On the move with Crazy: Part 2

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED….
The movers showed up as planned at 8am on Saturday. On time. I took this to be a good omen for the day, but then again, I had been up since 5:30 obsessing over what boxes went to the apartment, what went to storage and what piles of crap went to charity. I wouldn’t have known an omen if it crawled out of a box and introduced itself.

Things went smoothly. After two hours, we were finally MOVING. It took about five minutes to drive the whole mile down the street to my fiancé’s place. Amazingly, he had his storage things stacked by the front door, too. I was impressed. Of course, he is German. After two more hours, things were in place for the final stop: storage. By in place, I mean the hallway was lined with boxes of my stuff, chairs for the table and the table in pieces. It looked like the before pictures on Extreme Makeover.

I ignored my nagging hunger, and we headed off to the storage place. Or what I like to refer to as the crack den. We pulled up in front of Al-American Storage, and I asked to be shown to my storage space which I reserved earlier that week. This is where my planning failed me. I didn’t go look at the space.

Up an elevator, around six corners, three small flights of stairs and finally we stood in front of the unit I could call mine. The worker opened the door, and inside I saw two large steps. LARGE, like where-the-fuck-is-my-stuff-going large. At this point, my very nice Russian mover said, “How much for this? $100? No, too expensive. Plus, your stuff won’t fit.” We walked away.

After hyperventilating while reminding myself I was paying for the two movers by the hour and all our stuff was inside their truck, I called my fiancé. I think the conversation went something like this:

“We’re at the storage place and it is a FUCKING JOKE. I NEED you to find another place. Now. I don’t care that you don’t have internet. MAKE IT HAPPEN! I’ve been up since 5:30. I AM LOSING IT!”

At this point, my very nice Russian mover prudently walked away from me with the premise of giving me some privacy. I think this man is very smart.

Finally, my fiancé called to tell me reserved us a space at a Public Storage unit nearby. I got into my car, half-crazed from hunger, fully crazed from moving, and inhaled a Cliff bar that my fiancé left in the car door two months earlier. Keep in mind, I hate Cliff bars, or I should say hated. That Cliff bar saved my life.

We arrived at Public Storage to find the manager gone. Seriously. I almost fell over laughing it before starting to cry. The sign said he’d be back in thirty minutes. At least someone was eating. And I was still paying my guys. Some god took pity on me, and the manager strolled up with his lunch bag. Finally, things fell into place.

The story ends sweetly with me finally getting a storage unit. Me bribing the Public Storage guy with DVDs to break early from his lunch and let my guys unload my stuff. Me completely over-tipping my awesome movers. Me collapsing on the floor of the new apartment begging for a burrito. Me eating a burrito and a half a pound of chips that my fiancé sweetly brought to me. God, I love this man.

Notes on Moving:
1. It will always take longer than you think.
2. It will take even longer than the longest you think.
3. Never use the cheaper storage company. Always go with a name you know like Public Storage.
4. Hire competent movers who speak up for you when exhaustion and hunger strike you unreasonable and irrational.
5. Marry someone who can handle your neurosis and freak-outs and stores food in your car.