It’s officially moving day. Right now I’m hiding in the back room of our apartment, hunched up in the one remaining chair in our place while the moving guys close up box after box with every BRAAAAAAP of moving tape.
I’d like to think I’m just staying out of the way, but mostly I’m avoiding the dirty looks of movers seeing an able bodied red-blooded American man sit around and let them do the job they were paid to do. I’ve been furrowing my eyebrows for the last hour to let them know that I’m typing important documents here. Maybe they’re financial documents. Maybe I’m brokering big deals here. Deals worth billions. Oh, and please try to keep all the refrigerator magnets together…they’re irreplaceable.
Right now Crissy’s on the phone with Crate and Barrel, ordering the couch that we decided to pay for by selling our two current couches. When the buyer asked how old the couches were, Crissy guessed 3 or 4 years. Later my Dad called me and asked if I’d like to know the history behind the couches we were pawning off for peanuts. “One of them we bought the year you were born.” That makes it 32 years old. Crissy was close. “The other one we bought for our second house. In 1985.”
Also of note was the bratty rich woman who laid on the horn of her Range Rover so long we thought maybe she fell asleep on it. When the missus went out to investigate (I was, uh, predisposed), she got attitude for our moving truck blocking her driveway. “I’m planning on being in and out all day, so…yeah.”
When Crissy asked if she might not mind parking on the street for a couple hours, her response was completely understandable: “Um, no.”
Since our movers are pretty nice guys, they moved just enough to let her out. And since karma’s a bitch, someone else's cable guy promptly parked in front of her garage. She got back 10 minutes ago, and we haven’t stopped cackling yet.
P.S. this is a before picture of our back door. I'll post the after tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment