waffle maker, fondue pot:
Things I wish to bring in the car (in addition to clothes and shoes) on a 1,750-mile move this weekend.
This is my fourth interstate relocation and it’s the first where I’m putting things in storage and bringing more than like, a carry-on bag’s worth of items along for the drive.
Stuff accumulates. That’s what I get for staying in one home for two whole years. In defense of said stuff, it is sturdy, reliable furniture that I hunted down and fell in love with piece-by-piece and and would like to use again. In complaint of said stuff, dishes and empty hangers are pretty annoying to deal with.
Peter kept saying he could pack my whole place up and into a moving van in just a few hours, and I don’t doubt it. He’s fast and diligent, and spent a few years packing and handling fine art. But I’ve spared him that; everything’s pretty much done on the packing side of things. We’ll just help each other move the stuff out of the apartment. Dragging him in to be weighed down by the event of sorting through, emptying and cleaning my place out isn’t fun.
Moving isn’t fun.
Going is fun.
I am excited to go. Anywhere, always. We’re stopping to stay in Nashville with a dear old friend of mine from performing arts school days. It’s nearly dead center on driving directions from Austin to Brooklyn, so that couldn’t have worked out any more nicely.
Today is my last day of living solo for… ever? I never get to bask in these sorts of things. I mean, it’s not weird superstition; this day isn’t any more important than like, the years’ worth of days in various cities where I had the privilege to afford to live alone, but it’d be nice to slow down time for the day.
Got an email from my landlord’s wife saying she made an appointment with the new tenant to meet inside my place to sign the lease tomorrow afternoon, which is weird and inconvenient and I told her that. Normally that event takes place in the interim between move-out and the landlords prepping the place for move-in.
Speak of the devil… just now my landlord showed up unannounced to check the thermostat and door and windows. He just kicked my air off and has the front door wide open, on a 103 degree day. I need a nap. He’ll be gone soon.
“You’ve still got a lot of work to do,” he says on his way out, eyeing the packed and labeled boxes on my couch and bookshelves. If by “a lot of work to do” you mean putting everything into a moving vehicle and moving it out, then yeah… yes, you are absolutely correct.
What a weird thing for him to have said.
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