Evening folks! I am pleased to report that I have officially moved on up to the east side. I am safely snuggled into my one room in the corner of my parents house right next to my teenage son. What a proud moment. Now I know this is all for the greater good, however I can't help but feel that I have written my own eulogy. Here lies Avin, moved home at thirty, enough said.
Speaking of the move, it was just slightly worse than that time I packed myself into about 5 trashbags and slept on a kiddie mattress on my sister in laws section 8 apartment. Yes folks slightly worse. It was much worse than escape from the ghetto 2001, which included an apartment snafu that left me packed into my mothers garage during the September 11th tragedy. Yes folks this one takes the cake.
Let me start by saying that I am well versed in the art of moving. I have moved about 10 times in the last 15 years. I can pack anything, and fast. With that said I have only used a mover once before. That mover didn't really count though. It was a Army Transportation move that I went and scheduled one day in the little office behind "In Processing" up at Ft. Meade. I say it doesn't count because they came and put all my shit into boxes, catalogued it, and shipped it to Georgia.
Sure they broke one of my favorite Pfaltzgraff plates, lost the remote to the TV (before the invention of universal remotes) and broke the wood in our hand me down sofa, but the move was smooth, and all I had to do was say "put it there". Like I said it doesn't count. There wasn't any bullshit or haggling or threats, nooooo there was just packing, shipping and unpacking. How I miss Uncle Sam and his merry band of transportation specialists.
Somehow, I managed to get roped into getting a mover this time. By roped I mean forced by my mother. My dear sweet deluded mother who's last move was in 83 to the house I now call home. She is not only completely In the dark about things like rental rates, storage bin costs and movers she is completely oblivious to the fact that I have moved more times than I can count without the benefit of a mover. Just me, some men, some beer and a U-Haul.
I know what you're thinking, I must be the type that stands over to the side and says "put it there". Now despite the Army story, I am not that girl. Uncle Sam makes you stand back and do that crap for legal, liability type reasons. Besides, any former military persons or spouses know that if you get hurt on Uncle Sam's watch, you are only gonna get some Motrin and an ace bandage, its just not worth it. I say all that to point out that I haul my own shit.
I do just as much as the fellas I supply with breakfast, lunch, cold water and beer. I cut my nails off and get crunk with it. I know how to get the job done. Apparently, these are facts that my mother just didn't seem to fine impressive or interesting. I tried my best to skirt the mover issue, but she wouldn't let it go, and I have been trying out this non confrontational thing where I don't fight with my blood relatives every week. So I got a damn mover.
Not just any mover. I got a respected local mover who had been in business for umpteen years and assured me that my 3rd floor, two stop, storage bin move would be no problem. So Wednesday, these movers called to confirm my move date, negotiated dollar amount, time of arrival, number of crew members and to remind me that it was a 4 hour minimum charge, plus one hour for transportation. A fucking 5 hour move!! No one said that shit on the phone when I called. What the fuck do you do at that point though? Who else you gonna get to come get your shit two days before move day, the second to last day of the month. Who I ask you?
So I did the math, adjusted my account and attitude and soldiered on. Then Friday came, move day. I waited with my mother and her sisters for 12pm. Which came and went. I call, they say "shortly". 2pm, I call "oh they aren't finished at the first move" they say. Maybe 5pm they say. What the fuck I say! 5 hour move, 6 pm arrival, storage closes at 9pm, um excuse me but that's not gonna work. I aint paying for 5 hours when I can only get 3. I express my displeasure politely to the head asshole. He says "that's out policy". I again explain that 3 hors is not 5 hours. He again ignores me. I proceed to pitch a full on bitch complete with emphasis on "fucking outrageous" and " I aint paying for that shit".
Magically, movers call. They arrive, drunk. Or at least on their way to drunk. Maybe they were just passing through buzzed, but they all smelled like a distillery. They start packing it up at 5pm. Present me with paperwork. For those that don't know, I eat sleep and breathe contracts. I obsessively read contracts all day, checking and re checking, summarizing, and editing. That is my whole life...Contracts. So when I say I read the fine print on that low budget ditto copy contract, I aint blowing smoke.
I checked that shit for loopholes and general bullshit, cause their behavior up until their arrival had been sketchy at best. So I reluctantly signed, and started directing traffic. One hour and a half later, whole place is packed, and we are off to mom's. 10 min stop at mom's and on to Storage. We arrive and the lead drunk wants to settle up. Fine whatever, we are WELL under 5 hours and I took elementary math. I owe somewhere around $800. I will do what I can to explain this accurately, but I was temporarily insane for a while.
The lead drunk Al, informed me that I owed them $1339 and some odd change. First the room spun, then it got really warm, and then I think I blacked out. I do recall using the word "fuck" a lot, and calling my mother and father and asking them to come out and figure that shit out. I recall asking for Al to "itemize that shit" and I remember "the boyfriend" walking me over to a corner. I let them take over at that point because I was feeling real violent at the time.
Apparently this fucker and his boss were trying to work me, till they realized that lawyer-dad wasn't having that shit. There was some babble about stair charge and gas fee and some surcharge BS, oh and the best was the charges for packing materials that they won't move you without, but I couldn't get involved at that point.
Talking about, we told you over the phone. First, no you didn't, and second its not in your Playschool Contract, trust me I checked. I let "the boyfriend" and the old folks handle that shit. My ass was just too fucking angry. I know you are thinking, why not just tell em to fuck off? I would have, but they still had my shit, and basically they knew it. After some seriously annoying Attorney questioning, Al the drunk "realized" (read: gave up) and said "oops we made a mistake. Its an hour and a half unload, not a 4 hour unload, our mistake.
Motherfucker please! You're bullshitting, get over yourself already. We didn't finish till 8:50, thanks to those fucks. So like I said, it was a mess. Dad is going to pursue it, and I am never using a mover again. Drunk fuckers! So here is your plug All My Sons Moving and Storage. Fuck you very much for trying to dick me over. If its not in the contract I don't owe you and your alkie employees shit. Especially when the boyfriend did most of the unload.
Wheww I just realized how long this post is! More tomorrow, night!