All of my Chicago furniture arrived in Houston last night.
Yes, the stuff from my downtown Chicago condo that’s been in storage since I rented out my place last March.
No one ever plans to have items in storage for six month, of course. Originally, my stuff was to join the boy’s as his stuff came from Chicago to Austin. Everything would go to his house in the northern burbs, and my stuff would be pulled out and hauled to my centrally-located apartment.
However, when the moving truck arrived at his place, my stuff was no where to be found. Through a miscommunication, my storage unit never linked with his account, and was therefore never flagged to be moved. So there my stuff sat, and we scratched our heads a bit with what to do.
After some family concerns took him back to Chicago (and I was to follow later), the issue was now a non-issue. Upon my arrival, we’d pick through my stuff in storage, decide what we wanted to keep for our home, and then deal with everything from there.
As this part of the story wraps up, we all know that part never happened. With all of my stuff housed in a storage unit in Chicago, I hopped a flight back to Houston.
Days later, my stuff arrived via a U-Haul — pulled by my new SUV, and driven by a very helpful friend. And that’s where this entry begins.
Miracle of all miracles, everything made it in one piece and without a scratch. The U-Haul was the exact right size for all of the contents, everything packed Tetris-style. Moving everything out of the covered trailer wasn’t too hard with my friend lending a hand, and my sister’s kids holding the door open whenever we approached the house.
Well, there were no issues until we came to my dresser.
This tall dresser was packed with kitchen utensils, framed photos, and blankets — nothing that sounds heavy. But being four feet tall, apparently forks, spoons, and fleeces add up in weight. One by one, I unloaded the drawers into empty boxes, when sadness hit.
This isn’t how I was supposed to be going through my stuff.
Do we like this flatware more or less than the ones we have? [Commence a faux-serious domestic discussion on why we loathe the others’ choice, ultimately going with whatever I choose.]
Just how many purses do you have?! Ahem, how many blue button-up shirts do YOU have?
Look! A book of erotic fiction. *snicker* Want me to read to you while you unload photos of my grandma?
On and on and on. Instead, I unloaded everything in a dark U-Haul in crappy ol’ New Caney, Texas while smears of eyeliner formed beneath my eyes.
Indeed, this isn’t how I was supposed to be going through my stuff.