The Move
Rise at 7. Coffee. Pack. Tape. Pack. Lure one cat into carrier with food. Other cat goes apeshit, slices through human flesh (arms, face, etc.), then flees. Pack. Tape. Pack.
9 am: Tattooed biker family arrives with two trucks. One truck dies in driveway. Diagnosis: snapped clutch cable.
9:30 am: Coffee served. Biker family roams through house uttering phrases: “All this?” “This too?” “Christ!” etc. Curses about state of clutch.
9:45 am: Dean leaves with brother-in-law biker to nearby town in search of replacement parts, and with Mama biker in search of lunch. Pack. Tape. Pack.
10 am: Papa biker prowls for booze. Informs me that it would be quite frivolous to move half-empty bottles, better he should drain them.
10-10:20 am: Does so.
11 am: Baby biker complains bitterly about his job. And what’s with all the goddamn books. Pack. Tape. Pack.
11:30 am: Papa biker notices two bottles of hot beer in pantry.
11:30-11:45 Drinks them.
12 pm: Dean returns, sans spare parts, but with lunch.
12-12:45 pm: Lunch.
12:45-1 pm: Coffee.
1-1:15 pm: Requests for second cups fulfilled.
1:30 pm: Leave for new house in car with sole captured cat (howling) and Mama biker in the back, making calls to her son in hospital.
2:30 pm: Arrive at new abode. Dean drives Mama biker into town to get new clutch.
2:30-3 pm: Small talk with landlord who takes the opportunity to remind me about the upkeep procedures for the water softener, furnace, garden, chimneys, what colour he wants the walls painted, how he loves that sponge painting thing, you know when it’s all wooshy wooshy, his trip to Quebec, that his daughter is a vet and she says that apparently it’s normal that Hugo peed all over the house the other day, but it better not happen again…
3:00 pm: Real estate agent arrives for inventory of fixtures. Pauses in each room to recount amusing anecdote, including several involving floor tiles. We agree that the house is big and the wallpaper ugly. Landlord does an inspired reading of the which fuses control which switches list taped to fuse box. Applause.
4:30 pm: Go to nearby town for groceries, ice, pizzas and beer.
5:00: Truck number one arrives. Biker family stands around cursing about the sorry state of affairs.
5-6 pm: Pizzas and beer consumed.
6-8 pm: Truck unloaded.
8-8:30 pm: Remaining beers consumed.
8:30 pm- 2 am: Biker family returns to old address to retrieve remaining stuff.
We wander from room to room, remarking that it feels mostly like we’ve traded one ungodly mess for another. But it’s a lovely big place with bare wall resonance, fine garden, tile floors soon sprawled with Weimeraners, and a constant game of, “Now, in which one of these 200 boxes did I put the…?”
Following day: Movers arrive with remaining stuff. Unload it. Complain about having to work on July 14. I drive to old house to retrieve unruly black cat, and to find that movers have left a van load of junk unmoved, cigarette butts and coffee cups everywhere, broken a window, destroyed a hedge…
Four days later: Rent a van to retrieve remaining junk, clean the old place, and apologize to the best landlords ever for all the damage done. They give us cold bottles of water for the drive back, offer sandwiches, and wish us well.
Untape. Unpack. Untape. Unpack…
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Comment
- I seem to recall that moving house was way up therre on that life-stress scale that was popular a while back—something like losing your job or misplacing your spouse. So the cat is right to freak.
Good luck in your new home. Have a quiet drink and then remember to spill a little wine on the ground as an offering to Dionysious or the genius loci.
— Simon Fodden Jul 23, 5:13pm # - Sorry to get political and shit on ya, but I’m drunk so what the shit…
I was with you until I realized that by “biker” you meant someone who is propelled on to wheels by an internal comsbustion engine, ie a motorcycle. Screw that, real bikers ride bicycles. Not really a big deal in my book, but I’m freakin tired of rich 50 year old yuppies on Harley’s giving me shit every time I say something about my bike when (apparently) what I really mean is my bicycle. So you get a little hassle back.
Which is neat, because by hassling you back I can also indenuendo something retarded about baywatch babes and/or how useless someone can be while still having a successful recording career in Germany.
Again, sorry for being a retard in your blog, but really, I’m drunk.
— alexs Jul 25, 3:16am # - My family moved every two years when I was a child and the moves took us across Canada (my father was in the Navy) on several occasions and elsewhere. The moving companies used tea-chests and heavy quilted blankets and stacks of coarse paper. It was harrowing—like your move! But there was a moment afterwards I waited for, in the new house, when I would ask my mother, Are we settled yet? (this meant that we knew where things were, that I would wake in the night and not have to orient myself by old coordinates—window there, yes, and closet there—and that mail found its way to our new address) and she would reply, Yes, I think so. For some reason, this was the clue to go on living. Might we hear when you’re settled? Best of luck. I hope a cricket finds your hearth.
— Theresa Jul 25, 6:48pm # - French motorcycle enthusiasts
— Lance Boyle Jul 26, 1:52am # - I also must get something off my chest: when I say that I am a trucker, I mean, of course, that I dance, damn it—shoulders and fingers, shoulders and fingers, truckin’ along, shoulders and fingers—and not that I drive a Peterbilt.
— eeksypeeksy Jul 27, 3:44am # - Best to you and yours in getting settled.
— ~A Jul 28, 8:51am # - What happened to your other cat?
— neil Jul 28, 12:33pm # - The other cat (Zozo) was retrieved, crated, transported, installed, and then he promptly took off again to survey the region. He shows up every couple of days now, scarfs a can of cat food, belches, farts, leaves. The usual.
— Dean Allen Jul 28, 3:31pm # - He sounds like my ex.
— cmb Jul 31, 9:00am # - Having gone myself through several moves in France, I would highly advise you to take pictures of the entire house, or else when you move out you’ll be presented with a bill for things that are not exactly the way they were handed to you. This includes carpets, walls, tiles, fixtures, you name it, everything on the “etat des lieux” and more. Get a written agreement , no matter how nice they seem, on what changes you can make without being charged repair or cleaning fees when you move out. Make sure you also get in writing what is it that the landlord has to fix – pipes do brake in walls in France – and what you have to pay for.
— marco Aug 4, 12:53pm # - I hear you, Marco. I found out the hard way when in Paris and Nice that one must never presume people’s good faith.
Our current landlord has gone to Corsica for a week, and calls us with the weather reports for our region. He apparently fears flooding – even though it hasn’t rained in over a month – and filled with dread at the thought of his freezer going on the blink while he’s away. (Wonder what he’s got in there.)
— gail Aug 5, 12:27am # - I’ve found that anything not unpacked after a couple of weeks will likely still be in boxes months later – years in some cases.
— ricadus Aug 5, 4:33am #
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