Some helpful advice: As soon as a “sold” sign goes up on your friend’s home, get new friends.
I don’t care how close you are or how much you treasure them, you pack up your own stuff and go dark.
Go into witness protection.
Go on an extended vacation.
Fake a 48-hour virus.
Hide in your house.
Avoid all social media.
Anything to avoid moving day. (Insert ominous music.)
It is simply the worst.
It's right up there with painting parties (where people invite you over to assist with painting their house) or potlucks (why do I want to make my own dinner and bring it to your house?).
Here’s the thing: moving is not fun. There is nothing remotely enjoyable about it, except when it is over.
Everything is heavy... ridiculously heavy.
While it may be true in music that “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother,” let me assure you even your brother’s crap is heavy.
If the stuff isn’t heavy, then it's awkward and/or pointy.
I was recently involved in assisting with the move of two dear friends. To be honest, my assistance amounted to unpacking a few boxes, staying out of the way of the professionals, and taking pictures for posterity.
There were two full transports full of belongings and various passenger vehicles filled to the max. No judgment, I could fill that plus more with my precious treasures.
I watched as four burly, strong, young movers were nearly brought to their knees. We were all together for so many hours that, by the end, we were all out on the front porch waving goodbye and hugging. They waved, too, and smiled weakly, but rest assured, they’re never coming back. Ever!
It doesn’t matter how organized the homeowners are. The lady of this house was very organized with everything marked clearly, but still stuff will be misplaced.
The last thing you will find will be the toilet paper. That is a guarantee.
It doesn’t matter how much the couple has already downsized; it was not nearly enough.
I was assigned to pantry patrol. This is the job given to someone who can’t lift much and doesn’t like to stand. I could do most of this job seated and near the snacks.
I was doing fine until four more women arrived in the kitchen.
The conversation went like this:
“I am just going to make a decision and put things away and let the owner do it her way later.”
“No, I think we force her to decide now so she won’t have to redo it.”
“I think we should put the snacks closer to the fridge.”
“I would put the pans by the oven.”
"No, makes more sense above the oven."
Hear me when I say no good can come from more than one woman in a kitchen. I don’t care if that is sexist. We are all control freaks with our own ways.
The only thing we agreed on was that our friend is a hoarder of mugs (68) and water bottles (22).
Meanwhile, the men were saying helpful things like:
“Wow, this is going to be tight.”
“Did anybody measure the room?”
“What’s the difference between white, off-white, beige or buttercup paint?” (Duh, it was taupe.)
All was going OK until we saw the lady of the house staring blankly out her new front window unable to speak in sentences.
We all exclaimed in unison: “Get her some chocolate! Stat!”
It was touch and go there for a while.
Moving is just such an overwhelming experience.
There is so much all at once. There are too many decisions that need instant answers and the owners get pulled in a dozen directions.
Realtors, bankers, movers, phone and computer technicians, and painters.
While the helpers all appreciated the wings and pizza at the end of a long, hot day, may I suggest free back massages and a gift bag of Ben Gay and alcohol?
May you be happy in your new home for the next hundred years! Seriously.
With love and respect, dear friends, if there is another move in your future, I also have moved.
No forwarding address.
