balding angrily

Moving’s a bitch.  That’s not newsorthy, but it bears repeating.

We helped move J’s sister a couple of years ago; they have two kids and tons of shtuff.  They hired two trucks and about 15 movers because of the amount of their shtuff. When you get that many movers on the same job someone is going to end up standing around picking their nose.  When a person pays a load of money per hour for another person to pick their nose, the first person tends to want to cause harm to the second person’s genitals.  To make up for too many people picking their noses, J & I worked extra fast and got extra angry.  About 12 hours into this 16-hour move, one of the nose pickers caught my attention. He had a bald-head…not the kind of Vin Diesel/Bruce Willis hottie-hot bald head, but more like the Three Stooges’ Curly bald head where it looks like they have a package of hot dogs where the back of their neck should be…and as he smiled at me in a way that showed me that his mind works on 2 of its 4 cylinders, he said to me, “Dude, why are you rushing around?”  I wanted to tell him, “I’m making up for you, you encephalitic fucktard.”  (Oh AngryWhiteGirl…we hardly knew ye.)

The off-duty firemen that moved us were nothing like my sister-in-law’s movers.  They were so efficient and fast-paced that most of the time I felt like I was getting in the way.  J also had a lot to do with the efficiency of the move.  I have to be reminded that there are reasons why we’re a match, and one of them is that I tend to be a scatterbrained slacker and he’s an in-control organizer.

Unpacking was/is the opposite of the move.  This beautiful downtown view we now have from the seventh story of a nine story historic building comes at the price of inconvenient trash service.  In order to take down the piles and piles and piles of crushed boxes, packing paper, pizza boxes, doilies given to us by grandmothers that we intended on throwing out before packing, stinky cat litter, holey, greasy towels, and fake flowers we have to go down to the first floor, borrow a dolly or cart from the concierge and bring the trash to the compactor.  It sounds less complicated than it is.  After almost getting into a fight with J because both our nerves were shot, I tried to stack this pile on a flat dolly.  This flat dolly had no sides.  The boxes didn’t stack nicely, and they were slippery.  When I pushed on these boxes they tended not to move as a mass.  As I was getting off the elevator, the pile of boxes spit itself out from on top of the dolly like an overstuffed hamburger spits out its innards when you take a bite of it, getting French dressing on your white straight-from-the-cleaners pressed shirt with which you hoped to impress prospective clients in an after-lunch interview.  This metaphor came to me courtesy of the hand-on-his-walkie-talkie security guard that watched it happen while waiting to get on the elevator and did not help me gather up the boxes laid out on the lobby floor like a deck of cards after a game of 52 Pick-Up.

This scene was punctuated by many loud expletives and fist-shakings at the Creator by yours truly.  And thus the title of this post.