Moving Is Hard

So... moving sucks. Like, a lot. It's trying and every time I move I say I'm never going to move again but I mean I know I will until I own a house. I don't see myself living in an apartment for the rest of my house. I fairly 1950s suburban in that I one day want a house (well decorated in a country french style) with a small yard.

So moving sucks and this was no different. First, the movers I hired a month in advance were two and a half hours late to Nick's and they didn't bother to call. Meanwhile, Nick had somewhere to be at one so he was stressed. I ended up going over there in case they didn't finish before Nick needed to go, saying hi to the movers who showed up, then meeting them back at my apartment. When I first saw their truck I was concerned not all my shit (we're talking like 30-40 boxes) would fit in their van but it did. Miracle. And they ended up being a lot nicer to me once they realized I wasn't some spoiled bitch. At first they gave me attitude when they found out that 233 Garfield was a walk-up with no elevator, but it's not my fault that message didn't get passed on. They were lucky Nick's and my original apartments were with elevators! Poor Nick looked terrified when the mover started giving me attitude but I just gave it right back. I've dealt with enough movers my life to realize it's in their job description to have a bad attitude no matter how much money I throw their way. ANYWAY, once the movers got to my place they were much nicer. I bought them water and offered to buy them lunch and they appreciated that I correctly packed my books in small boxes.

Things got iffy once we finally (seven hours later) made it to The Pink House. For one thing, it was getting dark. For another, it's an old house that they couldn't just push their way through. And lastly, they started to harass the Park Slope residents. For example, during their breaks in the truck I'd watch them have a cigarette and when a woman jogger (and there were many, this is Park Slope) ran by they'd say something suggestive in their native language. While neither myself (watching from the den window) or the jogger spoke the language, as women we knew that tone and it was uncomfortable. I wanted to ask them to stop but I didn't know how. Plus, they were perfectly mannered with me.

So Nick arrived near the end of the move and was exhausted from his orientation at Nerve and I was exhausted from having to pace around whatever room the movers weren't in and from telling them where to place what and then I went to give the movers what I thought was a big tip ($100) only to have them demand a $300 tip so that was awkward. AND THEN we discovered the kitchen wasn't really complete and instead we had two very angry plumbers working in our kitchen until one am. It was a very, very long day.