I am currently holed up in my home office-the only room in the house that doesn't have to be moved to the temporary house. My house is full of movers. I keep hearing the lone female mover going 'Oh, oops', which I know cannot be good. The front door is open. There are dust bunnies and dust dinosaurs floating all over the floors. I am pretty sure a bee just flew in the house; I can hear it beating itself angrily on the mirror in the hallway. My dogs are whining at the back door. I'm hungry and thirsty. I have a full fridge, but nothing to put food on or a drink in.
Last night was hell. Why can't these disasters be somewhat easy? I mean, why can't the actual disaster itself (the house flooding) be the only disaster in the entire situation?? That would be asking for too much, wouldn't it?
Our insurance company had us get 3 bids from moving companies. We get them, but they don't approve them until yesterday morning. So, I call the lowest bid, and they are booked for Friday (today). Called the 2nd company: Same situation. The third company said they had openings, and would have the crew call me to set up a time.
They never called.
I called them last night, was put on hold about 4,000 times, and then was told:
-"I don't know why they told you that one truck could move your house."
-"I won't have anyone available until 3pm."
-"It will take more than the 3 workers that we put on the bid, and it will cost more money than was on the bid."
So, you are coming later in the day, you are charging me more money, and you are telling me it is going to take longer to do it? And I should be happy about this, WHY??
The restoration company that brought the fans and dehumidifiers ended up packing us. I came home last night to everything packed up. You might be thinking, Oh what a blessing that is. Lucky you, Danielle. But I'm thinking 'What the hell are any of us going to wear tomorrow?'
Clothes, deodorant, toothbrush, alarm clocks, pull-ups for my girl???? All packed. Make-up remover, lotion, make-up, toilet paper? All packed.
Moving for a 3 year old is a bit traumatic, understandably. After all the fans and dehumidifiers, she was dealing with all of her stuff in boxes last night. Trying to explain to her that we will unpack it all for her this weekend is not really cutting it. She cried for a good 15 minutes last night because they packed all her blankets, dear God. So her father found the box with the blankets, and she was happy as a lark...for 2 seconds. Then she cried because she wanted to sleep with us. Then she cried because we had no blankets (or sheets) on our bed.
Shoot me. Shoot me now.
The phone woke me up early this morning. The moving company is now coming at 10am. Thank you.
So, here we are.
Hubby is at work, and is leaving in a couple of hours to go hunting all weekend. Which leaves me...???? Unpacking on my own. OH, and consoling the 3 year old who is all jacked up because she loves this house and doesn't want to leave her pink room. OH, and trying to find the box that contains my school bag and books, because imagine that: I have two papers due next Wednesday.
No Internet in the temporary house. No way to watch TV. Nada.
My brother came back from Boston almost 2 weeks ago, and now he's leaving for Florida on Monday. Today he is driving down to San Marcos, where he was living before he moved in with me, to visit with friends. He just called me complaining that he was going to have to unpack his boxes to get clothes to take to San Marcos, and then oh, woe is me, he will be back Sunday night, and will have to hurry and pack to fly out to Florida Monday morning. And dear God, where did they pack his shampoo & body wash, and where the hell is he going to shower, and etc.???? And he asked me if they 'just threw' his shoes in a box (he's got this crazy almost-girl-like fetish with his shoes), and I informed him that I was not watching them pack his room, and for the love of Pete, at least they packed your room up for you, free of charge.
Really, sometimes I just hate life. Sometimes, I just want to be a kid again, and let everyone else worry about all the behind-the-scenes shit, so all I have to worry about is what someone else is buying me for dinner, and what sheets they will use when they make my bed.
Days like this, I really wish I could teleport myself to some secluded island about 400,000 miles away, with some good books, a nice hammock, and a large, sexy man to serve me endless drinks and pastries, and lather my body with sunscreen.