The time we tried to move across the country, continued

Part 2 — It was just as difficult to get our stuff back

The driver was careful to mention, more than once, that “delivery depends on the weather.” It was conscientious of him — as if he could tell our expectations were too high.

The weather was fine, incidentally, and our drive across the country was perfectly pleasant, except for a long stretch in New Jersey where we were blinded by the headlights of oncoming monster vehicles. The drivers of monster vehicles don’t know it, but they may as well have their brights on. Anyone in a normal-sized car is blinded by headlights that high off the ground. Leaving that aside.

We had already rescheduled our move-in date, as I think I mentioned, because we found out that the movers keep our stuff “in freight” for seven to eleven days. But then of course, since they were two days late loading the truck, we were going to be at least two days late moving in. I add the “at least” now that I’m older and wiser. At the time I believe we thought, “We shall be exactly two days late and no more.” A person should be able to think a thing like that.

I wanted to call the lady at the rental office right away and tell her we’d be two days late, but we decided to wait until we heard “definitively” from the driver, who said he’d call “in the next couple days.” I’m not sure, but he may have added that his phone call also depended on the weather. It is clear to me now, and should have been then, that we should not have waited to hear from him because 1. he couldn’t be relied upon to call at all, and 2. even if he were to call, he wouldn’t say anything definitive, for goodness sake.  I know this because we gave up and called him.  Calling someone when they’ve said they’d call you never gets easier.  I asked my husband to do it because I felt that strange combination of angry/apologetic/needy and it was giving me horrible flashbacks to junior high or something.  Anyway, the driver pretty much conveyed that he didn’t know anything, and if he had he would have called, like he said he would.  I added the insulted/inconvenienced/gratified-by-your-dependence-on-me subtext, but I’m not sure it’s inaccurate.  So we didn’t call the rental lady until we had made this important but ultimately useless phone call, which means we left a message late Sunday night to reschedule our Monday morning appointment.  It is also possible that I wanted to call when I knew she wouldn’t be there, so I could leave a message saying, “Sorry I missed you.”

And we rescheduled it for Tuesday, out of impatience, mostly.  We said, “If we’re nearby, we’ll be ready whenever they call.” So on Tuesday morning, we drove over and signed our lease.  We carried in the fancy TV, which had been lying on the folded-down backseat for a week and a half, and went to get library cards.  After that, impatience really began to take hold, as we realized it was one o’clock in the afternoon and we had done all we could do that day.  The internet wasn’t working and couldn’t be made to work without an internet connection.  As usual.  The apartment didn’t even need to be cleaned.  I believe it was when we were leaving to find another hotel that the phone rang.

The coordinator was calling to let us know the driver would arrive tomorrow, Wednesday, between 8 and 10.  Yay!  Excellent news!  Good thing we’re already in town, we said.

Not ten minutes later, the phone rang again.  The coordinator was calling to let us know the driver would not arrive Wednesday.  And she couldn’t believe we believed her.

But my car was still being delivered on Wednesday.  They did not call to tell us this until Wednesday morning, actually, and I said something to my husband about how the bright side was that if we hadn’t already been in town, we would have had to make a special trip over to meet the car guy, or else delay the delivery.  It was dim, as bright sides go.  He felt it wouldn’t be the worst thing if they had to wait for us for a change.  They called us when we were on our way to the grocery store, and the woman with the heavy accent, the one who had called before to get my VIN, said the car would maybe be there in an hour and a half, but she wasn’t sure.  I suggested she call the guy driving the trailer and ask him, so she did, and called me back.  I did a mad dash through the grocery store so we could get back in time.  Which of course we did, and then we sat there for another hour waiting for the car to show up.  I was starting to feel that we were the only ones ever rushing around.

On Thursday morning, the driver came with our stuff.  He couldn’t get all the way into the apartment complex, because we’re around a corner and down a hill and pretty much the farthest apartment from the road.  The very very last.  So he stopped the big truck halfway in and my husband drove him and the other guy to a rental truck place nearby, where they rented another, smaller truck to put our stuff in.  Then they drove the smaller truck around the corner and down the hill to our apartment.  It was quite a show.  One of those that goes on a little too long.

The first thing the driver wanted to know was how our drive was.  Because his was bad.  What with the weather, you know.  I said that the weather was fine, and we made good time.  He said we must have been on different roads.  On different days, I suggested.  Because our weather was really really good.  I think he got the message because later, when he was carrying up a large box, he said something under his breath that sounded like, “See, I do some work…”  The move-in was just as lackadaisical as the move-out, but it didn’t matter because, I suddenly realized, we didn’t have any place else to be.  This was it.  We were going to stay here.  And that driver is always going to know where we live. Really, for all his laziness, he seemed like he was probably an okay guy.  He asked my husband to join him and the other guy for drinks.  Even if you would never consider accepting the invitation, it’s always nice to be asked.

This is pretty much the end of the story.  They broke some stuff and paid us cash for it so we wouldn’t have to “bother their office with a claim” and so they wouldn’t look bad.  But they actually damaged more stuff than we realized, so we had their furniture repairman come yesterday anyway.  I was waiting to write this until after he came because in my cynicism, I assumed something would go wrong.  When nothing goes wrong at the end of a big event like this, it makes for a pretty lousy ending, but there we are.

Regarding the implications of “Part 1″

They are, of course, that there’s a Part 2.  My sister reminded me of this the other day.
————————–
My sister:  “When are you going to write Part 2?”

Me:  “Yeah, I know. The longer I wait, the less it seems like a story.”

My sister:  “Umm so maybe sooner rather than later…”

Me:  “Yeah, well I was thinking it would be funny to leave everyone hanging. You know, there just is no Part 2.”

My sister:  “I think sometimes you say things would be funny…”

Me: “When really I’m just being lazy?”

My sister: “Exactly.”

Me: “Yeah…”

Me: “Actually, this would make a funny blog post.”

———————————————————————–

And now here we are.

So, it’s coming.  But probably not today.

The time we tried to move across the country

Part 1 — Getting them to take our stuff

We went with professional movers because the company was paying and “it’ll be so much nicer.” And I’m sure, even now, that if we had just rented a truck and done it all ourselves, we’d still be telling each other, “It would have been so much nicer with professional movers.” We would be wrong, only we wouldn’t know it. This is pretty much the only consolation, I think. That, and the fact that when they broke our lamp, they gave us money to buy a new one, which we otherwise would never have considered doing. In fact, if we don’t buy one soon, we’ll forget it’s paid for and start to think a new lamp is unjustified.

This whole experience, which I will relate below, is a great example of why “professional” should never have taken on any meaning other than “I get paid to do this.” Because when you start to think that professional movers, for example, will behave in a “professional” way, what you mean is that you expect them to be punctual, courteous, diligent, and you know, capable. And then you’ll be disappointed when you remember that they never made any such pretensions, and that all the professional movers mean when they say they’re “professional” is that they’ll be paid handsomely. I’m sure they were, and thank goodness it was the company who paid.

So first they asked us if we wanted to rent a truck ourselves and be reimbursed or have the professional movers pack all our stuff and move it for us. And you know all about how we arrived at our decision. One of the advantages, we thought, is that they would take one of our cars as well, so we wouldn’t have to make the long drive separately . So they took down the make, model, and year of my car, and the VIN.

They sent a guy over to our apartment to look around and see how many thousands of pounds of stuff we have. Which is embarrassing, I think. Anyway, I guess all he wrote down was, “They own practically nothing, but the headboard looks a little heavy.” Or else he took copious notes and then destroyed them, because when the movers showed up it was clear they hadn’t any idea how many thousands of pounds of stuff we did have. They didn’t believe him about the headboard. And they wanted to know the make, model, and year of my car, and the VIN.

Then there was this whole back-and-forth about the day the movers would come, the day our stuff would arrive at our new place, and all that. It was tough to come to an agreement because they wouldn’t call us back. They eventually decided, and conceded to reveal to us, that they would pack and move us on Monday, December 28th. Oh, but we wouldn’t have our stuff back for at least a week. So I had to call our new landlady and reschedule our move-in. Fine.

We spent Christmas with my parents and woke everyone up super early the following day to say rushed goodbyes, hurry back home, and finish packing our overnight bags and electronics, the stuff we were taking ourselves. We had more rushed goodbyes the evening of the 27th, and awoke on the morning of the 28th prepared to be on our way the moment they finished packing our comparatively few belongings. We said things like, “We should be on the road by one.”

The movers were supposed to arrive between eight and ten, which they very nearly didn’t. At nine-forty-five they backed a truck into our neighbor’s parking spot and trooped inside. But they weren’t the movers. They were only the packers. We thought maybe the real driver would come after lunch. They couldn’t really say, they said.

About eleven-thirty, with the packers nearly done, the phone rang. It was the driver. He was not going to arrive until Wednesday. He didn’t apologize because it wasn’t his fault, he said. It was the snow. He didn’t happen to mention why he didn’t call the packers and tell them not to pack our stuff because we weren’t going anywhere for two days. He just said it was the snow.

The packers were sympathetic. They offered to leave out what few things remained to be packed, so we would be able to live there, take a shower, sleep, and so forth. We said, “Well, that may not be necessary. We’ll call the coordinator (and complain).”

The coordinator didn’t apologize because it went without saying that it wasn’t her fault. She said, “I can’t see the problem. When did you want to leave?” My husband said, “Right now. Or even an hour ago. As soon as the packers were finished.”

So when the packers finished they drove away in their big, empty truck, and we went out for lunch and charged it to the company. Dinner, too. This wasn’t just out of anger, though. We were going to record all our meals from then on as temporary living expenses, which they do cover. They called during lunch to remind us. So we could have stayed in a hotel in town, but we didn’t. We just went back home and hung up the shower curtain and stared at the wall for two days.

On Wednesday, December 30th, the driver appeared. He was short and stocky and also couldn’t see the problem. He stood around and told a lot of stories about his army days and why you should or shouldn’t stay at certain truck stops in Oklahoma City. He didn’t smoke, but he was good enough to hang out with the other movers while they took a smoke break or two, so they wouldn’t feel bad about it or anything.

He thought, incidentally, that “the wife” was a little quiet and perhaps too tightly wound. He tried to engage her and be entertaining, but he met with resistance.

The movers kept saying things like, “We’ll be out of here in an hour,” but eventually it got so that our stuff was going to still be in the apartment when my sister and brother-in-law arrived with their stuff, as they were moving in that day. Funny. There wasn’t supposed to be any chance of running in to each other, but since we were two days and a few hours late, well, it was bound to happen. So in time the family members we had awakened too early the day after Christmas to say rushed goodbyes to arrived, and we said awkward hellos as they breezed by our movers on the stairs and took up residence. Our movers sat in the parking lot for a long time even after they finished because they didn’t know what to do about my car.

The driver had planned all along to put my car right in the truck and then “deck over it” with a kind of loft. But since no one told him the make, model, and year of my car, and the VIN, he didn’t know that it was the size it was, and of course there wasn’t room. I feel that he tried to make us think it was our fault, but we didn’t go for it.  Cars are big, for goodness sake.

It was earlier that day, around nine-thirty I guess, when he first realized this was a problem, and to his credit, he suggested we call the coordinator about it.  But she didn’t call back.  So at one-thirty, when it was still a problem, he said we should drive it to their office an hour away and leave it there.  We said no.  It was in the opposite direction, the company probably wouldn’t reimburse us for gas, and just, no.  He said, isn’t that where you said your sister is moving from?  Can’t they take it?  I said no.  After a few exchanges like this, it came out that he wasn’t allowed to leave until the car was taken care of, so he suddenly remembered that there was a smaller “agent” there in our town, and we could leave the car there, but it wasn’t ideal.  We thought it was.  So he called his boss and checked about it, and the boss said okay but it wasn’t ideal, and what was the make, model, and year, and the VIN?  And then the coordinator called us back (!) and said okay but this wasn’t how they liked to do things.  We said, umm us neither.

So, at a quarter to two in the afternoon, we had some lunch, returned the last of our library books, and dropped the car off at the smaller agent there in town.  We left them the keys and were on our way at last.

We were maybe halfway to the state line when my husband’s phone rang.  “Can I have you talk to my wife?”  It took a while for me to figure out what the woman on the other end wanted, her accent was so thick.  But I should have been able to guess.  The make, model, and year of my car.  And the VIN.

Why people use Netflix even though the library is free

I’m supposed to be writing The Richard Story because I have the perfect sequel, which by itself wouldn’t be much of a story but as the sequel to The Richard Story, it is hilarious.

But first I must tell you all about the way movies can and cannot be renewed at the library.

DVDs may be checked out for a week, and if you want them longer, you may renew them or earn tenure.   If you do the latter, you needn’t ever return a book or movie again.  So one week, I took two and only had time to finish one, and on the day they were due, I took them both to the library — to return the one and renew the other. Then this happened:

Me: I’d like to return this one…

Him: Um, ok.

Me: …and renew this one.

Him: [blank stare]

Him: Um ok. So you’re returning this one? [click click on the keyboard]

Me: Yes.

Him: Ok. Thank you. [long pause]

Him: I’m sorry, so are you returning this one too?

Me: Nope.  I’m renewing that one.

Him: [blank stare].  Actually, you know, you can renew online.  Do you know how to do that?

Me: [resisting the temptation to tell him that I work here for crying out loud and even if I didn't, I'm pretty sure I could figure it out just like everyone else]  Yeah, I know.  But I had to come in anyway to return that one, so you know, I thought I’d just… [resisting the temptation to say "kill two birds with one stone" and pretty confident that he can see where I'm going with this, except that he can't]

Him: Ok.  Well, I guess I can do that for you.  [click click blank stare click click]

Me:  You need my ID.

Him: Oh.  Thanks. [lots of time passes]

Me: I mean, you can just do it the same way I would at home.  Because you have my card number and my name…

Him: [fiddling around in silence]  Ok.  Well, one more week for this one.  And I guess I’ll just take this one that you’re returning.  And you know, you can always renew online next time.

Me: I had to come in anyway…

Him: Wait, I have to desensitize that one for you.

Me: It’s already desensitized.  From last time?

Him: Umm ok.  [blank stare]

Me: Thanks.

By the time this was over I had missed my bus, but that is actually not the “kicker” here.  When I got home and opened the DVD, I saw that he had changed the due date on the little card inside, and beneath that, where it is printed, “Renew by phone at (###) ###-#### or at central circulation” he had scrawled in heavy black marker, “ONLINE.”  Which is great.  Because I didn’t know that was an option.

It’s too bad I don’t maintain a weblog anymore

because I would write about how yesterday a man in an electric scooter wanted to ride the bus, and everyone sitting in the front section had to clear out while he performed a 7-point turn (apologizing all the while, bless his heart). And how one of those who had to get out of his way was a young woman carrying a baby and its stroller, accompanied by a four-year-old and its sippy cup of milk. They all got out of the way, and the baby screamed, and the milk got all over the seats, and when the man was settled, they all sat down again, and the baby screamed and the milk dripped all over. And then how two blocks later a woman with a shopping cart got on and also needed to sit in the front, and how she got herself all settled into what was really the least inconvenient arrangement, but she wasn’t happy with it, and by the time she was settled somewhere else, the mother decided she’d rather get off anyway. But then of course the stroller and the shopping cart got all tangled together in the wheels, and the woman with the cart just kept shouting, “HOPE YOU’RE NOT GETTING OFF CAUSE OF ME!” And how by the time it was all over we had sat through three green lights and there was milk in everyone’s lap.

Because that would be the perfect story for a weblog, if I maintained one.

Trust but verify.

Today I dumped half a canister of sugar on my head and received confirmation, once again, that I should not be allowed to live alone. It is fortunate I have all these ants to keep me company.

As children, my sisters and I lived in fear of a substance we called “milk water.” Milk water is what you get when you fill with water a glass that used to contain milk. If the milk glass was not thoroughly washed with soap and hot water and left to cool in the cabinet for several hours (until the milk-soap effect had worn off), it was unsuitable for use. Let me also clarify that milk glasses had to be actually made of glass, and that glass had to be absolutely clear with no coloring. On this point the sisters are divided; some contend that another suitable milk glass material is an opaque plastic (a barbarism learned from our father), and one of us has been known to drink milk from a “glass-glass” with a cartoon Pepe Le Pew printed on the side. Allowances can be made for personal preferences like these, but certain milk rules are universal.

1. One must not drink milk outside. (And an important related rule: One must not eat cheese in the swimming pool.)
2. One must not drink milk out of a rinsed-out Sprite bottle.
3. Milk sours as soon as you get up from the dinner table.

We don’t invent these rules — we just discover them.

When I grew up, my sisters brought other people into the family, and I became the ad hoc milk police, protecting the sensiblities of the overly sensitive and demanding better treatment of plastic souvenir glasses. I made one future brother-in-law very uncomfortable when in the middle of his first family dinner, I insisted he get a new glass if he wanted water instead of milk. I also managed to free my younger sister and myself from the burden of dinnertime milk altogether by asking for calcium-fortified orange juice. Our home was cleaner ever after.

But now it seems that my vigilance has been wasted. Yesterday evening I drank milk water. The person I brought into the family left his empty milk glass out on the counter (“I was going to have more later!” he says), and I, not noticing the ring of white around the bottom, filled the glass with murky, bubbly water and took a drink. Although he doesn’t share my feelings about milk water (and although he questions why anyone would drink murky, bubbly water), he did allow me to yell and then whine until I felt better. Fortunately, there happened to be dessert in the oven at the time, which led to my discovery of another milk rule:

4.In the case of accidental milk-water poisoning, a warm brownie is the only effective antidote.

I wonder what Dr. McCoy would have to say about this.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8058771.stm

If I were the type of person who maintained a weblog, here are some things I’d write about:

1. How the marathon went.
2. Rest, recovery, and re-injury.
3. The ants in my apartment.
4. The strangers in my apartment.
5. The search for a new apartment.
6. More adventures on the bus (loud people).
7. Significant improvements made in my cooking abilities (in terms of variety).

Is this what he meant about quiet desperation?

So I was sitting in a chair at the laundromat doing my homework, and there was this woman loading garbage bags full of clothes into the machine beside me. I glanced up, and she looked at me and said, “It’s hard you know, when your food doesn’t taste good.” I agreed that it was. She turned back to her machines and muttered, “I thought Chinese was always good…”