This blog has been a long time in the making. I realize almost every day that I need to document life with my Mister, a) because it's awesome and makes me laugh, and b) because it is so different from the life I led when I wasn't with my Mister (yes, that's his name: My Mister). Oh, and c) because I'm having a totally awesome time wedding planning and I want to pass along anything worthwhile to anybody else who might need it.
But back to the "long time in the making" bit... I should have known my life was going to be turned totally upside down the day Mister and I moved in together. It was a sweltering hot July day in Chicago: temperature 150, humidity 180%. Excited as we both were about the big move, it's safe to say that we were both a bit stressed and overwhelmed too. Both of us had lived by ourselves for about five years and had gotten used to doing our what we wanted, when we wanted. Not so when there is another person (and in my case, a dog too) now living with you. But I digress again. Sweltering hot day, 150 degrees, 180% humidity, blah, blah, blah...here we are. Having only moved a year earlier, (On my own. In a U-Haul. From Nebraska. With my mom. And two cats.) there was no way on earth I was going to move myself again, so I hired movers to load my things in to and out of a U-Haul, whereas my Mister decided that he and a friend could handle the move themselves. We timed it out so that my things would get to the apartment while he was packing up his, then I would take the U-Haul back while he was moving his things in. Perfect. Yeah, right...
I went to pick up my truck at the scheduled time, only to wait in line for 20 minutes and then find out that there wasn't a truck in the size I requested available for me. There was, however, a smaller truck with a large trailer available. "Take it or leave it, lady", the man behind the counter told me. So I took it. What choice did I have? I wanted to move in with my mister, today. Another 20 minutes later, my truck and trailer are ready for me to drive off with. There's only one problem. How the hell do I drive through Chicago traffic in a U-Haul truck with a trailer behind it??? Yes, I lived on a farm, but this was not part of the curriculum. I managed to get the truck and trailer to my apartment and in to my alley, only to realize there was no chance I was getting that thing, loaded with furniture, from point A (my lonely, live by myself apartment) to point B (my beautiful, new, live with my mister apartment). So, what's a girl to do? I'll tell you what I did. I cried. I threw a fit. I made a few calls, and I got my way, damn it! An hour later, and I'm driving out of the U-Haul parking lot in my brand new, quite large, trailer-less truck, ready for my movers (who should be at my apartment already) to load me up and take me to my new life with my Mister (and his dog).
I excitedly pull up to my apartment, ready to get this move - well, moving. But no movers. No movers. No movers. I'm semi-hysterical, calling repeatedly, only to get a voice mail message. Several hours late, the movers show up, make no apologies, walk into my apartment and tell me there is no way that they are going to be able to move all of my stuff in the allotted time. (Insert loud, obnoxious sigh and even more obnoxious eye roll here.) After realizing that I was not happy (and probably getting sick of my death stares), the "head" mover (a 20-something, overweight, sweaty gentleman who obviously knew nothing about running a business) asked me if I wanted him to call in help. Um...yes, as a matter of fact I do! Why didn't he offer this suggestion an hour ago? Fast forward 10 minutes and the moving helper comes to tell me that it would be best if I stay in the kitchen or out on the deck, out of the way. What???? Well, short version: the "help" that was called in wasn't employees of the "company", but the drunk homeless men that spent their days on the pedestrian walkway outside of my apartment. I could smell the booze as soon as they walked in the door of the building (in my third floor apartment, I could smell the booze on the first floor. Not kidding. No exaggeration.). I'll save you all the dirty details, but fast forward three hours, we're at my new apartment, I'm staring at the fresh rip in my only-a-year-old-couch and what seems to be a blood stain on my matching only-a-year-old-loveseat when the "head mover" comes to tell me their time is up, but they are more than happy to stay and continue unloading my things if an additional charge. A terse conversation ensued, which started with an incredulous, "Are you kidding me? You want me to pay you more for you to continue to break, tear, and stain my stuff?" and ended with..."Honey, I just fired the movers. And my bed is still in the truck. And my couch. And there's still a load of things at my apartment." Without saying a word, my Mister smiled, shook his head and headed with his friend to the alley to unload the rest of my things.
