I'll start with the good news of the day:
1) We're catching someone's wireless on the second floor of our house. Woo! Free internet! I won't have to go cold turkey until the DSL arrives!
2) My temp agency called and said I'm confirmed for the upcoming job, which means I'll have a steady paycheck for the next few months.
3) Our house rocks. And I've already met the owners of the take-out joint next door. Apparently the barrel we've been throwing trash in is actually theirs. They told us we could call waste management to get our own barrel for $150 a month (!), or, if we weren't total hogs, we were more than welcome to use theirs. Nice, right? It seems the whole block knows each other, so that should be kind of fun. A big change from my big sterile apartment building where no one spoke.
The bad news of the day:
1) Despite all of the above, this was quite possibly one of the worst days of my life. I will never ever, EVER hire movers. Ever. Fucking assholes took no less than TEN hours to move 1.5 bedrooms of stuff 1.5 miles to one house. Ten! I knew in the back of my head this was a bad idea, I just knew it. The first half-hour went pretty speedy, because I was sitting in my studio watching them. Then Quinn arrived so he could take some more fragile things in his car, so we were busy with that, and going across the street to get a table from a friend who's moving. An hour later I take a look and almost NOTHING has happened. It took them two full hours to load my meager belongings onto the truck, but that's light-speed compared to the rest of the day.
They arrived at C's around noon. I followed to get the house keys from C so I could go wait for the DirecTV man. Hours pass. DirecTV man shows up around 2pm and says he needs the television sets to finish, but he can go ahead and set up the dish while we wait. I call C, who says they're moving like f'ing snails, but all they have left are the two small loveseats. So I tell DirecTV man that it should be about half an hour. Um. Right.
Now it's three o'clock. Now it's four o'clock. C finally calls and says the movers left fifteen minutes ago and he's headed off to the airport for his bro's wedding. (We had assumed initially that we'd have a chance to actually unpack some boxes and arrange furniture before he had to leave at 4pm. Oops.)
Like I mentioned above, my new house is, at the most, two miles from our apartments. It took Quinn and I ten minutes to drive it, and we didn't even really know how to get there (I'm terrible at directions, and Quinn hadn't been to the house yet). After a half-hour, I call Starving Students and get a full voicemail box, so I call the corporate office and get a guy who says he'll find the right person and make sure he calls me. Forty-five minutes pass and T, who arrived a bit earlier with the dog, yelled from the window, "There they are!" And there they go, right by the house. Twice. We live near the corner, and five minutes later we saw them drive down the cross-street. I finally run out and find them parked a block from the apartment, the driver (who was a fucking asshole to begin with) nowhere to be seen, and the other guy literally passed out in the passenger seat. I slapped him three times on the arm before he woke up. I'm probably lucky he didn't pull a gun on me. I said, "What the hell are you doing??" Driver-man appears, holding an Icee from 7-11 and says he can't find our house. Frustration ensues as I point to our house, and ten more minutes pass before they can drive around the block and park.
I know this is getting long, and it only gets worse from here on out. T and I did a ton of work, including moving the couches inside and moving almost all the heavy boxes from the dining room to the upstairs bedrooms. C's queen box springs wouldn't fit up the stairs, so they just threw the rest of the bed furniture in the living room until I told them to at least bring the mattresses up stairs. Driver-man dropped a very heavy piece of furniture on the front step, literally smashing the new plaster into pieces. I took a picture for the record. And then, like I said, finally finished at 8pm.
They couldn't get ahold of their boss to say they finished (I'm shocked) and so I took this opportunity to say, as nicely as I could muster, "Well actually that's fine for now, because I need to talk to him about the length of this move. I know an 'estimate' is just that, an estimate, but this took three times as long." Wherein, Driver-man BLOWS his shit, and starts telling me how my friend (C) had "way more stuff" than they thought, which is bullshit for a number of reasons, and how they never took a break or had lunch, and on and on. Then he grabbed the payment forms that were laying out and said, "just take it up in small claims court, I don't need this shit!" For the record, I never lost my cool, and was actually very pleased he decided to leave without forcing me to pay; I was really worried they were going to sit in my living room and call the cops if I did that. In fact, I actually never refused to pay, this guy was just fucking crazy from start to finish.
I'm sure his boss is going to call me tomorrow and I hope he's reasonable. I'm willing to pay for about four hours of work, but no way in HELL am I paying for ten (plus the hour "trip" charge and a percentage for gas/maintenance, plus cost for shrink-wrap, etc). Those fuckers would dissappear for 45 minutes at a time, supposedly loading the dollies. C caught them more than a few times chatting on their cell phones, immediately hanging up when C appeared. Fuck that. It all made for an incredibly stressful day. And we don't even have any box springs to sleep on!
I'm done, I just really had to rant. I've felt like I was going to have a coronary all day, and I'm so fucking tired because I didn't get any sleep last night. At least I can get online. I hope tomorrow I'll be able to calm down and focus on perspective: I have a cool house and a job. I'm off to bed, and then off to clean my old apt tomorrow. The fun never ends!