Today is moving day.
It kind of came up on us. We pushed our buyer to stay this last week because we really weren’t ready to leave, so we got one final weekend in the city. That was great, because we had people over during the weekend and got to spend some extra quality time in the apartment.
The funny thing was that they were all looking at us like, “you’re really moving on Tuesday?” They couldn’t understand how we could be moving Tuesday and having parties on Friday with the place looking like it always has.
Here’s the secret — movers who do the packing for you. They literally come in, and do all the worst part of the moving process. Okay, not the “worst” part. The worst part is lifting heavy furniture and climbing my stairs. But the other really crappy part is taking every single dish, glass, platter, and other knick knacks and wrapping them in newspaper, then placing them in boxes, all of that stuff. And they do that.
I’m not sure when this magnificent service started, or who invented it, but to me it’s up there with the wheel, vanilla ice cream, The Housewives of New York City, pad thai, the orgasm, and fire as the great inventions of humankind.
Ask me how much they’re charging for it? I have no idea. Once I heard that they do this, I honestly didn’t care how much it cost. I would have paid anything. I would have named children after them. That’s how much I love this.
It reminds me of my adventures in juicing. The best way to appreciate the joy of juice purchased in a store is to buy yourself a juicer and try to make some orange juice. After 35 minutes of hideous labor, with the promise of another 15 fun minutes of cleaning a sharp screen filled with orange bits, all of which culminates in about a thimble of warm juice, you’re willing to go to Jamba Juice and perform sexual favors for the guy behind the counter to get something to drink.
