Moving Hell

I would freak out in a happy fit if the boxes in my house were actually this neat and tidy. 

Moving Hell is kind of like the real Hell, only messier and there is more fast food available.

We found out on the second of the month that we needed to vacate the premises by the last day of the month. Despite the questionable legality of this less than 30 days notice I began packing. I have moved lots of times and each time has been horrific. In fact, 90% of those moves have involved me being pregnant or caring for a newborn. “This would surely be easier”, says I...

I said it just like that. (Except I don't actually use the word 'surely' in real life.) I was dedicated to a better and more organized move this time. Yes, I have twice as many kids now and I am actually less organized and less sane than I was the last time I moved. Still, this would go smoothly.

Well, as you guessed, I was wrong. Make that, WRONG in capitol letters.

Apparently there is some kind of housing shortage where I live, unless you grow dope and can pay 1,800 bucks a month for a three bedroom. Also, it was not helpful to my family that renters actually HATE children. Nobody would rent us a two bedroom (not that I actually WANTED a two bedroom but I am willing to do whatever works.)

A lovely rental agent took the time time to sneer at my children, utter the phrase, “Are those all yours?” and then proceed to tell us that, “We won't rent that to you.” I actually had the gall to ask if she was kidding. (Sure, I can admit that living with four children is kind of like living with a pack of untrained wolves who have yet to stop crapping on the carpet. But I thought that information was on the down low!!! Who spilled the beans people!? WHO!?)

Where was I? Oh yeah, rentals.

But- hallelujah! We found a rental that was both in our price range and would be ready by the end of the month. YAY!

I told you everything would be OK, didn't I?

Yeah. I was wrong again.

It wasn't ready and it wasn't ready and it wasn't ready and suddenly the end of the month is creeping up. We find out that we actually have to be out of the house the day before the end of the month, (again- is that even LEGAL?!) and I prepare for nervous breakdown.

Deep breath.

Before you comment about what an elitist whitey I am, don't worry- I am no longer feeling such a high level of self pity. I have moved on.

Everything will be OK. I realize this. Sure, we have no place to live in a few days and sure all our things are in a storage unit. For one day I thought this was the end of the world, until I remembered that I am still blessed with four healthy children, a husband who sticks around, family that is willing to help out and enough education to feel like things will get better as time goes on and we won't be stuck in worry mode until the end of time.

As it turns out, life as a gypsy really just makes me want to vomit and get a permanent address. Needing help from other people has the same result on my psyche. I am not young and fun and open to change and adventure. I am old and stodgy and I like to know what is going to happen next week.

I am also pretty lucky and still hopeful that moving hell will soon end. (Plus, somebody is feeding ME dinner tonight.  YES!)

(Also, this whole experience will probably make me a better person because now I really don't want to be naughty and end up in real hell where it is probably like this – only FOREVER and there is no Jack in the Box with their soul healing bacon/chicken sandwiches. That would suck.  I am hereby commited to being a better person.)

Also I am really proud of myself for not mentioning the weak chinned, shiny haired, Angelina Jolie lipped realtor who has been in and out of "our" house practically every day this month and who actually yelled the "F" word repeatedly at my dog this morning at 9am.  It really shows some self restraint that I held back and didn't make fun of him online.  I am on my way to better things!