Never, ever unpack your food storage from it’s cannery boxes. Packing, lifting, loading and unloading a million pounds of wheat, water, rice and beans had to be suckiest part of the move. Really, leave everything in the cannery boxes- they are the perfect size, shape and uniformity for stacking, lifting and transporting. Those cannery planning peeps know what’s up.
When your five and three-year old’s turn their noses up at yet another Happy meal, you know you have been in Limbo too long. Yes, they OD’d on fast food, and really want Mama to make whole wheat pancakes again. Hooray! As for me, after sampling far too much drive-through “food” I have to say: Carl’s Jr? Best burger, hands down. McD’s really stinks, and the quality is terrible, but their fries are the best. Jack’s 24-hour breakfast menu rocks… I love me some hash browns during an open house, regardless of time. Cheese curds at A&W- scrumptious little grease bombs; Jeff would do anything for them. And we won’t be making any runs for the Border anytime soon. Ick.
Even when you think you have everything done, every last jot and tittle taken care of, the escrow company will call you and need several thousand more dollars, and they will need it in an hour- in a cashiers check. Count on it. It’s just part and parcel of the crisis known as escrow.
Getting utilities set up is more work than getting a flippin’ passport. They want your social, your license, and your firstborn, just to get a little water and gas. Never-mind that you had service, and paid your bill, for the last five years at your last home.
The cable guy will be an idiot. That’s money in the bank.
Sure as the sun rises, your three-year old will wig-out about changing houses. Be prepared for regressions, tantrums, abdicating of all rules and total mutiny. The older child will see said mutiny, and jump on the bandwagon. Be prepared. How? Sheesh, if I knew that I wouldn’t need my straitjacket anymore.
You will lose at least one box. Guaranteed. Even if you are only moving across town like us, the box containing all five of your telephones and the box with your husband’s work clothing will certainly disappear into the Bermuda triangle. It took me six days to find our telephones. People keep stopping by, asking why the phone just rings and rings and rings… hmmmm. It’s a mystery. I never heard anything.