WHY I Hate to Move OR Things I Hate About Moving OR I Feel Like Ranting...AGAIN.

1.  Cleaning stuff up.  I haven't pulled out the fridge since I painted the kitchen and surprise!  It's where all the dust goes to die and some other stuff I cannot identify.  There's some cereal under there and shell shaped pasta that got spilled on the floor from 2009 or so.  (The shell shaped pasta was very surprised to see me, too.  It had started a little civilization under there.  Next week, they're reviewing Crimes and Misdemeanors because they luuuv Woody Allen.  The shell pasta seemed pretty nice, except for the Woody Allen thing, so I swept around them.)

2.  Fixing stuff.  (Stick with me on this one, it goes on for quite a long time.)  It turns out when you hang painting and pictures up on walls, it tends to make holes.  Holes in walls of houses you are leaving isn't good.  I have to go around spackling the holes with this stuff that resembles very light and fluffy cake frosting.  (Don't taste it, it does not taste like cake frosting.  As a matter of fact, it tastes like...I didn't taste it.)  Then you gotta wait for it to dry.  Then you sand it, which requires you to find sanding paper or the blocks in the garage which has been taken over by boxes from the attic, which means I CAN'T FIND ANYTHING EVER AGAIN AND IT'S REALLY PISSING ME OFF.

So I go to Home Depot and buy some sanding blocks.  Then I come home and sand the little dried spackle, which does not taste like cake frosting.  Then I realize that I have to spot paint the little white area because the paint is not white.  So I go to the garage and discover that the can of paint that IS that color has dried to the consistency of tar and is not usable.  Thus I return to Home Depot where the guy attempts to sign me up for a program that will ensure that I will never have to bring antique paint can lids in again in order to match up the paint because it will be on a record at Home Depot for the rest of my existence.  (The CIA, FBI, NSA, PTO, and the Girl Scouts will all know about my paint/home improvement preferences.  "So, Mrs. Bevill, I see that in 2006 you painted your kitchen/dining room 'Raging Purple Wurple.'  Hmm.")

Yes, this is the purple in my daughter's room.  I admit it.
It's not just purple.  It's **PURPLE**!!

Then I tell the Home Depot guy that my patience is running out quickly and tohurryupandgivememygoddamncanofmatchingpaintbeforeIyankoffhisears or something that means exactly that, except without swearwords, because my daughter was listening.  (Actually my daughter was picking paint chips for her new room in the new house.  She had thirty-two paint chips in her hand and was discussing the merits of multicolors on each wall of her room.  Apparently, she has sixty-four walls in her new room.  Who knew?)  Finally, I returned home and had a difficult time opening the new can of paint because the man who wanted to sign me up for the special program used a machine to press the lid down and the consequences mean that it was less than agreeable about disengaging.  (The Incredible Frickin' Hulk couldn't have opened that can of paint.)  Back to the garage to get a screwdriver.  (I needed a screwdriver because I broke a butter knife trying to pry the lid up.)

HOWEVER, the tool chest is blocked by the lawnmower, the 1954 Chevy Rust-O-Shit/combination-storage-device Truck, boxes of crap that have been moldering in the attic since the last time we moved, and piles of "outdoor" toys for my daughter.  Let's just say that if my back hadn't been hurting already the lawnmower would have been thrown a block away.  In fact, once I had negotiated the maze-o-doom, I did not go back to the garage to find one of those paint-stirring sticks because I said several four-lettered words instead.  I used one of HIM's Craftsmen screwdrivers as a stirrer, as well as a can-opener.  I wiped it off because I didn't want HIM to know.  (Toilet paper doesn't wipe paint off very well and I don't recommend that you flush toilet paper inundated with wall paint in your potty.  DON'T DO IT!) Anyway, I finally finished that part and painted over the holes in the walls.  (Told ya number 2 was long.)

3.  Finding boxes without buying them.  I think stores have gotten suspicious of people who ask for boxes.  They ask questions of you.  "Why do you want the boxes?"  "What will you do with the boxes?"  "Suppose I give you a box and some poor homeless person comes in and needs a box?"  "Will you recycle the box?"  "Will you sign an affidavit to that effect?"

4.  Having lots of assistance.  This area of moving is always a blast.  Now that HIM has absconded to Alabama, leaving me in charge of THE FREAKING MOVE, I have our eight year old daughter, Cressy, and I have her moron cat, Megaroy as my primary assistants.  Let's just say that their ideas of assistance differ wildly from my idea of assistance.  Cressy likes to make forts out of boxes.  That doesn't sound so bad does it?  Except she cuts holes in the boxes for doors and windows and then, well, you can't pack things into that box again.  EVER.  (It's bad when the stuff falls out of the hole she's made.)  You can try telling her that the box is not a fort, but who wants her to flash those big blue eyes at you?  (It's kind like when you spank a Cocker Spaniel puppy, except I never did that.)

"What box?  I don't see a box.  I'm too stupid to see a box."

As for the moron cat, Megaroy, or as I call him when no one else is home, Dumbass, he's in the box.  I take him out of the box.  He gets back in the box.  I lock him in the bedroom.  He makes enough noise to alert the neighbors.  I let him out of the bedroom.  He gets back in the box.  I stop packing and make myself an alcoholic beverage.

"Hey, this box looks exactly like the litter box."

In conclusion, I got tired of listing stuff that I hate about moving.

Next blog, same Bat time, same Bat channel.