There’s nothing like filling a 26-foot U-Haul, one flatbed truck, and two sedans to hammer home the fact that you own a lot of shit, except maybe filling all those vehicles only to realize there’s no room left for your two sad little houseplants.
Thank goodness we had an army of kick-ass friends who came out to help load all of it, a small fleet of die-hards who rode on up with us in all those extra vehicles, and more kick-ass friends to help on the New England side of things. It almost made moving weekend into a big party, except with Advil instead of alcohol.
It took around nine hours for our little convoy to traverse the 400 or so miles. A month later, a few things stand out in my mind: 1) There are no good radio stations in Connecticut; 2) Saturday night is a bad time to attempt traveling through NYC; and 3) I should have just gotten the fried chicken at the rest stop like I wanted.
Also, Dan is a saint for driving my Miss Daisy arse halfway up the East Coast. I tried really hard not to doze off in the passenger’s seat on you, Dan. But Connecticut’s hypnotic dullness extends even to its chunk of highway.
The only wrench that was thrown in the works was the fact that, when we pulled up to our place around 1:30 in the morning, we couldn’t find the key the contractor left for us under the mat. This was because it wasn’t there, a fact that it took ten minutes of frantic looking and at least three pen lights to ascertain. Luckily, this issue was soon resolved when Ty found an unlocked window in the back of the house (um, thank-goodness-and-also-WTF?) to hoist me through.
It was not a graceful maneuver.
Next up… Part III: This Old House, or The Money Pit