We had our Pre-Move Inspection on Friday. This is when the moving company sends a representative to go through your house and take a look at what you will be moving, so they can guesstimate the weight of your belongings, how much time it will take them to pack up your stuff, how big a truck they might need, how many packers, how many movers, gives them a chance to rummage through your underwear drawer and make fun of your granny panties, and see if you have any unusual or special items they need to worry about. A hot tub, baby grand piano, or stuffed polar bear, that sort of thing.
We? Have nothing. The Pre-Move Inspection Person has always shown up to our house and laughed in our faces, because they usually allot three days to pack up our house, and it never takes more than one. I realize Blaine and I aren’t pack-rats, but geez, are we that pathetic that we own so little?
When Blaine called to tell me the Mover Guy was coming, my mind went to a stereo-typical blue-collar worker, wearing jeans, a chambray shirt, and work boots. Perhaps even a cigarette behind his ear, and a cheerful face with wrinkles by his eyes from smiling in the sun. Sort of like a construction worker, only without the hard hat. Until you get into Brayden’s room, at which point hard hat is optional. Perhaps even recommended.
So imagine my surprise when Blaine walked in the door yesterday morning, followed by a gentleman that can only be described as David Niven, on a sophisticated day. Much older than I expected, wearing white shoes, white slacks, a light colored sports shirt, and a blazer, which for goodness sake had a silk hanky in the pocket. Gray hair, and a debonair little gray mustache which was clipped neatly so as not to extend past his lip. I swear the only thing missing was the British accent and an ascot around his neck. The guy looked as though he should be teaching a wine tasting class on a Seniors cruise, or lecturing on hot house orchids at the local garden Expo, not walking through my house with a clipboard, wondering what kind of slobs we are that we don’t even own a dining room table (sold in the garage sale, along with the hutch, sofa, and glider … no WONDER they can always pack us in one day!)
Normally when the movers come to pack up our house, I have donuts and juice waiting in the morning, and we buy sub sandwiches or burgers for them at lunch. If *this* guy shows back up to do any actual packing, I’ll need to offer tea and scones, or whatever it is elegant people eat for breakfast, and for lunch, watercress sandwiches on my best china, which will most likely be already packed by noon. I have never felt like such a big fat slob, next to a gentleman so refined and classy.
But the best news of all is that thanks to (due to?) the Thanksgiving holiday happening right in the middle of our move, that will delay the moving truck enough that we can plan on a house-to-house move, which all military people know is a fabulous plus. Because when you have as little as we do, I guess it’s easy to lose the entire she-bang in a warehouse somewhere.
Then, Blaine and I made arrangements (shhhh! Don’t tell them!) to get the kids their Hepatitis A vaccinations next week. Apparently Oklahoma public schools require it, and Georgia schools don’t, so they’ve never had it. **That’s** going to be a fun surprise for all three kids on Monday, isn’t it?
Then, the lovely couple who are going to be renting our house here in Georgia came by yesterday to drop off their first months’ rent, measure the space to make sure their fridge will fit, measure for curtains, etc.
Then Blaine spent all day today cleaning out the garage, and I just don't understand the laws of physics that show you can place a small-to-medium-sized mountain of crap out by the curb (to include cracked rubbermaid bins, bent hula hoops, broken soccer chairs, a fertilizer thing you push across the yard missing a wheel, a card table with a ripped top, a bag of beat-up beach toys, and various and sundry other crap) and yet your garage doesn't seem ANY emptier?????
Holy crap. We’re really moving, aren’t we?