Tag Archives: Business

The five mental stages of moving and why each of them suck …


Moving.

We’re all moving, if only in the sense that the earth is spinning and that explains why most of the Facebook comments I read seem to come from someone who’s dizzy. It would also explain many of my own Facebook comments if beer had never been invented.

Thankfully beer was invented, so enough about that.

But I don’t mean that kind of moving.

I mean the kind of moving where you pack up all your filthy crap, put it in a truck and drive it to a new home.

Yeah, that kind of moving – the painful kind of moving.

I know there are many people out there who have moved more than I, but I’ve done my fair share of moving throughout the years and feel fully qualified to say, “moving sucks.”

To be very honest, I’ve have it easy. All the moves of my adult life, with the exception of one, were paid for via your hard-earned taxes. Thank you, America, you rock. Each and every move, either as a service member or as a government worker, has had professional movers associated with it. Strong men, sweating a lot, schlepping boxes of crap Dagmar hasn’t used since ever, into moving vans and then unloading them at the destination.

So to be very honest, some of you who move frequently and do it yourself have it much worse than I do.

But I’m still going to bitch and moan anyway because I can.

Genehmigung: Motiv: Umzugslift für den Möbeltr...

It’ll be like this, only with more sweaty eastern European men. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think there are mental stages of moving. Honestly there are. At least for me there are. Maybe you just wake up one morning and yell out, “HOLY CRAP! HOW’D I GET INTO THIS NEW HOUSE?”

If you’re that person, I look up to you.

For me it’s all this:

  1. Denial: We’re not really moving, I know it SAYS we’re moving, but that’s like in the way distant future. Sure in a month stuff will be chaotic, but right now things are normal. Relax.
  2. Anger: To hell with this crap. I hate it. HATE IT. I used capital letters HATE IT!
  3. Painful acceptance: Fine, fuck it, we’re moving.
  4. The event: Move out day/Move in day
  5. Agony: Months and months of sheer pain and suffering that will follow.

So that’s a fun list isn’t it? Let’s dive right in and swim about in my pool filled with pain.

Denial:

The month before the move, even though I know it’s going to happen, I completely and totally deny it. Part of my brain rebels against the reality of the move. Things are comfortable here at home. The curtains are hung on the windows the way Dagmar likes them, the pictures on the wall have been there so long they likely need to be dusted. And I know exactly where the confectionary sugar is stored in the kitchen.

That last bit is monumental because in just a few month’s time Dagmar will say the following again and again, “You don’t know where anything is do you? Jesus, do you even live here?” This will be uttered while I desperately check every drawer for the fourth time in a row for a spoon.

So yeah. I get why part of my brain rebels and say’s to me, “Relax. Things are okay for now.”

Anger:

“GOD I’M TIRED OF THIS SHIT! Didn’t we just move into a new house like an hour ago? Why do we have to do it again so soon?” I think the anger part is really just a transition to the next painful acceptance phase, but it always cracks me up anyway.

“Damn it, I’m going to have to wash out the grill, take down all the pictures, patch up the holes, hide my extensive collection of 1980’s Madonna porn and figure out what to do with all these fucking plants! And who the hell brought these damned plants anyway? Aren’t most of them poisonous to cats? New fucking rule, no more plants ever!”

It’s a bunch of crap I tell you.

As if I’m shocked it occurs you know? I live and work in a field where moving is expected every three to five years. It’s so commonplace that everyone in my field accepts it. We all bitch about it, but only in roundabout ways. We’ve all become jaded too it.

Painful acceptance:

This phase occurs on a Saturday morning. It occurs usually after a few cups of coffee, typically at about 10 a.m. Its when I drag my, otherwise-happy ass off the couch and start the oh-so-painful process of doing things I don’t want to do.

Again, it’s all about taking things off the walls, rolling up the rugs, unhooking the stereo, deciding where we will hide the cat while the movers are in the house, hiding dead hookers, ensuring the toolbox is in the car and not on the moving van and a lot of other crap you don’t care about.

This phase brutally drills into my head the following fact: Weekends are about to suck. Gone, for at least four months are, weekends that are all about relaxing and chilling out. In their place is a tireless ordeal of moving, sizing, shopping and hanging …

The event:

This is the eye of the moving storm. The strange part that should be painful but really isn’t. When the movers are boxing up the cat and loading the kitchen’s full trashcan into the truck there isn’t much to do other than watch them. That’s really it. OK, I feed them, I usually tip them, but that’s pretty easy and otherwise it’s really pretty much a non-event.

While doing a door-to-door move it’s always the same crew so move in day is no different. Give them something to eat, take care of the boss and then start living in a cardboard forest.

When I poop in the morning, there will be boxes in the bathroom.

My life for the next several weeks, while not at work, will focus on dealing with boxes. Opening boxes, breaking down boxes, stacking boxes, unpacking and yes repacking boxes, moving boxes from room to room, from floor to floor.

I will dream of boxes simply because they cannot be avoided during waking hours.

Boxes.

Agony.

Two or three months after we move into the new house the following will occur: I will be convinced that this weekend, FINALLY THIS WEEKEND, Dagmar and I can just chill out all day and all night both days.

I will be painfully incorrect in this assumption because one of the following events will take place.

Moving boxes Shortly after this photo was taken her husband stabbed her to death. Reason, inability to decide where the fucking towels go. (Photo credit: Meathead Movers)

  1. Everything in the living room is ‘wrong’ and needs to be moved to the third floor of the house. Once there a “decision” will be made by Dagmar that the things in the living room were actually correct in the living room after all and everything will have to be moved back down three flights of stairs.
  2. Ikea
  3. Every photo, painting, wall ornament – if it’s stuck to the wall its game – will have to be moved. Which means even though I just put away the cordless drill, the drill bits, the step ladder, the container with all the items needed to properly mount anything, I’m about to have to drag them back ….

So moving, it sucks. None of this says a damned thing about lack of Internet (which if you don’t hear from me for a while, that’s why) power, television and …

Man, I hate moving.

How to blast through $1,000 without ANY help from strippers


So here I sit, $1000 poorer than I was during a fateful February morning where I retardedly forgot that the quote by Hemmingway to “always do sober what you said you do drunk,” is the worst advice given since Mark Anthony told Julius Cesar he’d be fine going to the senate all by himself.

Okay no one stabbed me and to the best of my knowledge my wife isn’t contemplating starting a household civil war (best to be vigilant though!) I’m none-the-less still an idiot.

Sometime around 1991 or so a young captain in the U.S. Army talked me into pursuing a career as a helicopter pilot.   Besides that fact that I’m sure the Army has some pretty strict regulations about spilling beer in their helicopter and you can’t smoke while flying I know now I would have sucked at, or at least hated, being a pilot.   In my mind they were basically glorified bus drivers once I really thought about it.  I had a cool job as an Army journalist, one day I got to play with the infantry, the next with tankers, the next with artillery … you get the point.

The real point is that I didn’t have any interest at all in becoming a pilot.   Take off, fly around in little fart circles, land.  Yawn.   Literally I yawned typing that.

With that knowledge can any of you tell me why I thought buying that god damned toy helicopter that ‘claims’ to just cost $300 was a good idea?

Trouble started when I tried to mount a go-Pro camera on the damned thing and caused a crash of epic proportions breaking a gear and bending a shaft in the process.   Then some asshole on the internet added further insult to my injury by pointing out that I was an idiot for mounting anything on what is essentially a toy.

This is how I felt when internet bully told me I was retarded.   Also my internet Ar.Drone 2.0 forum name is Badgrl2, why are you judging?

This is how I felt when the internet bully told me I was retarded. Also my internet Ar.Drone 2.0 forum name is Badgrl2, why are you judging?

Fine mister internet forum smart guy … you were right, I was wrong.   Dick.

So off to the Ar.Parrot drone online “we’ knew you suckers would be back buying something sooner or later” store I went to buy a package of gears and shafts.

Next up the forward camera, after being introduced at high speed to a wall (or tree or bush or lord knows what) decided to break off.   Back to the on-line store for a new body structure because the only way to fix a broken forward facing camera is a new ‘body structure’ and you’re basically $80 poorer for the knowledge.

Some point before the new body structure arrived (but the retarded money pit was still flyable, just no damned camera) one of the four motors sent an encoded message back to ar.drone.com headquarters that said, “watch me fuck with this drunk idiot, this is going to be a hoot.”   Basically one motor wasn’t playing nice with all the other motors.    This drove me insane because it didn’t seem to be a motor problem at all.  These facts coupled with the fact that I have the mechanical aptitude of a monkey that’s addicted to meth made figuring out that little gem out — super-fun time.

A pack of two motors later, either because I figured if it can happen once it will happen again so order two or because they came in two packs (I don’t remember which it was), I’m starting to add shit up in my head.   Helicopter, $300.  Rotors and pins, $20, new body structure $80, Motor 2-pack $160.  Jesus fuck this … hobby is the wrong word … ‘retarded decision’ is getting expensive.

Then because the U.S. postal service is basically conspiring to fuck me the main body and the motors arrived but revealed to me that a special screw driver was needed to install them.  Ha-ha, I thought, screw you helicopter I know a full blown race car driver who has like ‘MAD tools.’  I’ll just show the screw to Ray Coley, he’ll have the tool for the job cause ‘have no fear, Ray Coley is here.”

Fourteen-million tries later Ray gave up and took me to a shop near the place we have beer-30 at and 20 euro later I had the tool in hand.  Ray commented that I had been looking visibly depressed before finally finding the tool.

He was of course correct, I was thinking of suicide.  Not my own, hell no I love

I hoped that killing the helicopter with a shotgun would be like this, only better.   I’d also cry after but they would be tears of joy and release.

I hoped that killing the helicopter with a shotgun would be like this, only better. I’d also cry after but they would be tears of joy and release.

me too much.  I was thinking of the helicopter’s suicide and that if it ever flew again how beautiful it would be to shoot it with a shotgun.   Maybe that’s murder though, I don’t know, I’ll leave that decision to history.

With the proper tool in hand I set to work.   The weather was nice, the sun was out and I spent hours in the garage, carefully disassembling and then reassembling, with the new parts, the goddamn nightmare of a helicopter.

Finally with new body assembly attached and broken motor replaced I fired up the iPad and … what the fuck, no firmware.   Seems replacing a tiny motor, leaving the thing without any power for weeks and/or I should have never bought a remote control helicopter in the first place, fucks up the firmware.

Who knew?

Firmware reinstalled the helicopter lifted off and flew around room smartly with me at the controls expertly … okay it took off to about half a foot before immediately committing an apparently suicidal back flip without any input from me at all.

Every. Single. Time.

Up 6 inches followed by a suicidal flip over thingy.  The helicopter hates me, or itself.  Maybe both.

I should add to this, even though it won’t make any sense, I’m also a black marketer.    I’m as good a black marketer as I am a remote control helicopter pilot in that I’m pretty sure my black marketing, this particular mistake aside, cost me money rather than made me money.    It would be hysterical if one of you would notify the German government of my crime so that I can pay a hefty fine … a hefty fine seems appropriate.

What the hell is this drunken idiot talking about, I can hear you asking.  Some of you are hitting the unsubscribe button and the guy considering offering me a book deal is likely crying right now.   I’m not drunk, don’t unsubscribe and look dude I still think “fear and loathing, now with beer” is a perfectly acceptable book title.

In other words, let me explain.

Somehow when Alex, visiting with Maggie, in February talked me into ordering the Ar.Drone Parrot money synch 2.0 I not only ordered the helicopter but I also put another one in my shopping cart at Amazon without realizing it.*

Fast forward to May when Dagmar’s German friend asked us to order a ‘shit-ton’ of barbeque equipment for her husband/boyfriend/dude she lives with/whatever I, like the obedient husband I am dutifully set about ordering all of it on Amazon, cause fuck German Value Added Tax and BBQ is good!

So, looking behind me to make sure no German custom’s agents were watching (they weren’t but the cat was – never trust the cat) I hit check out never realizing that a second Ar.Drone helicopter was in the cart.

Thus during my doom and despair phase, after the firmware had been updated, but while the helicopter was still doing retarded back flips shortly after takeoff, a brand new – never been flown into a wall at high speed helicopter arrived.   Dagmar was very supportive.  While she said, “What the fucking, fuck!  A second helicopter?  Are you fucking insane.” I knew she meant, “Todd I’m so happy you’ve solved your helicopter problem.  A second purchase of $300 is small price to pay for your piece of mind, go my love – go fly.”

And I did, straight into a tree so high that I had to ask the landlord for help getting my toy helicopter out.

Like this, only with more … well shit wait I can’t add anything more to this.  It’s exactly like this.

Drinking leads to things like this, only with more … well shit wait I can’t add anything more to this. It’s exactly like this.

*   Drinking can not only leads to unplanned pregnancies, herpes and surprise appearances on Girls Gone Wild but it can also lead to unwanted helicopters, that’s a pro-tip kids, write  it down .