Unpacking doesn’t suck nearly as much as packing, I’ll give it that. But it’s no picnic either (though at the rate Z and I are sucking down cans of Old Style while we do it, you might mistake it for such). Our stuff was delivered this morning by a Mr. Forrest “Grump Not Gump But Grump Get It Grump” McCulley who was actually not very grumpy at all but quite friendly and enthusiastic. He spoke in an accent that was wholly indecipherable to this yankee, so I secretly enlisted the Atlanta-raised Z as an interpreter. He made fun of me but I’m pretty sure he couldn’t understand more than every sixth word either.
If anyone else out there has to do a cross-country move at some point, consider using Allied. Their guys at both ends were prompt, efficient, thorough, and very nice, and the woman who coordinated the whole thing for me from Little Rock was completely on top of everything from start to finish. Dealing with the moving company was about the easiest part of this otherwise nerve-wracking process.
And now we have a bed, and dishes, and a TV, and an entirely unholy number of books.
That’s all I have to report for today. I leave you with an ethical question: Does it make me a bad person that when I saw a decidedly uncute girl in Memphis a few days ago sporting an “I Had a Nightmare I Was a Brunette” t-shirt, I really and truly wished I were wearing an “I Had a Nightmare I Was a Homely Pre-Teen with Acne and Braces and Mine Was Worse” t-shirt in response?
I really and truly did. If that’s bad, then I don’t want to be good.
Z just finished dinner and is opening a bottle of “hooray we’re not homeless” champagne. I’m so happy to be moved in.