You may recall that when we left off, there was a plan:
The movers would show up at my house between 8 and 8:30 on a Friday. They'd be able to move me out in about an hour and a half (which I thought was optimistic, and so rounded up to three hours) and then hit the road. I would spend the rest of the day cleaning my apartment with a friend (we'll call her Bread Truck Grrl) who'd fly down to help me drive my car up. Then I'd go out to dinner with two of my close friends, BTG and I would crash at their house, and we'd hit the road bright and early Saturday morning. My new job would start on Tuesday, I'd close on my house on Wednesday, my things would be delivered on the following Saturday.
OK. So. I prepared to move. Badly, as is my custom. It was made much more bearable by folks who came by to help, featuring most prominently one friend we'll call "kay bailey," who put up with a lot from me, considering she was also plotting to prevent me from moving but cheerfully packed box after box anyway. Another friend we'll call "nyczoo" also abandoned her family and helped for a few hours. And eventually, the Thursday night before that Friday morning, I picked up BTG, who also helped into the wee hours. We did not mind the wee hours, see, because we had most of Friday to take naps and clean.
And then, at 8:30ish, I had a call from The Guy. He was in a hotel nearby, and he'd be at my house in about an hour. There was no rush, he explained, since "we" weren't trying to do the 500-mile trip back in one day. I had not known before that that The Guy would be doing my move at all; I assumed he was sending other movers. But if he wanted to be part of my team of movers, right on.
I also, foolishly, assumed that the lack of rush meant he was showing up an hour late. It irritated me a little, but I dismissed that as irrational on my part, since I was only actually mostly ready to go. I could use that extra hour for frenzied packing, and I did.
And about an hour and twenty minutes later, there was The Guy. He was ready to move me. The Guy is. Well. Here is the part where I am totally ageist. The Guy is probably in his mid-sixties.
But whatever. He'd probably mostly be supervising, right? He had disregarded my instructions on where to park, so I came outside to see where the truck was and show him where a better parking spot might be. And, obviously, to check out the crew. Which consisted, it turned out, of the one woman I'd spoken to on the phone, who, as it turned out, was probably in her twenties and who had just moved away from D.C. herself not long before.
And she was. Well. Here is where I am probably sort of sexist, and also where she gets that name I promised you: We'll call her The Guy's Visibly Pregnant Daughter.
BTG is reading over my shoulder, and suggests that "Preggo" would be better. I will acknowledge that it is at least shorter, so we'll go with that.
And that, my friends, was my whole moving crew: The Guy and Preggo.
Stay tuned for Part 3.