  I saw my stuff loaded on the truck, and I saw it unloaded, and the Great Mirror Massacre happened in neither place. I know they transferred our goods somewhere in the middle, so that must have been when it occured. And this is only the big damage. I'm not even talking about all the little stuff we've found so far. We've never had a professional move be this bad.

Right about when we pulled the cardboard off and saw this damage is about the same time that I threw in the towel and took Little BIL out to dinner, where I had a vodka gimlet and a burger, came home, took a shower, and collapsed into my bed, which--of course--was on the floor, because, you know... no hardware. And then I had to get up and creak and totter and shuffle my way to the bathroom like an invalid because there was just so much pain. I fell asleep exhausted and unhappy and dreading the next morning, but I woke up to this, cuddled right up next to me:

And suddenly, the rest of the day just didn't seem that bad at all.