It's official: all of our belongings are moved to the beach save one suitcase that I will be living out of for the next month. I would love to sit here and tell you that the whole process went smoothly, we became besties with the movers, and it was such good times that we decided to make moving an annual event for the foreseeable future. In actuality, it may just rank amongst the most frustrating experiences I ---nay, anyone---has ever had. And I am talking put all of the cell phone companies, cable companies and confusing instruction manuals together and they still don't compare to the white hot rage I felt this past weekend. Satan himself would have spent five minutes with this moving company and been like, "Man, you guys are kinda some shady bastards."
Sky Moving and Storage, which I have since dubbed Sketch Moving and Storage, was originally supposed to come get our stuff on Friday and do a same-day move to St. Simons Island for $1250. What actually transpired was several changes of plans about when our stuff would get there, some of the more questionable business people I have ever met, and a total bill of over $2600. And you had to pay in cash. Let me tell you, paying someone $2600 in cash kinda makes you feel like you're slinging drugs.
As if that wasn't enough, the guys from Sketch said that other moving men would be joining us in St. Simons to help them move things upstairs. This ended up translating into them wanting to drive around and see if we could pick up any cheap laborers around town. Not. Cool. To top it all off, the very first thing they pulled out of the truck, Mark's dresser, was broken. That was followed by a broken suitcase, ripped couch, broken CDs, and my broken hopes and dreams. When they finally left, Mark and I just sat amongst piles of boxes in utter, disheartened shock and exhaustion. What asshats. Dad wants to sue them as a fun side project, and who am I to deny my father what he constantly reminds us are the very few pleasure he gets in life?
We got an impressive amount of stuff unpacked and situated in the following days before I made the drive back to Athens. Now I am staying in my boss's empty house trying to resist the urge to drink by myself at night just for something to do. I had a moment the other night that brought the full extent of my loneliness to the surface when I caught myself talking to a spider the size of my face that I was attempting to kill by spraying it to death with Lysol Kitchen Cleaner.
"Okay, spider," my monologue began as I sized it up, bleachy weapon in hand. "The problem here is that you are larger than I would prefer to just flat-out squish you with a paper towel." This lead to me demonstrating by cupping my hand into a claw to see exactly where my boundaries were.
"So what's going to happen here is that I am going to drown you now with this kitchen cleaner, and it will be much more pleasant for both of us if you just go peacefully. Okay here I go...DIE SPIDER DIE!! Alright, you aren't moving so that's a good STOP IT! DON'T YOU DARE CRAWL AWAY FROM ME WHEN I AM TRYING TO KILL YOU! Take a little more of that...okay....okay. Time to flush you down the toilet."
As I watched the spider disappear into the plumbing of it's final resting place I realized I needed to get out of the house. Conversing with insects can't be healthy. Luckily I have tried to fill up my evenings with social functions as much as possible over the next few weeks. That didn't stop me from having the time to watch two very dramatic movies on ABC Family this morning: The Face on the Milk Carton and Death of a Cheerleader. Such emotional roller coasters.
I don't know how much more blogging will get done since I have no internet where I am staying and as I currently sit being one of those people typing away on my Mac at Panera I'm not sure how much more of this setting I can take. So possibly the next time I write will be from the beach. Or it may be after I succumb to the notion of drinking alone and need the distraction after realizing am chatting it up with some ants.
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