I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound?
As I discussed in my previous post, I have moved 1.5 dozen times in the past 4.75 years. Doing the math, that's 85.5 moves per year. No...wait...that can't possibly be right. About 3.75 moves per year. Yeah, that's more like it. That's roughly 4.15 moves/year Canadian.
You don't bug out that many times without learning a thing or two. Thing the first: the best place to get boxes in Tucson is the WalMart on Speedway and Wilmot(?) late at night while they're stocking. They're all over the place. Just be prepared to run with your arms full. Thing the second: if I guy asks if you've got any crack, never respond with "No I don't, friend. But would you mind watching my stuff for a bit wile I make a run for packing tape?"
But most importantly, I've discovered the most horrifying sound in human existence. A noise that will send shivers through the bones of any person, no matter how tough they are. Worse than Celine Dion singing, Allan laughing and D-Rock sucking cream cheese off his fingers combined. A tumult so unnerving it might possibly melt your brain. That din? The sound which emanates from the back of a U-Haul during a move. It happens every time. No matter how well you pack or how cautiously you drive, that sound will reverborate from the walls of your truck.
Usually it happens as soon as you hit the gas. The nervous foot of a driver in a foreign vehicle. You'll give it just a little too much gas, or maybe not quite enough. Whatever the case, the truck with shudder into motion or vibrate into a near-stall. Then the sound comes.
The sound of everything you own shaking around. Falling over. Breaking. Exploding. Lamps, computer parts, books, dishes, Victorian feinting couches, delicate electronics, Ming vases. All come crashing down. Bed frames falling onto carefully packed boxes. Sofas hopping onto keyboards. Carefully stacked drawes reinforced by mattresses and desks come tumbling down, turning your personal property into a macabre game of Jenga.
And if you want to put yourself through real Hell, try driving over a speed bump. Double the fun. First you get the sound of your van hitting the bump slightly too fast. This collision lifts the body of the truck at just the right speed to send your belongings sailing into the air. Then you get a moment of silence. The eye of the storm. Just enough time for you to think, "maybe they just got jostled. maybe..." Harumph! The second sound. A hideous echo. Insult to injury. The signal that years of history have been suspended mid-air, then unceremoniously dropped onto the unforgiving steel floor of your transport.
Your mind races with the possibilities. What happened? What do I own that would make that noise? Was that glass? What did I forget to tie down? Did I just hear a pig squealing? How much damage was done? What did I do to deserve this?
Your truck turns into Zeus' personal game of Yahtzee. Your life converted to a self-contained demolition derby. And behind that cold metal wall, you can't do anything about it.
Of course it's never as bad as it sounds. You look in the back and things have just settled into more stable locations. No harm, no foul. But the potential was there. And you had no way of knowing. As a result, your heart fills with fear and you start to panic. Terrifying.
Or maybe I'm just an overreacting bad driver. Who knows.
Living (in sin) with Legal Counsel
Technically I was living with her before, but let's not split hairs. What does that phrase even mean? Is it like the old Looney Tunes episodes where they'd sharpen an axe and drop a single hair on it to prove how sharp it was? Or is it a hairstylist phrase gone mainstream? I'm getting off subject. Living with LC...
It's great. She's great. We're mostly moved in and it feels great to have a bedroom which doesn't contain a desk. I love the layout and I love the company. No offense, Scoobies, you guys were great. That house was actually a lot of fun. But sometimes you just feel like lounging on the couch without worrying if you're bugging other people. Not that they ever said anything, but my mind just starts worrying about other people's feelings. Sickeneing, eh? I'm getting off track again...
We haven't had much time to chill at our place. Unpacking, bat mitzvah trips to Colorado, Cruises for LC, her work in Phoenix, my work here. It's all a big mess. But the little time we have spent here has been perfect. I'm just glad we're together in our own place.
Wait...our own place? Am I becoming a grown up? No, that can't be right. Poop jokes? Still funny. Cartoons? Still cool. Total disregard for personal responsibility? Still present. Okay, I think I'm safe. Still a child. It's going to suck when my maturity level reaches teenager. That'll be awkward.
This post brought to you by Milton Bradley, a division of Hasbro:
Any day now I'll be getting sponsors...
You don't bug out that many times without learning a thing or two. Thing the first: the best place to get boxes in Tucson is the WalMart on Speedway and Wilmot(?) late at night while they're stocking. They're all over the place. Just be prepared to run with your arms full. Thing the second: if I guy asks if you've got any crack, never respond with "No I don't, friend. But would you mind watching my stuff for a bit wile I make a run for packing tape?"
But most importantly, I've discovered the most horrifying sound in human existence. A noise that will send shivers through the bones of any person, no matter how tough they are. Worse than Celine Dion singing, Allan laughing and D-Rock sucking cream cheese off his fingers combined. A tumult so unnerving it might possibly melt your brain. That din? The sound which emanates from the back of a U-Haul during a move. It happens every time. No matter how well you pack or how cautiously you drive, that sound will reverborate from the walls of your truck.
Usually it happens as soon as you hit the gas. The nervous foot of a driver in a foreign vehicle. You'll give it just a little too much gas, or maybe not quite enough. Whatever the case, the truck with shudder into motion or vibrate into a near-stall. Then the sound comes.
The sound of everything you own shaking around. Falling over. Breaking. Exploding. Lamps, computer parts, books, dishes, Victorian feinting couches, delicate electronics, Ming vases. All come crashing down. Bed frames falling onto carefully packed boxes. Sofas hopping onto keyboards. Carefully stacked drawes reinforced by mattresses and desks come tumbling down, turning your personal property into a macabre game of Jenga.
And if you want to put yourself through real Hell, try driving over a speed bump. Double the fun. First you get the sound of your van hitting the bump slightly too fast. This collision lifts the body of the truck at just the right speed to send your belongings sailing into the air. Then you get a moment of silence. The eye of the storm. Just enough time for you to think, "maybe they just got jostled. maybe..." Harumph! The second sound. A hideous echo. Insult to injury. The signal that years of history have been suspended mid-air, then unceremoniously dropped onto the unforgiving steel floor of your transport.
Your mind races with the possibilities. What happened? What do I own that would make that noise? Was that glass? What did I forget to tie down? Did I just hear a pig squealing? How much damage was done? What did I do to deserve this?
Your truck turns into Zeus' personal game of Yahtzee. Your life converted to a self-contained demolition derby. And behind that cold metal wall, you can't do anything about it.
Of course it's never as bad as it sounds. You look in the back and things have just settled into more stable locations. No harm, no foul. But the potential was there. And you had no way of knowing. As a result, your heart fills with fear and you start to panic. Terrifying.
Or maybe I'm just an overreacting bad driver. Who knows.
Living (in sin) with Legal Counsel
Technically I was living with her before, but let's not split hairs. What does that phrase even mean? Is it like the old Looney Tunes episodes where they'd sharpen an axe and drop a single hair on it to prove how sharp it was? Or is it a hairstylist phrase gone mainstream? I'm getting off subject. Living with LC...
It's great. She's great. We're mostly moved in and it feels great to have a bedroom which doesn't contain a desk. I love the layout and I love the company. No offense, Scoobies, you guys were great. That house was actually a lot of fun. But sometimes you just feel like lounging on the couch without worrying if you're bugging other people. Not that they ever said anything, but my mind just starts worrying about other people's feelings. Sickeneing, eh? I'm getting off track again...
We haven't had much time to chill at our place. Unpacking, bat mitzvah trips to Colorado, Cruises for LC, her work in Phoenix, my work here. It's all a big mess. But the little time we have spent here has been perfect. I'm just glad we're together in our own place.
Wait...our own place? Am I becoming a grown up? No, that can't be right. Poop jokes? Still funny. Cartoons? Still cool. Total disregard for personal responsibility? Still present. Okay, I think I'm safe. Still a child. It's going to suck when my maturity level reaches teenager. That'll be awkward.
This post brought to you by Milton Bradley, a division of Hasbro:
Milton Bradley, makers of Jenga and Yahtzee. Did you know we also made Marble Madness for the NES? Remember that game? So do we. Milton Bradley. We'll bring out the kid in you.
Any day now I'll be getting sponsors...
posted by Montgomery at 9:59 AM
3 Comments:
You know how I know you're grown up? We own art. Real art. The kind that hangs in a big piece of wood. Haha, wood. Yep, real mature.
i like the ming vase reference. very cool.
You should've had the post sponsored by Milton Bradley of the Oakland Athletics. And the next one by Coco Crisp of the Boston Red Sox. Talk about your product tie-ins.
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