June 30, 2006

Not Yer Run o' the Mill Clutter

I can't lift my arms over my head today, despite them being pumped-up to near-Schwartzenegger size. I had to bend over to wash my hair. My torso didn't get soaped at all. I apologize to all my co-workers, it was just too much to ask.

My father, the brilliant mechanical engineer, doesn't know how to pack a box.

No, I have to go back farther than that -- my parents are moving. Moving from their huge, 1900's farm house to a 1960's ranch. A decision it took my mother ten years, five temper tantrums, three nervous breakdowns, two death-threats and one chronically painful leg to convince my father that it's the right thing to do.

The farm house is almost 100 years old. As are my parents. It has four bedrooms upstairs, two staircases, a parlor, a maid's room, PLUS a full basement and attic. It's HUUUUUUUUUUGE. And it's on a double lot.

That's a lot of space to maintain, so this move is actually a really good thing. But, as to be expected, it's causing a lot of stress, drama and commotion. Three things they haven't had to deal with since Billi's last day as a teenager in 1991.

Recently, my parents' realtor told them to move some of their "clutter" to the new house because prospective buyers will want to picture their own clutter in the old house.

[Wenchie deadpans to the camera.] Dude, it's aaalllllll clutter.

My parents have lived in that house for -- what -- thirty-five years? That's thirty-five years of clutter, accumulated by a man who has been garbage-picking since he was tall enough to peek inside the cans. My mother was forced to burn down their old garage in order to acquire a new one that she could actually fit her car into. (True story.)

Now, my mom packed up the usual Clutter Suspects, per the realtors instructions: photos, knick-knacks, brick-a-brack, gagadills and tchatchke. Like a normal person. She carefully wrapped the fragile things and -- here's the key -- made sure a normal person could still lift the box.

Dad, on the other hand, packed his entire encylopedic set of Arms & Armor into one box. Weapons & Weaponry was also crammed into a single box, and -- you guessed it -- War & Warfare also got it's own, solitary box. No lids because the books are too big.

AND? He packed them on the floor. So I go into the basement to help him, and scattered all over the floor are boxes crammed full of the hugest, heaviest books you've ever seen.

I'm like, "Dad, how am I supposed to carry these? Let alone get them off the floor?!"

And he goes, "But you're my strongest daughter!"

I'm gonna assume he meant it as a compliment, but "strongest" treads close to my favorite word of his for me -- "sturdy." Yeah.

Thank Yahweh that Dad found a hand cart to move those things because I had forgotten to bring my Arc of the Covenant. You know, I had the Arc in my car for weeks and had just taken it out the day before to take Daisy to the vet. Figures!

Upstairs, mom continued to move things like small tables and the umbrella stand.

Down in the basement, Dad gave me more stuff to lug out to my car. And lemme just say, a Ford Explorer is the next best thing to the Arc of the Covenant because we loaded:

1) a cement statue of nude young women,
2) many guitar and banjo cases,
3) various nautical lanterns,
4) two three-foot tall, cast iron, French knights; and
5) a life-sized painting of my father, from the waist up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword.

And why, you ask, does my father have a life-sized painting of himself, from the waist up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword? Because he didn't want a life-sized painting of himself, from the feet up, in full medieval knight regalia, holding a broadsword. So he cut off the bottom half.

And it still creeps the bejeezus outta me.

Finally, my car could hold no more, so we drove to the new place. Where my father proceeded to make himself a Manhattan.

My parents don't have food in the new place. No t.v. or radio. No towels. No kleenex. This carload of crap constitutes Thee First Official Posessions that have entered the new house. And yet? Somehow, there's whiskey, vermouth and bitters.

The second thing Dad did? Made ice.

Posted on June 30, 2006 12:20 PM

Comments

Posted by: garrance at June 30, 2006 08:50 PM

Posted by: garrance at June 30, 2006 08:52 PM

Posted by: Snippy Bitch at July 3, 2006 09:19 AM

Posted by: Homidus Corax Celticus at July 3, 2006 12:39 PM

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