Moving as the Beverly Hillbillies

We’re here!!  But wow, actually getting out of the State of Oklahoma was almost as difficult as living in it.  Almost.

There was the last week of work, the perpetually angry 11-year-old, the ginormous two-day moving sale, the furious 11-year-old, the packers coming to pack all our belongings and the mad 11-year-old.  Did I mention that the Divine Miss M is not remotely happy about this move, except for occasionally when she slips and lets excitement show about certain aspects of Boulder, which then makes her even more mad?

Then came moving day.  Even though we sold and/or donated a TON of things and even though the moving company rep did a full inventory of our house to estimate necessary space for loading, the movers ran out of room on the moving truck.  They explained the excess would have to go on the ‘overflow truck,’ which they could only guarantee to arrive anywhere from two weeks to two months.  Ummmm, two months?  Really?!?!  Most of the excess was outdoor furniture that did not have to be there immediately.  But there were other things we would need that hadn’t made the cut, and would therefore have to go into our vehicles, even though we would already have several suitcases, two children and their accessories (M’s best friend, and my best friend’s daughter, went with us for a week), two dogs, one fat cat and their accessories.

At one point, though, I did hand a pogo stick, a hula hoop and a couple of other outdoor games, all of which had somehow gotten overlooked, to one of the loaders and informed him, quite matter of factly, that he would find some way to fit them into his truck.  It seems the voice of a Mom who is in the latter stages of moving her eleven year old daughter to another state and motivated by desperation, exhaustion and “dear god, there cannot be another basis for an angry meltdown” is heard by others as “You will do this and I am absolutely not to be trifled with” – and is very effective in telling 6 foot tall, burly men what to do.

I’d really like to evoke that voice again in the future.  Jo said I also used the single eyebrow raise, but she claims I use that a lot, she’s even gotten Miss M to say the same.  I’ve no idea what they’re talking about.

One of the most problematic things we had to transport turned out to be the bike rack. In the sales pitch presented to the Divine regarding this move, we relied heavily on all the outdoorsy stuff we would do, like all those bike trails throughout Boulder.  No way were we going to be in Boulder two months without that rack.  But as we were packing the car, we realized the pins that hold the rack were in a box on the way to Colorado – since we didn’t anticipate hauling the bike rack, they had gotten packed with everything else in the garage.  And because this particular bike rack requires an oddly shaped pin, I ended up making three trips to the parts store on moving day before I got the right one.

In addition, we tied three bag chairs (also, among the things meant to travel via moving truck) and a vacuum cleaner onto the top of Jo’s vehicle.  So, kids, pets, bike rack – and now chairs and a vacuum tied to the top of a car.  I seriously lamented the fact that I did not use the scary Mom voice on the burly man to make him take my great-great grandmother’s rocker off of the moving truck. It might have been worth strapping it to the top of Jo’s car as well, just to finish off the whole Clampett image.

See, all we needed was the rocker.  And maybe a possum.

See, all we needed was the rocker. And maybe a possum.

 May as well embrace it, I thought.  Maybe Boulder will be our Beverly Hills.  But alas, right after we left, I called Jo to tell her to pull over because one of the bag chairs seemed to be slowly rising from its place.  In exasperation, I insisted we just cram all of it into our cars one way or the other because this was ridiculous and couldn’t we just get the hell out of there already??  Honestly, I might have even stamped my foot at that point, I’m not really sure.

We inspected both cars, folding down the bike rack attached to mine and opening the back, to find every nook and cranny into which we could cram three chairs and a vacuum.  After successfully managing that feat, and insuring that I would not be able to see out of the back of my car for the entire trip, we drove away.

Except …

When I started to drive away (again), it sounded like a jet or something was flying really low nearby.  Then I stopped before pulling out onto the road and I didn’t hear it anymore. Then I started to go and heard it again.  And just as I was considering the possibility that maybe my car was having mechanical problems, it hit me that perhaps Jo never raised the bike rack back into place.

Indeed, I had dragged the bike rack across the parking lot, attached to the hitch of my car and laying out flat.  Turns out, we can’t even pull off the Clampetts well.  I’m pretty sure they never drug furniture behind their truck on the way to Beverly Hills.

I didn’t have time to be terribly overwhelmed with sadness at all the good-byes the last few days.  In the back of my mind, I had been a little leery of the final moments of leaving because I thought it might hit me all at once or something but the comedic and exasperating series of departing events took care of that concern.  All I could think was ‘mother of god, are we ever going to get out of here?’

Not unlike the last ten years or so, really.

And we’re here now.  I’m sitting amongst a million and one boxes and our distraught daughter’s moods are careening so quickly between excitement, mild tolerance and furiously plotting anarchy, I keep wondering if this is what bipolar looks like, or maybe split personality.  I’m sure it doesn’t look like schizophrenia because she never stops talking long enough to hear voices in her head.  Or maybe this is simply what really mad eleven year old girls look like, who have mostly accepted that there’s nothing they can do to prevent this move so they will at least settle for making their parents’ miserable.  Aw well, good preparation for the teen years.


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