I’ve started full bore on the pre-moving task list. After
four different moving company “consultants” surveyed my household goods, I’m
rounding on making a choice, and a booking. Once that’s in place, the several,
large events that are dependent on the pack and load dates will fall into
place. Still work, but manageable.
Meanwhile, I’m in that frenzy of uncovering (opening
closets and the garage I haven’t been in for several months; or years),
sorting, culling and divesting. I’m going to end up paying someone to collect a
lot of stuff and dispose of it in various ways (consign, donate, dump), because
I can’t move an Ikea dresser or queen-sized bed from the third floor to the
ground. Shoot—I can’t even move that dresser three inches.
Also, I’ve started the pre-move-out cleaning. This place
gets right much dust and dirt because it’s near the intersection of two streets
known for heavy traffic. And, as you may recall, we’ve been in a state of
drought for the four years I’ve been here. I can spend an hour vacuuming every floor
in the flat, and by the time I put away the machine, there’s already a new
layer of dust settling. For this round I’m bring out the heavy guns—wiping down
every surface with either bleach, Windex or white vinegar.
I’m really glad that it’s so warm this week I can have
all the windows and the sliding door to the balcony open. Otherwise I’d have
asphyxiated myself.
This process has a high potential for making you nuts,
and I’m well on the way to crazy town. Plus—you know, The Holidays.
So I was startled out of my madness yesterday by a packet
from a friend, congratulating me on the new job, giving me a supply of
emergency chocolates and describing what’s ahead of me—past all this insanity—as
a great adventure.
Yes, it is. And I’m grateful for that, and I’m grateful for
my friend for reminding me of that.
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