A Whole New Level of Ridiculous...

I have to share this story, simply because it is the most RIDICULOUS experience of my entire life (seriously...I can't think of another moment to top this in my entire 30 years of existence).

So...I did a little moving this weekend. I was helping out some family, and extra muscle is always appreciated when it comes to moving. You guys know...you've all been there at some point, right?

Tony took Saturday off work, and headed out to house A at 7 in the morning (where the moving started). I took my time, and enjoyed my morning of freedom, which was my first since my semester started at CSUN. I met up with the rest of the posse at around 11:30-12 at house B (where the moving ended up) to help unload the 30 foot van. Keep that number fresh in your mind, folks. 30 foot van.

Tony and I and about 1/2 dozen others unloaded the van until maybe 3 that afternoon. The first point of note is that 2/3 of the 30 foot van (30 feet, remember?) was items from the movee's garage. Stuff sealed in boxes. Some (many) items that hadn't EVER BEEN OPENED. The group of us unloaded these boxes into a storage shed at the back of the new property and almost filled the space. With unopened, never opened, boxes.

We head back to house A to fill up again with the next load (that's right. 2 loads in a 30 foot van. For the mathematically inept, that's 60 feet of crap). I arrive, and find Stella (the names have been changed to protect the innocent), who is 9 months pregnant, standing in a sweltering 90 degree house wrapping items to pack. The poor woman looks like she is about to explode, or melt. It was hard to tell. What all of you might have missed in this so far, is that Stella is STILL PACKING for the movee. The rest of house A is not packed up yet to be put in the truck. So, we start hustling...what else can we do? We throw stuff into boxes. We ask the movee what items in each room are ready to be thrown out. Because, come on. Who DOESN'T throw out stuff while they are packing/moving? Its inevitable that we all find weird, useless crap stuffed into a drawer, or closet, or under a piece of furniture that has no useful purpose on the planet. And we throw it out, right? Francesca wants nothing thrown. Nothing. Everything is relevant. Everything is important. Everything is necessary. Down to the weird crap we were finding in the aforementioned spaces.

So we pack it. All of it. We pack it until 7:30 that night, when we realize that if we don't get back up to house B, we are going to be unloading in the dark. We hustle back up there (an hour drive), 2 men short, to unload the second vanload of stuff (60 feet). And we unload. We unload everything, in the dark (and its REALLY dark in the mountains), until 10:30 that night. We unload so much that a couple rooms are stacked floor to ceiling, wall to wall, front to back with stuff. Not just any stuff, mind you. The weird crap that has no useful purpose. By 11 we are back home, having a couple beers, eating cold rotisserre chicken, and trying to ignore the GOD AWFUL SMELL that is emminating from our bodies (to be clear, we failed at ignoring the smell). By midnight(ish), we have all crashed...

Cock crows at 6:30 Sunday morning. We are up and some of us are out the door by 7:30, others by 8:30 (I was a part of the 8:30 crew). With stars of idealism in our hearts and souls, we drive back down to house A. We believe that it will only be a matter of throwing the last of the boxes and the bedroom furniture into the van, pack up the movee and her cats, and ride off into the sunset. We were fools. Upon our arrival, we find the rest of the house STILL NOT PACKED (despite the fact that Francesca insists that she was up all night packing). So we pack. And load. And pack some more. We pack and load until 6:30. In 90 heat. Still 2 men (and pregnant Stella) short. We pack 30+ boxes of shoes. We pack 20+ sweaters still in their shipping packaging. We pack broken dishes. We pack 20+ large garbage bags of clothes.

We also argue this day. Argue and cry, actually. Argue, cry, and fume, to be clear. Argue, cry, fume, and scream, if we are really going to be honest. Argue, cry, fume, scream, and find our souls crushed. If you have never had a crushed soul, you should really look into it. Trust me. At 6:30, we are finally packed. Remember the van? The 30 foot fan? It is stuffed. Literally. The kind of stuffed where you have to throw bags of clothes over the wall of stuff, and hope it lands in such a way where it won't knock something else out, or over, or break an invaluable piece of crap. So what does that bring us to now? That's right. 90 feet. 90 freaking feet of stuff packed from a small 2 bedroom house and crammed into a 1 1/2 bedroom house. What should also be noted is that for this final trip, we have also (over)loaded 2 pick-up trucks with more stuff. Another 16(ish) feet of space packed with every item that Francesca has ever owned.

We unpack the van well into the night. We unpack so much that house B will have to be unpacked before Francesca can even begin to unpack. Seriously. There is not a single square inch of space to unload a single box. We unload load 3 until 11:45 that night. That brings our grand total to: Tony at 36(ish) hours, and myself at 31(ish) hours of moving. 106 feet of crap. 6 broken spirits. 5 new bruises (on just myself). 6 personal hygiene violations (seriously, we were FUNKY), 7 missed showers, and a partridge in a pear tree.

The moral of this story? I am not sure there is one. Run for the hills if ever you are asked to move again? Never make a bet with a Sicilian when death is on the line? Remember to lock the garage when your '61 Ferarri California is stored inside and Ferris is looking for a ride? Hmmm...that's a thinker. In any case, its been a pleasure sharing this experience with all of you. I hope your weekends were much more enjoyable than mine. Oh! And Happy Memorial Weekend!