That's what I thought all last night as I was putting my things back in the places they occupied one year ago.
That's what I thought this morning when I woke up and realized I was late for work. Again.
That's what I thought when HMC texted me to arrange getting my deposit back to me.
And it is, indeed, good to be home. Flatmate Suzie said the same thing as she, Joe, James and I moved our collective things into the apartment. I realize it's only for 6 weeks or so, but it was my first home in Ireland and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy. Besides, I love that neighbourhood, at the end of 3 Pub Alley, near the chipper run by the Italians who think it's amusing beyond I-don't-know-what that I'm learning Italian. The house is warm and last night was the first night in quite some time that I didn't have to sleep in a fleece and wool socks. Now if I could just remember the alarm code...
Yesterday I woke and started packing. Finished, actually. The first think I pack when moving is the kitchen. Always. For some reason, it helps get me in the mood to pack. Maybe it's the music, maybe it's digging out all my kitchen toys, don't know. But until I have the kitchen done, I'm sitting on the sofa completely overwhelmed. I think the tradition started in Dallas when I had more kitchen gear than any other thing in the house, save books. I realized my obsession during the move where I had all of my other things packed in 5 or 6 boxes but the kitchen took up 8 separate boxes. I declared a moratorium on Sur la Table, Crate + Barrel, and Barnes + Noble. I shop for the kitchen like most women shop for shoes. Give me a whisk and I’m thrilled. Give me flowers and I’m happy. Bring me silk scarf, I wonder if you should be on my Christmas list.
So I packed the kitchen, then the bathroom, and then went out dancing. (Hey, it’s Christmas, it’s time to be merry and celebrate.) Therefore, I woke up on Sunday, and began to pack up my bedroom before James came over with the truck so he and Joe could help me move the dresser. James is a mover by profession, which is a nice person to know when you move as often as I seem to do, and he pulled up in his professional moving van, which was oversized for my needs by a factor of 25 I’d estimate. Still though, 15 minutes to load, 15 minutes to unload, and we’re normally done. Since Flatmate Suzie was also moving back in for the Christmas break, it took 25 minutes to load and unload. We’re light packers and we figured it would be easy on everyone involved to do it in one go. Great plan until we realized that the truck can only take 3 people in the cab. So FS climbed into the back of the van and perched on the boxes. We made a lot of jokes about human trafficking as James padlocked the door, plunging FS into total darkness. In fact, we christened it the In The Dark Airlines, All red-eye All the time, in-flight service non-existent. And then we prayed we didn’t get stopped by the police, because how exactly would we explain that she volunteered to be in the back of the van, that James was doing her a favour, yes he was getting paid for it and no, it wasn’t really as bad as it sounded? I sent her a text half way home, which she did not return. Either she was dead or she couldn’t find her phone. Turns out 'neither' is the correct answer. I should have known… she is part cat. She was curled up on the bedding, napping.
We quickly unloaded the van and the boys left us. I unpacked as much as I could, Suzie put on the music, cracked open a bottle of champagne and we toasted. Roomies Again.
2 comments:
I've now done my fair share of moving as well. To say your love of kichenwares driving the first initial packing efforts is sound. My thought on this is that Kitchen items and implements require attention and thought. So you begin packing efforts with care and precision.. "take a glass, wrap it in paper, put it in the box. take a glass, wrap it in paper, put it in the box. Tape the box, write 'kitchen-fragile' in nice block style lettering". By the end of packing you are grabbing whatever and piling it in.."ok here's a pillow, some socks, a dead plant, a damp towel, four books, another freaking scale (what does that make like 14 scales now?). Seal the box and affectionately write the words "Crap.. My misc. crap... I hate my crap". Ok, granted, you now travel much lighter than back in your DFW roamings, but still first box organized, last box.. whatever fits
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I also share your kitchenocentric focus on moving.....
It sounds like you've got housemoving down to the carefully-oiled-Swiss-watch level, which must make things easier. Especially considering the stressful circumstances that have triggered it.
It's those last few items that get me: when you're torn between leaving stuff because you absolutely damn well don't want to care, and at the same time you're (or at least I'm) terrible at anthropomomorphasizing things - feeling the guilt at throwing away [item] that has been with you since [point in relatively distant past].
....
The Spartans had the right idea. The clothes you sleep in, your shield, and a load of straw.
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