Before I climb back into the Don’t Get Me Started saddle and begin espousing on just what is wrong with this world of ours (Immigration laws, Al Qaeda, Tom Cruise…), I would like to take a moment to thank the great many people who have emailed asking, due to my writing lapse of late, if I was, in fact, dead.
Your concern has been as touching as it has been blunt.
No, I have not been dead, near dead, or even trapped under something heavy. I have been moving.
Come to think of it, dead, near dead, and trapped under something heavy is a pretty fair approximation of that act.
You see, my family finally completed the longest move in the history of relocation. What began nearly three years ago when my husband drove off to a new job in Minneapolis, has finally culminated with our arrival in Austin.
Yes, Rudy did initially drive off to the north, but much happens in three calendar years (ok, fine – because I know he will get his panties in a wad when he reads this, it was only two years, eight months and eleven days), and a new job found him that brought him back south.
That being said, it has been a long three years of separation, single parenting, weekend sex, sometimes once-a-monthly sex, keeping the house clean for showings, etc.
But here we are now, having completed the move to Austin – completed being a relative term, for while we now inhabit a new city, the "move" will be ongoing until I unpack all the %^&$# boxes and rearrange the furniture 1,001 times.
It’s not so much the moving to a new locale that bothers me. Quite frankly, I grew up moving every few years, and Rudy & I have done it so often since hooking up, that I liken us to carnies (although we do have more than four teeth between us).
So it’s not frightening or unnerving, rather what bothers me are all the logistical hoops that must be jumped through in order to make it happen.
Utilities, doctors, school transcripts, vet records, mail forwarding, movers, cleaning, etc…
What my family views as a painless transition is really a lot of behind-the-scenes legerdemain by yours truly.
They simply walk out of one home and into the next and VOILA! The toilets flush! ABRACADABRA! The lights turn on! POOF! The TVs all transmit their beloved Nick Jr and ESPN! ALAKAZAM! Letters of recommendation speed their way into advanced classes and athletics! SHABOOM! Soccer practices before the boxes are even delivered! (Seriously, we drove directly from closing on the new house to the soccer pitch. Do not pass go, do not stop to head butt anyone in the chest.)
Yes, for Linda Copperfield’s next trick, watch as she pulls a fully functional house and lifestyle OUT. OF. HER. ASS!
Oooooooooooooooooo!!!!!! (or would that be Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww??)
Then there are these boxes. I swear that more were delivered in Austin than were loaded in Dallas. It doesn’t matter how many I unpack and collapse during the day, like corrugated rabbits, they mate in the night and I wake up to ten more.
If you listen close, around 1am, you can hear them, their flaps softly smacking as they hump in the night. Sometimes you can hear packing tape tearing – I surmise those to be virgin boxes.
And in those many boxes? Who the hell knows? Vague descriptions adorn the outsides, so badly misspelled that I would bet all my money on the moving company not requiring high school diplomas from its employees. Brom Kendll Clot (We found this one in the garage. Inside? Clothes from Kendall’s Bedroom. She was not amused.)
And once you do break the tape on one, there are fourteen trees worth of paper that must be dealt with in order to free the one item they actually packed in the box. I’m not kidding. Anyone who has ever been professionally moved will vouch for this: They are paid by the pound, so the more pounds the better. Pounds = Paper in moving land. And they will wrap anything in ten sheets of it.
I have arrived at a new destination and unwrapped empty macaroni and cheese boxes, two pencils, a handful of pennies, a pretzel. Hell, these people would wrap a fart if they could catch it in order to add one more pound to the manifest.
But I digress…
We are one week into our new home, and all grousing aside, things are going well. The kids have all started in their new schools and are acclimating like pros, I am once again Team Manager of two new soccer teams, I know how to get to WalMart and back without getting lost, and best of all, at the end of the day, The Sharps are actually a family again.
A family separated by fornicating boxes and a forest’s worth of packing paper, but a family again nonetheless.