Some reasons I hate moving.
The sun, moon, and stars are aligned against me: Give one Maori witch doctor the finger, and every time you move for the rest of your life, it pours freezing rain. Wind, and freezing rain.
That fucking gate: I find a first floor apartment and naturally think that moving in will be a cinch because there are no stairwells or elevators involved. Just those four steps going from the street into the building. Oh, but there is that fucking gate. The wrought-iron thing that swings out onto the sidewalk. It can't swing in? Who planned this? That fucking gate made things infinitely more difficult.
Architectual anomalies: Are the two sets of buzz-in doors entirely necessary? Is the four feet of vestibule an architectural "must-have"? Not only does it mean you have to time the buzz-in for delivery guys correctly, but the alternative is holding down the button for 45 seconds. I don't have that kind of time. Also, when you're moving, and you've gotten past that fucking gate, you now have to turn a key in not one, but two doors before you're even in the damn hallway.
Fucking laws of physics: When, for instance, some douche-bag cab driver decides to slam on the brakes to pick up a fare with no warning, you have to slam on the brakes too. If not, you rear-end the taxi and what are the chances that Muhammad has insurance? Slim to none. So, thanks to inertia, one of the items you shoved into the back of the car flies into the back of your head.
The nut shot: Even if you hire movers to do the heavy lifting for you, you will inevitably get hit in the balls at least once during the course of the move. I did it by myself, and so I know what it feels like to have an entire dresser slam into my ballzac. It was lovely. Couldn't have happened when I was carrying in the soft garbage bags full of clothes, right? Had to be the dresser.
Sweating: Unless you live in Juno, and every item of furniture you own is inflatable (and currently deflated), you are going to sweat. I hate sweating. When I sweat, I have an overwhelming desire to shower as soon as possible. Why is this a big deal, you ask? What fucking bag did I put the towels in? I don't know. Where is the soap? I haven't a clue. I now have to tear everything apart to find the tools I need to simply unstinkify myself.
Just moving in?: No, I'm not just moving in. I'm the Asian couple that was living in this apartment for the last year. I just look different because I had plastic surgery and am now changing out all the furniture in the place to be more harmonious with my new look. I'm glad you stopped me to talk, because I was getting tired of holding this 100 pound item and trying to get the door open at the same time, and could use a break to answer your inane questions. Consider yourself lucky you didn't ask me this near that fucking gate, or you would have found yourself impaled on it.
Does this go in the bedroom?: No, dude. I like having my dresser in the kitchen. Don't you? It just makes more sense that way. Once we've installed it next to the fridge could you help me move the bakers rack into the bedroom? It really is the most sensible place to keep flour and oven mitts.
There must be a million more. I won't bore you with them all.
Hugs and kisses.
The sun, moon, and stars are aligned against me: Give one Maori witch doctor the finger, and every time you move for the rest of your life, it pours freezing rain. Wind, and freezing rain.
That fucking gate: I find a first floor apartment and naturally think that moving in will be a cinch because there are no stairwells or elevators involved. Just those four steps going from the street into the building. Oh, but there is that fucking gate. The wrought-iron thing that swings out onto the sidewalk. It can't swing in? Who planned this? That fucking gate made things infinitely more difficult.
Architectual anomalies: Are the two sets of buzz-in doors entirely necessary? Is the four feet of vestibule an architectural "must-have"? Not only does it mean you have to time the buzz-in for delivery guys correctly, but the alternative is holding down the button for 45 seconds. I don't have that kind of time. Also, when you're moving, and you've gotten past that fucking gate, you now have to turn a key in not one, but two doors before you're even in the damn hallway.
Fucking laws of physics: When, for instance, some douche-bag cab driver decides to slam on the brakes to pick up a fare with no warning, you have to slam on the brakes too. If not, you rear-end the taxi and what are the chances that Muhammad has insurance? Slim to none. So, thanks to inertia, one of the items you shoved into the back of the car flies into the back of your head.
The nut shot: Even if you hire movers to do the heavy lifting for you, you will inevitably get hit in the balls at least once during the course of the move. I did it by myself, and so I know what it feels like to have an entire dresser slam into my ballzac. It was lovely. Couldn't have happened when I was carrying in the soft garbage bags full of clothes, right? Had to be the dresser.
Sweating: Unless you live in Juno, and every item of furniture you own is inflatable (and currently deflated), you are going to sweat. I hate sweating. When I sweat, I have an overwhelming desire to shower as soon as possible. Why is this a big deal, you ask? What fucking bag did I put the towels in? I don't know. Where is the soap? I haven't a clue. I now have to tear everything apart to find the tools I need to simply unstinkify myself.
Just moving in?: No, I'm not just moving in. I'm the Asian couple that was living in this apartment for the last year. I just look different because I had plastic surgery and am now changing out all the furniture in the place to be more harmonious with my new look. I'm glad you stopped me to talk, because I was getting tired of holding this 100 pound item and trying to get the door open at the same time, and could use a break to answer your inane questions. Consider yourself lucky you didn't ask me this near that fucking gate, or you would have found yourself impaled on it.
Does this go in the bedroom?: No, dude. I like having my dresser in the kitchen. Don't you? It just makes more sense that way. Once we've installed it next to the fridge could you help me move the bakers rack into the bedroom? It really is the most sensible place to keep flour and oven mitts.
There must be a million more. I won't bore you with them all.
Hugs and kisses.
VIEW 25 of 53 COMMENTS
I just like the green means go, red means stop procedure. It just completely simplifies life. I think I am just going to give one of those signs to each of my dates from now on.
Next spring/summer I am going to use the green/red deal for a party except it will be southern-style frilled pork chops, ribs, steaks and pulled pork.
I'm going to move to Sunnyside I think so I can be closer to Shea Stadium, have a garden and hang with all my Irish Peeps.
By great for my grilling game.