Heave how, moving is decidedly not fun
I can't think of many worse tasks than moving.
Besides the physical challenge of hoisting thousands of pounds of accumulated stuff, there is the emotional process of actually inventorying all of one's belongings. Moving can be like watching your life in fast forward. You're in a hurry so when you get deep into the back of the closet you have to make a lot of decisions you've been delaying for a long time.
• Do you keep that faded T-shirt that has sentimental value?
• What about that stuffed animal won at a county fair that lead to your first kiss?
• I love that dress but will I ever fit into it again? Maybe it's time to give up and send it to a charity?
• Does anyone actually make fondu anymore? Should I have a fondu party when I move into my new house?
• Do I have time to actually go through the sock drawer and figure out which socks have matches? Should I just toss out the whole drawer and go to Costco and buy a new jumbo pack of socks?
• Why don't I have more friends willing to help me move?
We helped some friends move this weekend. They're a family of four and I must say for a family of four they came within the mid-range of accumulation of stuff. There's a whole method to the madness that is moving.
There needs to be a leader — someone who is on the truck and somewhat of the "director."
He or she has a vision of how the placement of items will make it onto the truck, preferably a rental truck with a ramp and dolly. Big, burly men, or women, will deliver the largest items.
Bookshelves, armoires, appliances, taxidermied elk, a 14-foot sculpture project from someone's aunt in 1964, a 200-pound chest filled with "collectibles," an anchor for a shrimping boat.
Then come the miscellaneous items that can be shoved into the nooks and crannies: Bags of clothing, pillows, small boxes, backup linen, the contents of that sock drawer (for padding).
Someone invariably becomes the "puzzle meister," the person who wedges all those belongings into the truck so, theoretically, they don't get broken or bruised. That person stands at the back of the truck with a quizzical look on his face, wondering where the salad shooter should be worked into the ensemble.
In a well-prepared move, the person who packs will invest in a Sharpie pen and carefully pinpoint in which room the box should be deposited upon delivery.
That way when you hand the box off the edge of the truck to a nine-year-old kid you can tell him "that goes in the kitchen."
Last, there should be a law that your friends only get to move once a year. If they expect you to be sore for three days more than once a year, they just need to hire people to help them.
Comments
One nice thing about moving (when you're moving your own stuff), you can "lose" stuff that you never really wanted in the first place.
"No Aunt Martha, I don't know where that hat you gave me went to. It's probably in one of those boxes somewhere. There's one that looks just like it at the Salvation Army town? What a coincidence!"
REPLY: GENIUS. I never thought about that, but you're right. Just hope Aunt Martha isn't reading this. :)
HH
Posted by: Kristina L. | February 15, 2007 09:31 PM
One word- DUMPSTER
Posted by: Anthony | February 20, 2007 06:51 PM