2005-06-27 - 2:16 p.m.

We�re both lying in bed, awake, but neither will tell the other. Too much lies ahead for us. Finally, I did the old �You awake?� thing.

I stumbled downstairs and logged on for work. I had a few things to do before the insanity struck.

The truck was due to arrive between 8 and 10. We were hoping closer to 8 so we could be done sooner.

The truck rolls up. It�s not big. It�s not a big moving van. It�s one of those all 1 piece 40 footers.
Hmmm�.wonder if it all will fit inside that thing?

Out jump the 4 Pepes. Among them, there are maybe 17 words of passable English. And since Shmuppie has the best Spanish of us all, we�re in trouble. I walk HeadPepe through the house and point to things and say things like �Truck�, �Garbage�, �We take�. That goes undeniably well.

The truck is being loaded and things are getting tagged and numbered. It�s controlled chaos in the house. We�re still packing boxen up with things that we needed until the very end.
The phone rings:

Me: Hello?
Voice: Hi, NoGoodDaddy, it�s MaryAnn from your lawyer�s office
Me: Hey. What�s going on? How are you doing?
MaryAnn: Well�things aren�t good and once I get done telling you, you�re not going to be doing so good either.

At that instant, the knife jabbed into me. The phone call that I knew has been coming had come. From the day we signed the contract, I KNEW�fucking KNEW that this call was coming.

Me: Just tell me
MaryAnn: Well, the Vasquez�s buyer can�t close until June 28. (See�the Vasquez family is buying our house and their buyer just got hinky on us all)
Me: MaryAnn, I have a truck in my driveway and a closing in Raleigh in 3 days. What the fuck, pardon my French, am I supposed to do?
MaryAnn: Can you stop them from loading the truck?
Me: NO! They�re here and we have to go. What�s going on? Where�s LawyerBob?
MaryAnn: Bob won�t be in for a while. Oh�I don�t know what�s going on. This is so bad for you.
Me: I have to go. Bye.

I hang up and nearly pass out. JewelrySlut looks like she�s got no blood in her face. She didn�t have to hear the call to know what just happened. We had just entered the 8th circle of moving hell.

I grabbed my cell, headed outside and dialed up Eleanor. I got her voicemail and left a half-screaming message asking how much cash she thought we�d need for Monday and if she could start looking for a mortgage for us.

I then made the call that I knew I�d have to make all along but didn�t want to.

Voice: Hello?
Me: Hey Dad. How liquid are you?
NoGoodFather: What�s wrong?
Me: (Spews out a 200 word per minute account of the last 3 minutes, culminating with) Can I borrow $100,000?
NoGoodFather: Sure

Now�as a parent, I know how this works. Your kid is in trouble, you just do what you have to do. For all the things I�ve said about the NoGoodParents in past entries, my father always knows how to compartmentalize and get to the task at hand. He can see black and white when needed and �just get it done� at those times. I�m a lot like him in that way. I can put aside a lot of emotion at times and just get the job done and then return later to the wreckage that is left on the side of the Road of Life.

NoGoodFather: Now calm down. The money�s fine. Call me back when you know more, but until then, take care of the house and get more details.

From time to time, it helps to have rich parents. He just, without batting an eye, lent me $110,000. That�s a lot of fucking money.

I call Roxanne the Ninny and bellow into her voicemail to call us. She calls back 5 minutes later and I�m going insane at her. At one point, I tell her to �Start earning your $17000 and do something for us� I then hang up on her.

Eleanor calls back and is amazed. She must have said �fuck� 100 times in 2 minutes. She can�t believe what�s happening to us now. She tells me to calm down and that we�ll get it all fixed once we get to Raleigh.

Eleanor rocks.

So, here we are, a half-hour into the packing and already, things have gone to shit and a half. We don�t know if we have a buyer for our house and are about to�almost..own 2 houses in 2 states. Oh�things are going GREAT!

I go to HeadPepe and ask if he thinks it�s all going to fit on the truck. It looks already like it won�t. He just smiles at me, shakes his head and starts frantically jabbering to Miguel over his Nextel.

Great�thins continue to be fun. We�re looking at the truck and the piles of boxen in the garage, not to mention all the furniture in the house, and we know we�re in big trouble. There�s no way on God�s good Earth that this is all fitting on the truck. We start adding to the garbage pile.

The rain starts. And when I say rain, I mean fucking thunderstorm pouring. JewelrySlut and I run out to the street where our cars are parked. We need to get the windows up. I hop I her car, she in mine. ***remember that detail, folks, it will be vital to the rest of the story*** We get the windows up and head back to the driveway, where boxen are being thrown around to get them out of the wet. While it pours, HeadPepe continues to Nextel Miguel and things don�t sound good. I may not speak Spanish, but I know panic in any language when I hear it. The truck is very full and there�s a lot of stuff left.

At this point, the Fire Marshall shows up. Seems that when Roxanne the Ninny said �I�ll handle the smoke detector inspection� she meant �I won�t do anything about it and will find another way to fuck you�. We had been told just a week before that it needed to get done and we couldn�t close without it (like that matters at this point). The fat slob shows up with a broom handle. He�s poking the detectors to make them start chirping. He gets upstairs and announces that the main smoke detector is in the wrong spot AND that it�s broken.

WTF?

We try to explain that the local fire dept told us to put it there. We also said that we had a spare battery and could go get one. I ask for 2 minutes to pop in a new battery and move the thing. It�s 2 screws after all and will take all of 1 minute to re-hang. He starts in with the whole �I�m a very busy man and have a lot to do� speech. I ask, again, for 2 minutes so I can fix it. He comes back with �I don�t have to wait for people like you. You should have been ready for me�. While doing this, he rattles a big fistful of paper at me. I get right in his fat, smelly face and tell him to �Get the fuck out of my house�

With a happy little grin, he leaves.

Now, because we still lives in Podunkville, NJ, they don�t do inspections on Fridays. I call Roxanne and tell her that we failed because the inspector was an asshole and that she�s better figure something out.

A few weeks back, I had called a trash hauler to come in to get all of our larger garbage items. They rolled up to the house. I met them at the street and told them that the truck still had a ways to go. Could they back across the yard? The woman says she can and they start doing so.

And get stuck in the mud.

Really stuck in the mud.

Really. Stuck

They�re churning holes in my yard with their big ass tires and mud is flying everywhere.

It starts really pouring again.

So, let�s recap where we are:

No closing on Friday
No idea when they will close
Too small truck
Garbage truck stuck in the mud
Pouring rain

Ring�goes my cell phone. It�s MaryAnn again. We have a reason for the delay.

Strap in folks because this is good.

It seems that the attorney for the Vasquez�s buyer doesn�t work past noon on Fridays. He scheduled a 2:00 closing. He then decided that it would cramp his style. He�s not available again until the 28th.

You must be fucking kidding me. This fuck wants to get a jump on his weekend and that�s why we�re delayed!

I was ready to kill someone at this point. We�d now crossed into the 9th circle of moving hell.

So, we�re watching the rain. The garbage lady and her son come to the house. I�m apologizing over and over again. This lovely woman blames herself for not testing the ground beforehand. She says she�s called a tow truck and will wait it out with us. The 4 of us stand there and watch the Pepes start shoving boxen on the truck. The Italian boxen (you know, the ones marked Fragile???) are going on in every which direction and getting kicked. At this point, JewelrySlut bursts into tears. She can no longer handle it. She�s there in our garage crying her eyes out. I�m pissed. I call our moving lady and start yelling at her about things. She apologizes and doesn�t understand why they sent us such a small truck.

The tow truck arrives and extracts the mudmobile. They continue to wait with us as we all stare at the truck. They�re now leaning against the doors to get them closed. They close the doors to the truck.

It�s still pouring.

There�s still a LOT of stuff to go on the truck.

They start loading the lift gate on the truck.

With furniture.

In the rain.

JewelrySlut�s still crying. The garbage lady is aghast. I�m asking HeadPepe what, exactly, they�re doing. He just smiles and nods and wanders off. At one point, he grabs my desk chair, says �Garbage� throws it on the pile and tells me that Miguel (who may live in side the Nextel for all I know) will handle it.

Oh yea�things suck.

They finish with the truck and, mercifully, leave.

They move the trash hauler in and we start chucking things. We fill the shit out of that thing. They go to leave and I grab the $100 that I owe them. I go to the cab of the truck and Theresa hands me a bill. I hand her the $100 and she refuses it. She won�t take our money. She says that we�ve been through enough and that it�s on her. Well, now I join JewelrySlut in crying. This is the nicest thing that anyone�s ever done for us. We�re standing there, covered in filth, crying because the garbage lady was nice to us.

Plugola time! If you live in Warren County, NJ or Easton, PA, please call Theresa at Women at Work. Her number is 908-689-6538. This woman is a saint. Her son is maybe 18 or so. He was such a nice kid. He was a prefect gentleman and is living proof of his mother�s sainthood.

Oh�did I mention that their family also owns a large farm in town? We buy all our produce there. She tells us that her son and some of the farm boys will be out in a day or 2 to resod the yard where they chewed it up.

A saint. She�s a saint.
I go out to the street to move the cars to the driveway and load them up for the trip to my parent�s house. I get in my car and notice that the key�s in the wrong position. I turn it�nothing. The battery�s dead. Someone had let it run all afternoon. Hmmm�who was that?

Great.

So, I hop in the Focus and turn it around. I pop the hoods just as JewelrySlut�s coming out of the house. She figures out what�s happening and looks terrified. Now I have to jump my car. Fortunately, a neighbor came by and helped. It took almost 15 minutes to get my car started, but it finally did.

We�re in the 11th circle now, folks and it still gets worse.

I move both cars and JewelrySlut goes inside to load the cats into their carriers. She emerges bloody. Great.

We run through the house, gathering up what�s left and throw it in the cars. The cars are disasters. We�re vacuuming and sweeping the house. I�m in full-blown stroke mode. I�m on the verge of a mental breakdown. As we wrap up, and I�m standing in an empty house, it hits me.

I find myself standing in our empty living room wracked with sobs. It�s not just the day that we�d had. It�s 7 years of memories. This was our first house. We turned an utter shithole into one of the nicest houses in the neighborhood. We brought Shmuppie here after she was born. I�d never lived in a house for longer. I lived here with the 2 most important people in my life and we were leaving it.

I was crying like a retard.

We finally get all our stuff and head out. We have about a 1-hour drive to my parent�s house.

As we leave town, I�m still crying.

Good bye, Shoprite.

Good bye Poor Boys Pizza.

Good bye Home�

(background on the ride to my parent�s house. We have to take a winding road for almost � hour to get to the highway. From there, it�s 12 miles East on 78 and then maybe 15 minutes from there)

We get to 78 and it hits me:

Where�s my toiletry case? Oh fuck.

It�s in the house.

Now, I could press on and just deal with not having my stuff, but, know what? I WANT my stuff. I call JewelrySlut (who, by the way, did the final sweep of the bathroom) and tell her. She sounds like she could cry again. I call my father. He laughs and hangs up.

I turn around in a cutout on 78 and head home(?!?!?!)

I drive like a man possessed, make it to the house (which I now hate). I tear upstairs and lookie there�my stuff. I grab it�and drop it. Shit all over the floor.

I gather it up and head to the car. I set the land speed record from Hackettstown, NJ to Gillette NJ and arrive.

I�m exhausted, sick to my stomach, hungry and filthy. I shower. I have a beer. I mercifully pass out.

We just made it through the 2nd longest day of our lives. The day Shmuppie was born seemed longer.

Tomorrow is a new adventure. If I knew then what would happen, I would have thrown myself in front of a train.