Moms like our Trixie are rare, y’all. I just read her lovely post about her horny son, and it just served to underscore the horrors of my 2-mom weekend. The following may come off a little harsh, because I’m still reeling from having my rectum stretched Octomom-huge from accommodating a couple of menopausal screech owls for the last two days. Read on, you poor saps, read on:
So, the family Panda moved into our new house this weekend. Great, right? Yeah, in a way. It’s great to have a new house, it’s great to have a family that loves us and volunteers (without my even asking) to spend their weekend moving us. However, for me, the whole sitch played out like being held in a Full Nelson and taunted for 48 hours.
It all started Friday night after work: My mom was to come over and help me schlep the remainder of the boxes we’d been hauling over to the new place all week. I had warned her on the drive over that Mr Panda had done some moving in the morning while I was at work, and that I had no idea what was left to be done. I thought that I had made it clear that I needed a few minutes to organize and take stock of what still needed to be accomplished before we started hauling. Mr. P and I still needed certain items left unpacked so we could eat, bathe, dress, etc on the morning of the Big Move (Saturday). Pretty normal, pretty understandable, right?
Well, we walk through the door, and before I can put my keys down, before I can even take my coat off, Mom is whirling around the place, haphazardly throwing my possessions into boxes and barking orders like a drill sergeant. She was like Kelly Ripa in those damn Electrolux commercials, only Kelly Ripa’s head doesn’t rotate around 360 degrees. It was pure insanity. On several occasions I caught her packing up something I told her not to and had to plead my case, for the fifth time, as to WHY my last unpacked clean pair of underwear had to be left out for the next day, or why the soap should probably just stay in the shower for now, or why we couldn’t pack up all of the food in the fridge and move it now. After much slapdash packing and harassment, we brought a load to the new house. Where she proceeded to dig her talons into my 1/2 finished kitchen. Many of my dishes were still covered in the funk of the newsprint they were packed in, but without even asking, she starts putting contaminated dishes away in cabinets I had not approved. She put them on top of the clean dishes I had washed & put away, which I would then have to dig out and re-wash. I told her multiple times to cut it the fuck out, but I guess she couldn’t hear me through the amphetamine fog she was clearly experiencing. Micromanaging is a helluva drug! Before I knew it, my whole kitchen, the kitchen in my FIRST home, had been totally conceptually designed by her and not me. Whoa. I understand (uh, because she kept telling me) that I can always re-arrange as I see fit, but there’s still the sticking point of the fact that for a few weeks at least I’m not going to know where any of my shit is.
I sensed a pattern emerging: I would be instructed, in my own home, to busy myself with unpacking a box of carefully-wrapped things and while I wasn’t looking, another cupboard or closet’s contents would be decided by someone else. This is not what I signed up for, yo. To me, helping someone move = packing what they tell you to pack, loading boxes/furniture in a truck, unloading said boxes/furniture into the instructed rooms, putting shit down on the floor and calling it a day. In short, helping someone move, in my mind = not unpacking them and arranging their shit. Eventually, I coaxed Mom off the ceiling with some Chinese takeout, and she went home. But then came Saturday.
Saturday was a 2-mom day. Which, to any woman, means certain death. And the worst part is that Mr. P had to work for most of the day and would not be there to save my carcass from being picked sparkling clean by the twin harpies circling above. I didn’t stand a chance. However, the morning progressed fairly well. Furniture was carefully negotiated down 3 flights of stairs, the remaining necessities boxed up, all was well. You know, I really think my mom keeps her Crazy reigned in when Mr. P is around, because the second he went to work, the peace of the morning was shattered and the barking and snarling resumed.
Oh! Perfect timing for a vanload of in-laws to show up and begin the deafening chorus of “where do you want this?” “where do you want that?” And, while I was busy trying to explain WHY I want something where and why I DON’T want something somewhere else (because peeps were not just taking my word for shit with my stuff in my own home), another mom would scream- literally YELLING at me in anger and impatience though they could clearly see I was talking to someone else- from another room asking me what I wanted to do with something else. So, while I was off answering my other call, doing my best to patiently explain the whats and whys to that mom, the other mom would be doing whatever the hell she wanted with the first batch of stuff she was pestering me about in the first place. Eventually, they pretty much stopped pretending that they cared what I wanted to do with my home. They asked me what I wanted, probably just to fuck with me, and after I told them, they would tell me straight-up “no,” and then do whatever they wanted. But that was just the stuff from our apartment. It gets worse from here.
To be continued……..
What about you guys? Do you have any frustrating moving experiences to share?