Another move from hell

And so it is. just like you said it would be. Life goes easy on me… most of the time.

 

But not today. Today was my last day living with the host mom. I hae found an apartment, but for some reason she said I could move some of my things into the house this weekend if I wanted, or if she had time, today, but I couldn’t move in until next week, after she had returned from her parent’s house.

Suppose I can understand that. I don’t know that I would want to have a stranger move into my house and then leave either. Even if we had spent five hours talking during our first meeting. Maybe it’s a money thing.

But the crappy thing is that my new house is right around the corner from my old house. Five minutes walking right around the corner.

But the chick hasn’t called me which means more than likely, I won’t be taking any things over there just yet. And this morning, I found out that I had to leave at 3:30 and not after dinner like I had thought. Wonderful.

No answer from the woman who I will stay with until January 1. But 2 o’clock, current host mom is freaking out, getting on my nerves asking what I’m going to do, why I can’t just move into the house wth the chick, and a host of other things that I had no answers to and only served to make me angry. I finally told her, “If I don’t hear from _____, then I will just put my things downstairs and wait in the lobby.” Now leave me alone. I didn’t say that, but I thought it. Sigh…

Finally, temporary host mom is tracked down, says go on over to the house. Well, since I have a bazillion things, even more than I did when I arrived somehow (I don’t know what happened, don’t look at me like that), the cabbie is looking at me all crazy. I’m looking at my bags all crazy, and the old house mom is steadily dragging my things out the door since I’m obviously not moving fast enough for her. She dropped the sweater I am planning on wearing to the rugby Christmas party tomorrow on the ground and I wanted to kill her. And THEN she had the nerve to say, “This is why when I move to another country, I don’t bring so much stuff. You have more clothes than I do.”

Thanks for the advice, lady. I’ll make sure to plan to have a crazy host mom the next time I move to a foreign country. And I’ll only bring two pair of chonies, a pair of jeans, a sweater and a t-shirt.

And THEN, as if it wasn’t bad enough, I remembered, I had no idea what the doggone address was. So I’m surprised the cabbie didn’t leave me. Had it been Chicago, he would’ve left me. Not only did he have to haul a bazillion bags into the cab, he had to decipher through my directions – and Spanish – exactly where I needed to go.

Well, we got here pretty harmlessly, though because of my guitar, I had to sit up front with him. At the apartment, I can’t remember the house number. I’ll blame it on stress. So my stuff is sitting in front of the building door, and I’m pushing all the buttons until someone answers and can tell me where _____ lives. Finally someone does, and I call, but there’s no answer.

It’s then that Mr. Wonderful comes up. A man, his wife and little girl. He takes one look at my bags, and then at me, and hurries inside. I attempt to catch the door so that I can at least get my bags off the street, but he begins to push it closed in my face.

“You don’t live here. If the person you’re not waiting for isn’t here, well, then you’ll just have to wait until they get home to let you in.” Just like that. He closes the door in my face and walks away. You best believe if I see him, I’ll make sure to wave my keys in his face and whistle a tune for him. Maybe the Fresh Prince theme song.

Anyway, after that, I am so angry at the entire situation, at my having to leave, at my having to haul my bags across the country when I was going to live five minutes away, mad that that jerk closed the door in my face, that I was forcing back the tears. I refused to not only be sitting on the curb like a homeless woman, but also crying to boot. I refused.

So I sucked up the snot, and waited about five minutes and finally ____’s mother answers, a woman who has got to be pushing 95, the cutest little thing, but not exactly the most speedy or receptive, with bad hearing to boot.

So after I get her to realize she’s got to push the button to let me in, I begin to drag my things inside the building. I get upstairs, and she answers the door with her dress around her waist. Apparently, she was using the restroom. Oops.

So I tell her I have a bazillion things to haul upstairs, but when I leave out the door, I hear it click shut behind me and then she bolts the lock. Oh, boy.

I start bringing the stuff upstairs, to which she continues to whisper, “Madre Mia” every time she sees another bag. I know, lady. I know. A bit ridiculous, but who knew I would have to move eight hundred times in four months!!!

So here I am now, tired, uncomfortable, feeling unwanted, out of place and like I need a bit of relaxation and a cigarette. And to think, when the chick finally calls, I will have to do this all over again.

I can’t freakin’ wait.

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