The Daily Dump

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Thursday, June 1

Moving: Episode Two


Friday night around 10:30 The Girlfriend and I get back into the car to drive to Long Island. We sit there for a minute, me in the driver’s seat her in the passenger seat, both staring silently straight ahead. I could tell we were thinking the same thing because I saw the sad, desperate droop of her face out of the corner of my eye: This was merely “the beginning.” (I’m thinking of using this as the first paragraph of a short story entitled “Melodrama, Inc.”)

“Operation Move Dan” (motto: “It’ll get done, eventually”) was going as planned, meaning it was failing in every respect due to the lack of any semblance of a plan. We are both tired, hungry and in pain. We stop at a pizza place on our way out of the city and I almost drive into a wall in an effort to fit the entire slice into my mouth at once. The Girlfriend remains unfazed by the near death experience, concentrating intently on how, exactly, to keep a constant flow of soda into her mouth while still chewing. Just over an hour later, we arrive safely at my parents house. I leave The Girlfriend in the basement with the couch on which she prefers to sleep and go upstairs to a futon. We say nothing to each other as we part.

The reason we drove out to Long Island in the middle of Operation Move Dan, at quite possibly the most inconvenient time, short of it being the day after I had facial reconstruction surgery, was because my mom thought it would be nice to have a family portrait taken. I guess, in a vacuum of time and space, a family portrait is a nice thing to have done. But in the middle of Operation Move Dan, the family portrait becomes “The Thing That Makes Me Think For A Second That Being An Orphan Might Have Its Conveniences.” So disconnected was this event from my reality, that I neglected to either shave, get a haircut or, even at the very least, choose clothes to wear that fit me, namely the pair of pants that I hadn’t worn since last summer. Somehow, the passing of a year had shrunk the pants to the point where, as The Girlfriend commented upon first seeing them, “I can see your junk.” The Girlfriend as well came unprepared having grabbed the only clothes she could find amidst the mayhem, which turned out to be a nice pair of pants and a black scoop neck shirt. We were affectionately dubbed “The sluts of the family.”

I can imagine, decades from now, showing my children the family portrait, with my massive facial hair and my tight pants and a gleam in my eye that closely resembles a cardboard moving box, and I will wistfully tell them, “This was a tough time in my life.” And they’ll ask about the war and the threat of terrorism and growing up in an age of socio-economic uncertainty and I’ll shake my head and correct them: “No, I was moving that weekend.”

An hour later, we are on our way back to the city to resume the move. I had friends meeting me at my old apartment ready to help me carry whatever large items remained, which included every large item I have ever owned. For the week leading up to the move I had been trying unsuccessfully to sell, among other things, my couch, my chair and my bed, unsuccessful even when lying about how nice they are. I assumed the best idea would be to simply leave them and work around them, and, of course, something would fortunate would happened, like my neighbor would see me carrying a box out my door and stop me in the hallway saying, “You don’t happened to have a queen-sized bed to sell, do you? And maybe a loveseat and a small recliner too?” I don’t think I need to tell you that that did not happen.

The largest item that needed to be moved into the new apartment was my washing machine, which is one of those compact, all-in-one jobbies they use in Europe. (FLASHBACK: One of my proudest moments was when my family and I went to London and the flat – that’s what they call an apartment – we rented had one of these washing machines and I showed everyone how to use it. PLEASE NOTE, this story is much more depressing than I meant it to sound.) This thing must weigh about 200 lbs, but 200lbs of compact smooth metal with no gripable part whatsoever.

We managed to load it onto a hand truck and, one step at a time, all four of us, to maneuver it down the stairs with one person holding it in front, two people barking instructions like, “Aaaand LIFT!” or “Turn, no up. No, back and then up and twist. No, turn and back then twist,” and my friend Scott, wielding a weight lifter’s belt purchased at a yard sale (?) expertly managing not to drop the hand truck down the stairs. Twenty minutes later we reach the bottom of the stairs and, with one swift reminder that now we had to get it up to the new apartment, I broke my friends spirits, drawing them down into my defeated state like an alcoholic walking into an AA meeting saying, “Come on everyone, first round is on me!”

Two hours later, as we are finally finishing up with everything (except all those items I couldn’t sell) we prepare for the final trip up the stairs. I attempt to pick up two heavy boxes, waving off my friends’ protestations saying, “I have rage in me!”

Two flights later, rage has broken down into a mixture of sweat and self-loathing. I literally cannot believe that I have let this move get so out of hand, to the point where my legs are refusing the commands sent by my brain. It all gets hazy here, but the next thing I know a hologram of a Native American is silently coaxing me on up the stairs, smiling in a way that says, “You white men know nothing of struggles.” As I reach the top floor, I drop the boxes, black out and wake up at a table outside Mo’s Caribbean Bar & Grill on Second Ave. with my friends, devouring a sampler platter like the Cookie Monster. Apparently we made it through, and we ate and drank and laughed and told tales of our feats. We ended the night early, eager to get home to bed, and as I walked towards my new apartment, the only reminder of the tragic events of the day was a phone call from The Girlfriend to say, through what may or may not have been whimpers, “THERE’S SO MUCH CRAP IN HERE. BUY MY TWO ENCHILADAS. PLEASE.” And I did buy her two enchiladas. And thanks to good Mexican food (and Darvocet) we slept like we were home.

AND THAT CONCLUDED EPISODE TWO! Stay tuned for Episode Three, wherein I throw everything else I own away, buy a new bathing suit and get a lesson in “mouth amputation” by a psychotic woman in a deli parking lot!

24 Comments:

First to comment.

By Blogger [Disgrundled], at 3:19 PM  

And what an awesome commentary it is. An awesome commentary on how lame you are.

(It's OK, we're friends. He's seen me naked.)

By Blogger the belligerent intellectual, at 3:26 PM  

and here I was thinking I was starting a trend which would cause people to constanlty refresh your page hoping to be the first person to comment.

Then they would up the ante seeing who could comment first but with legitimate insight.

You really blew it.

By Blogger [Disgrundled], at 3:29 PM  

For being so miserable, hot , sweaty, low cut and tight-pantsed you and TG look great in the pics.

And, trust me, your children will know the whole sorrid tale - I'll make sure of it.

By Blogger belligerent mother, at 3:31 PM  

Dan, that post is as moving (no pun intended) as it is pathetic. I wish my own moves were more inspiring, but sadly they are about as pathetic, only with less enciladas, more beer and fatter laborers.

THe one good thing about moving is that you find out who your real friends are. Your pretend friends say they will help and then go into stealth mode (no phones or emails answered) for several days before your move and emerge afterwards with a well-timed "it was THIS weekend?"

At least the GF put up with the move like a trooper. YOu should definitely take her out to a nice dinner and give her a couple minutes of extra foreplay.

By Blogger HomeImprovementNinja, at 3:32 PM  

I am moving from one town to another in 3 weeks. Want to help? come onnnn all the cool kids are doing it..

By Blogger Softball Slut, at 4:07 PM  

good job,BI. there is nothing worse than moving.i got all excited to see belligerent mother's comment, but where is her blog? (daily dump mother?)
i hope the infamous family photo is going to appear at some point.

By Blogger mere, at 4:46 PM  

Family photo, please.

By Blogger Cherry Ride, at 4:49 PM  

I expected to scroll down and see a picture of the family with you in tight pants (that would be HOT!) and TG in a low cut shirt.
What happened?
Get to posting the picture soon.

By Anonymous Anonymous, at 4:57 PM  

*laboured breathing*

Two months til a similar move takes place. In with the BF. Please. Please write an insipiring piece. Something about fairies helping lift heavy boxes up the five flights of stairs, and miscellaneous and superfluous items disappearing without assistance from any human.

By Blogger Kelly, at 5:00 PM  

Your Mom is hilarious! Can't wait for episode 3.

By Blogger ❉ pixie ❉, at 5:08 PM  

Distracting sentence of this post:
"Somehow, the passing of a year had shrunk the pants to the point where, as The Girlfriend commented upon first seeing them, “I can see your junk.”

Followed shortly by:
"(It's OK, we're friends. He's seen me naked.)"

I told you - always something to distract me.

By Blogger Carrie Broadshoulders, at 5:12 PM  

Oh and those all-in-one Euro washing machines are for the birds. We stayed with a friend in his flat in London for 11 days and I think it took 10 of those days of my clothes rolling around in that "dryer" to actually get dry.

I guess it beats coin fed basement machines or even worse, walking to a laundromat. Ugh.

By Blogger Carrie Broadshoulders, at 5:14 PM  

You've really given my move from CA to NYC a run for its money. Now if only you'd called TG Princess Know-It-All and she'd made monkey noises at you after declaring that monkeys could have packed the truck better than you as my brother and I did to each other. Ah, good times. Moving reverted us into 11 year olds apparently.

Oh, also nearly getting killed by a tumbleweed in Arizona was fun too. Moving trucks don't stop very quickly...

By Blogger MonkeyPants, at 5:14 PM  

You see the Native American too? WHY...and he TALKS TO YOU? Damn...you're lucky...I once had a Native American who was sitting on a bench say to me as I was walking by him with Lola "You better watch your dog, I'm Sioux and we eat dogs."

What do you say to THAT? I just smiled and nervously laughed while shortning Lola's leash.

And what's with this "I'm buying the first round?" That's B.S. if I were your friend and had to move your fricking 200 lb washing machine I'd demad multiple rounds...with shots...and chips...lots of chips...

By Blogger Jenni, at 6:01 PM  

I'm with the folks that wanna see the family picture, dammit. C'mon...you can't mention pants that tight and not share the photographic evidence, man. It just ain't neighborly of ya...

By Blogger Faith, at 6:06 PM  

two moves ago, i swore i would never move myself again, precisely for these reasons. my last move i moved myself, and then kicked myself (hard) for being too poor to hire people to do it for me. i'm not planning on moving anytime soon, but i'm already saving up for the movers.

i figure it's cheaper than a gym membership.

By Blogger kat, at 6:50 PM  

This move might very well rival some of the many moves of my childhood. Hopefully, you'll post some of the family portrait pictures so we can see how wonderful you & TG look.

I will be waiting with bated breath for hearing about this so called "mouth amputation".

By Blogger FlippingChipmunk, at 7:05 PM  

BI:
" and my friend Scott, wielding a weight lifter’s belt purchased at a yard sale (?) ..."

Most hilarious part of the post.

By Blogger Leezer, at 7:10 PM  

not to sound bitchy, but what did TG move? did she break a sweat or was she like me, the POINTER, the ENFORCER of the boxes?

Not to one up but try moving when you are 9 months 1 week pregnant and your water breaks the night of moving in and you know NO ONE in the area.

Your lucky

By Blogger Shopaholic KitKatWoman, at 8:21 PM  

Last to comment

By Blogger My Novelty Organ, at 11:47 PM  

Sounds like the move got kind of spiritual - either that or the pain and exhaution caused you to hallucinate. I nearly gave myself a hernia when I foolishly lifted my (freakishly heavy) tv up 5 flights of stairs - I resorted to talking to myself 'come on, you can do it, just breathe, etc'. Got to the top floor, and dropped it. If it hadn't have worked when I turned it on, I had planned to hurl it from the window.

Can't wait for the next episode!

By Blogger Just, at 11:33 AM  

Can we have a shot of the slutty picture, please?

By Blogger David, at 12:08 PM  

I had one of those washing machine/dryers in my house in England. We declared that anyone who used it was "rocking it Stockmore style" (we lived on Stockmore Street), meaning that their clothes were so wrinkled, they looked like the skin on a shrunken head. It was great. The other option was to wash things and then either iron them dry or leave your clothes drapped on every heater in the place.

By Blogger Rebecca, at 5:04 PM  

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