The Phone Girl (thephonegirl) wrote,
The Phone Girl
thephonegirl

Boxes Boxes Boxes.

Moving is a strain on, as Oprah would say, mind, body, and spirit. The body bit is obvious, especially if walk-ups are involved. Dear lord, if I ever choose to move into a walk-up again, feel free to smite me. My ass hasn't been this sore since me and size 15 feet boyfriend tried anal. However, the bright side includes me not needing to see the inside of a gym this week.

The mind bit is equally tough, at times. There comes a point at the old place where you start to go, "I need an XXXXXX. I'll just go get the. . . oh shit. The XXXXXX is in a fucking box. One of these boxes. Oh. Great. I'll just use my fingernails." Then, at the new place you've got the even more daunting task of moving, unpacking enough boxes to find what you want while clearing enough space to put the furniture. Daunting because the stuff needs to go on various furniture. Furnituii. Is furniture one of those "moose" words? Where oh where is the can opener/phone/alarm clock because, you know, it would have made a tiny bit of sense to put those on the TOP of some box. Marked box. Damnit.

Spiritually, it's just tiring as well. The high of actually getting the big ass beasts of furniture up the stairs and into the new abode wears off and you're left with fourthousandbazillion boxes and no discernible plan for placement.

All of which is code for, "I won't be doing phone until at least this evening by which point the phone guy damn well better have arrived." I'm looking forward to my first dirty call in a new house. Be good, and those of you who aren't moving at the moment, be grateful.
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