New Digs (Part I): I Fire My Guns Repeatedly, Run out of Biological Ammo

Hey—it's August! And in Gainesville, that means everyone in the entire town is moving somewhere else. Couches and wall units and wicker chairs are left destitute by the dumpsters such that, with a little initiative, the most enterprising of scavengers could completely refurnish her house. While I'm personally staying put, I wasn't immune to a request for help; Monday, I helped Max move into his new house. Or, more specifically, I helped him move tons of furniture into his new kitchen so the carpet people could replace the carpet in said house.

First off, let me just say that I'm cool with moving. Most people rate their feelings towards moving on a scale from "strongly dislike" to "hate with the white-hot passion of a thousand suns." What can I say? I like the planning, the moderate exercise, and especially the unpacking/decorating. For Max's move, the plan was to pick up the U-Haul van, go get some furniture from a person who I mistakenly believed to be "Ray, the prostitute," and drop me back off at the U-Haul place to pick up and move my car. We finished the first two tasks without incident. Then, as we neared the U-Haul place, Max indicated that he would have a trouble navigating the van across traffic and that he would "drop me off" across the street. No problem. But, as we got closer, it became apparent that by "drop me off," he meant "stop the van while in traffic and let me out." Problem.

Now, I'm not sure how other people view this, but it quickly became clear that he and I were viewing each other across a gulf of "WTF?" It took a little persuading on my part to verify that, indeed, I would not be exiting the vehicle as it was being operated within the flow of traffic. Call me crazy. Yes, I have a whole theory of traffic etiquette though, in this situation, I later clarified my position thus: "I'm not afraid to say that my ass is much too precious to be dropped off in the middle of the street."

Having quickly put this incident behind us, we then moved one car-load and three van-loads of personal stuff and furniture. This was a little tricky because there were only two of us, and we were moving furniture out of his two-story apartment (argh!). Even so, I think we did a pretty good job. The only piece of furniture that got the best of me was a heavy entertainment center. It was so heavy, it made my ovaries cry. Fortunately, though, I told Max that his expectations for what we could move basically met my physical limit. Guns: empty. After we'd finished, I went home, showered, and slept. I dreamt that I was Saint Violet, patron saint of cheap stuff worth keeping. And, no, I won't help you move.