I’m a wreck. Don’t ever move. Avoid it at all costs. Your body, mind, and spirit might never recover. I just moved. The jury is still out on my recovery.
But I had no choice. I’ve lived and worked in this same building for almost 30 years now. It became clear not too long ago that the floor in my book sales office was slipping — slipping to the point that as I approached my desk I felt like I was running downhill. My landlord took a look and announced that he could fix it in 20 minutes. That “deadline” came and went long ago. Seems that not only was the floor slipping (the sub-floor apparently needs at least six new joists), but that there was a lot of very moist ground under my flooring. An investigation revealed that there was a break in our water main that was losing 1,000 gallons a day, all of which was accumulating under my specific unit.
But the real nail in the coffin was revealed when I moved a couple of bookcases to accommodate my landlord’s look-see under my office floor. Behind all three bookcases along that wall was a substantial amount of the dreaded black mold, a product of moisture wicking up the drywall. I had no choice. I had to move.
Luckily, my next door neighbors just moved, leaving me to move into their old place. Business was a bit slow, as it always seems to be around tax time in April, but that actually helped my ability to download six shelves of books from each bookcase into waiting boxes. Then I had to clean the bookcase and the six shelves, not to mention the top of the case. Then I had to grapple and manhandle the bookcase to get it out the front door so I could tote it on my 67-year-old back to its new location in the new unit so I could fill it up again with those books. Then all I had to do was repeat this 14 times. Piece a cake.
Last count showed 15 bruises on my arms. Saw some interesting shades of blue and purple. At one point my right forearm felt like I must have banged it. I took a look only to find that there was an egg-sized knot in the middle of that forearm that looked like the baby Alien escaping that poor bastard’s guts in that Sigourney Weaver movie. I later measured the bruise. It was the size of my palm. I measured it again a bit later. It was then the size of my right hand. This can’t be good.
It was all exhausting work, complicated my coming down with a nasty virus that badly affecting my sinuses with constant drainage. It also took root in my chest. Now I was dog tired, had no energy, asthma kicked in, and I was unable to sleep properly. Oh, the joy!
And on top of all this, I found a large lizard hiding in the new bathroom. I named him Larry after my last room-mate of 30 years ago. He was a lizard, too, as well as a psycopath, but that’s another blog. Larry ended up slithering under my bed. I decided not to chase him. I had higher priorities.
It took Herculean efforts to get Comcast into the new place to activate the phone, computer, and TV. Seems there was a cable in the front of the house which worked nicely to get the TV and stereo going, but the cable in my office was from another company. That would not do. So, while making the sign of the cross, I called Comcast. I talked to no less than six service representatives. Each rep had to verify my name, my address, even my zip code, before they would allow me to speak a word. Each person heard me out and then transferred me to someone else. I kept thinking this was finally the right one, but each time there was a new ringing of a phone line all of a sudden with a new person asking me how they could help — but not before I revealed all my state secrets like that zip code. I still have no idea how I got the appointment, but luckily the tech guy who showed up was a professional who did me right. I had several hundred e-mails to wade though, but finally the phone worked, the computer worked, and I had no more books or bookcases to move.
I did have three massive piles of stuff. One was on the kitchen counter which made cooking an adventure. One was on the top of the refrigerator. Another was on top of the kitchen table. This is not to mention other boxes of stuff still begging to be put away. But suddenly I could use that table again. I finally saw space on the kitchen counter. The fridge finally looked like the fridge again.
But wouldn’t you know it? In one sense the two units are identical, but in another they are not since they are flip-flopped layouts. Thus, I keep trying to open the fridge on its left side, like my old one, even though I can clearly see that the door handle is now on the right. Same with the bathroom, I’ve lost count how many times I’ve tried to access the medicine cabinet for my toothpaste by trying to open the hinged side the cabinet door. At least I’ve started to laugh at my folly, but now there’s a new issue. Last Friday night was the first night I spent there with all my electronics working and with nothing from the old place to move. What a relief. I was looking forward to sleeping in, hoping to regain my strength, but the contractor who’s tearing up the old floor in my old place started his demolition at 7 a.m. Saturday. It sounded like a galactic-sized Alien was trying to escape through the walls.
Oh, and I can’t find Larry.