move again, move again, jiggity-jig

It’s official—I’m freaking OUT.

Tomorrow I fly back to the DC-area for one week during which I must help my mother move house and find an apartment in time for our own cross-country move in 3 weeks. While I am gone, my moving partner will be researching moving companies and auto-shippers—making sure that they are legitimate businesses who won’t dump all of our stuff somewhere in Idaho or blackmail us before relinquishing our possessions. Ugh.

See? Right there. I had to stop typing for a few moments to calm my blood pressure. The thought of packing a suitcase, much less two households in two weeks, just gives me the vapors. What the hell is wrong with me? I need a brain-clearing slap to the face. Or some gin.

No. I just need to have faith in my ability to plan, and faith in my contingency plans when the first plan craps out. Planning is my strength. I’ve even been lifting weights for the past several weeks in anticipation of this month’s moves. Now that I think of it, maybe I should have practiced lifting our 4-ton couch instead. Damn—hindsight 20/20. Whatever, I’m feeling buff. Strong like locomotive. Big like ox. I can lift multiple boxes at one time, leap over obstacles while balancing antique furniture on my head, pack plates and silverware with lightning speed. I run through the moving game plan in my head: office, bedrooms, kitchen, living room. Oh shit. I frantically dial my mom.

“You’re getting someone to move the baby grand piano, right?”

“Umm. Oh yeah, I should do that.”

“Because that thing’s heavy. And it won’t fit through the door.”

“Yeah, I’ll call them.”

“Is Bear ready for the move?”

“Well, he’s actually going to be out of town this weekend. And your other brother just had knee surgery, so…”

“It’s just us?”

“Yup. Oh, and my Bible group, but they can only come on Saturday.”

God forgive me, but the words “Bible group” don’t exactly inspire any confidence in me. I remember our old Bible group, a rag-tag bunch of pale weaklings. It took them an entire day to move a single person’s studio apartment two miles down the road. And as I recall, she didn’t own any 4-ton couches—not like my mom. A few years ago she bought new living room sets, one for the upstairs and one for the basement. They were really nice couches—full sized and plush—but heavy as all hell. Of course, I can’t expect her to know that since it was Bear and I who moved them in. A week later she decided she wanted them switched around—the red couch downstairs and the gold couch upstairs. I can still hear her cackling at our grumpy faces. But she wasn’t there for the epic struggle. She wasn’t there when Bear and I had to trudge around the entire row of townhouses through a foot of snow with the enormous couch balanced between us, only to discover that the back gate had frozen nearly shut and the only way to get it into the house was to lift it over the 6-foot fence into the back yard. And now Bear is gone (Judas!), cruelly replaced by my midget mother. But the midget isn’t worried. She has more faith than I do. Maybe I should pray for strength and sanity. Maybe then God won’t let the couch crush me. Maybe then He’ll give me an apartment. Who am I kidding? I’ll bet He’s just like my mom. I’ll bet He thinks this shit is hilarious.

Screw it. Tonight I won’t lift any weights—no more good can come of it. Instead, I’m going to practice my swearing.