The Move: The Apartment & Boxes

When I first called Clara about my apartment, she talked to me on the phone for 15 minutes. I couldn't decide if she was crazy or awesome. Turns out she's awesome. And a little crazy. But so am I.

That day, I told her it was the first apartment I was looking at and she said, as I thought any seller would, "Once you see this, you won't NEED to see anything else." Turns out she was right.

On Thursday, we got to the place and Clara had cleaned out the bedroom, the office/spare room, and the bathroom all by herself. And the kitchen/living room was still left to be done.

Sammy en route:

Enter my four insanely good movers and my parents. Aaron, Sam, Adam and Ben were the lifesavers. If I didn't have them to help me, my dad's bad knee would have surely swelled to the size of a football and his good attitude would have immediately been hail-Maryed the shit out of there. Sam is born and bred sweet Arkansas, Ben is born and bred sweet Kentucky, Adam is a black person who had white skin so he got along fine in Eastern Kentucky, and Aaron should have brought his guitar. Nothing makes me feel better than when Aaron sings.

So, we moved all the shit. And this is the point things are at now:

My mother always buys me shit that I don't want at the time and am thankful for later. And she is a really really really bad backseat driver, something my father has complained about for years. I thought he was being tough on her until she blatanly ignored the GPS and questioned my directions.

My dad spent a million hours in the U-Haul divvying out boxes and furniture and I'm unsure of how he didn't suffer heatstroke, nor am I sure of how he stood that entire time, with not much time since knee surgery under his belt. I believe that his suspenders may hold it all together.