An Exigent Arrival

Well, in our case, getting there wasn't half the fun; it was all of the fun. Unfortunately, our arrival (and subsequent few days,) has made me want to go back to Oklahoma.

The sad story:

We arrived on Sunday afternoon. The house looked great - just a few glitches - no phone, no internet, no cable. (We now have two of the three. Still waiting on the cable.) (Anyone see "True Blood" on Sunday?)

I woke up way too early on Monday morning with a case of 5am anxiety - feeling the enormity of what we have actually undertaken - something that I think I have been denying for the past seven months. All of a sudden, it really felt like I had a lot to deal with. (Prescience, perhaps?)

In the morning, (the real morning, not the 5am morning,) Steve called the movers to find out what time we should be expecting them the next day, Tuesday, our confirmed delivery date. (We wanted to be able to grab breakfast first if they weren't coming until 10, or take Kismet for a good long walk before all the disruption ensued, etc...) The moving coordinator told him that he was very glad that Steve had called because unfortunately the truck would not be bringing all of our things tomorrow as promised. We could expect them in two weeks. TWO WEEKS! TWO WEEKS! It would be one thing if they said our things were going to be a day or two late, but TWO WEEKS! It's completely insane!

It seems that after having come to our house in Egremont and loading everything on a moving truck, that truck then drove to somewhere in the far reaches of CT where everything was then unloaded off that truck into a warehouse with the intention of then re-loading everything onto a different truck a day or two later. (I need to digress to point out that that alone is a rather inefficient way of operating. Why would anyone move EVERYTHING four times, when it could be moved twice? But clearly, I am not an expert on the intricacies of the moving business.)

The only explanation we received for “our delay,” (which the moving company seems to think is perfectly acceptable and reasonable,) is that our things were slated to go on a truck with another shipment; that other shipment was loaded first; there was more in that other shipment than had originally been anticipated; there wasn't enough room for our things; the next scheduled shipment is in two weeks; too bad; end of story.

It seems that in the moving business, it is perfectly acceptable to tell people that they have a confirmed, guaranteed delivery date, have those same people move across the country through three different time zones, 2200 miles away, counting on that confirmed delivery date and planning accordingly, and then tell them "too bad, that's just the way it works." Needless to say, I am having an extremely difficult time wrapping my head around all of this.

So here we are in lovely Albuquerque, (which is indeed lovely and I would be embracing it all under other circumstances,) with four days worth of clothes, (none of which are nice - we're talking jeans and t-shirts,) no toiletries, meds, cosmetics, dog beds, work papers and files and notebooks and hard drives and USB hubs and printers, personal papers, bills, shoes, hair products… completely ill-prepared for two more weeks with none of our stuff. (And did I happen to mention that Steve's first day of work as Head of School was yesterday? We had to go shopping for shoes on Wednesday because all he had with him was the beaten up pair of sneakers that he was wearing.)

Cycling through the Kübler-Ross model of the five stages of grief, I immediately went into denial, because I far as I was concerned, there was just no possible way this could be happening. Anger, bargaining and depression came next, though in my version of the stages of grief, they all co-existed, as I would alternate between begging for help (in my totally pathetic and helpless state,) crying and screaming, depending upon with whom I was speaking at any given time and what absurd response they were giving me.

That basically took up all of Monday.

On Tuesday, after myriad countless inane conversations, it finally hit me that no one was actually going to do anything about this. The fifth stage, acceptance, had kicked in. (Though I cannot honestly admit to having completely cycled through anger.) Our stuff was going to remain in hostage in an undisclosed location in CT for two weeks. No one was going to authorize another truck. No one was going to schedule another cross-country shipment. No one was going to do anything. AND, no one seemed to even care.

Having spoken to more people than I care to recount, I do have to say that my absolute favorite conversation was when Steve was explaining to Bev Klein, the president of Nor-Cal, “(an agent of Allied van Lines,)” that there were really important things that we needed on that moving truck, she told Steve that “you really shouldn’t ship anything that’s important to you.” So what are we supposed to ship, garbage and things that we don’t need?

So here we are. Luckily, we rented a furnished house, which as you can see from my pictures, is really quite lovely. The tour: Here is the front of the house. And here is our backyard. And here is our living room. And here is our kitchen. And here is the Casita in our backyard that is supposed to be full of all the things we are storing, but is empty. And here is the closet where my clothes should be hanging. And here are the bookshelves where my cookbooks should be. And here is the television that has no cable service. And here is the dog who has her toys and her people that love her and is obviously very content. (Once again, I find myself wishing I were my dog.)

As angry as I still admittedly am, (and I am still very, very angry,) I told Steve that I might be helpless, but I am not going to be quiet. I am going to write to any and every one that I can possibly think of and make so much noise that Nor-Cal “(an agent of Allied Van Lines,)” will at least know that they pissed off the wrong people. I’m writing to the Better Business Bureau, whatever federal oversight commission deals with interstate commerce and transportation, the “I Hate Nor-cal ‘(an agent of Allied Van Lines)’” website, and lest we not forget my lovely new friend Erik who is a National Correspondent for the New York Times. Steve’s only suggestion was that although I might want to write my rant now, while I’m still in the throws of anger, perhaps I might want to delay actually sending anything until after our things have been safely delivered here. (That’s why they made him Head of School.)

Mañana.