Sheeeeiiiittt it’s been 6 weeks since I dusted off the laptop and blogged. I’m like the crappest blogger ever. Although secretly I actually think a lot of bloggers do it so frequently it’s overwhelming.
Anyway, this blog’s excuse is THE MOVE. Oh yes, it’s happened. After killing orchards of trees in paperwork sent between solicitors, throwing more money at the event than Elton John does at his weekly flower delivery and eating my stupid fucking words that “we don’t have that much stuff” when clearly we did – it happened.
But like most life events, it was not without it’s challenges – or shall we say lessons:
1. You will need double the boxes you think you need. Think you won’t be that domesticated tramp-like woman eyeing up cages in supermarket car parks for empty flattened boxes. YOU WILL. Think you won’t start developing ‘moving Tourette’s’ and chucking in the occasional “haven’t got any spare boxes have you?” at the end of sentences. YOU WILL. Just face it and accept it. We had 37, yes, 37 of those huge Ikea bags ‘for last minute bits’. How we laughed that we wouldn’t use them. We used every single one.
2. Don’t shit, wee, basically don’t use your toilets for approximately 6 months before you move. ‘Errm what?’ I hear you think. Let me paint the picture my friends: 4pm the day before we move I notice a real life shit stream running down the garden. The jets of crap were actually pushing through the earth in the garden and trickling down the garden with their gutt-curdling stench. Oh yes, the drains decided to be blocked just before we moved. Karma is a bitch. Not even the morning, not even the fucking morning to give us time to sort it out.
At 5pm – after some kind of meltdown by myself – Mr MotherFudger rushed home as did my wonderful father-in-law who ‘brought the rods’. Oh the rods. Sadly the shit river knew no bounds, and despite my father-in-law giving it a damn good go at clearing it and get covered in our waste (a bonding moment I never wanted), we had to accept defeat and pay £180 to Dynorod to come out at 9pm and sort the problem. My father-in-law’s words still echo round my mind “someone didn’t digest an olive properly now did they?”.
I even took a picture of the Dynorod machine once the shit swamp had been rectified – they have cameras on the end of the rods. Technology huh.
£180 – I’m taking a picture Mr Dynorod….although that is Mr MF’s back (he’s covered in poo at this point but you can’t properly see it!)
3. Never buy a pug dog. Stay with me, stay with me. So there we were, ready to get into our new home. All our stuff was in the van, we’d left our old home. The air fraught with excitement, tension, anticipation. I’m having a chat with the removal man:
Removal man: “have a look at my dog, isn’t he a beaut [reveals photo of pug dog]. £1000, but shouldn’t been £1400 – he had some stuff wrong with him.
Me: “a-ha, ok.”
Removal man: “he’s a busy dog, was playing around with him this morning, gave him a cuddle, then had to change my shirt…because…you know – because of [as he breaks off mid sentence as if I’m supposed to know what he means]…”
Me: I shake my head
Removal man: “you know – they seep don’t they – from their bums”.
Me: Retching in my head while making a mental note that we will never get a pug.
4. Do not under any circumstances move with your children around. Thank fuck we didn’t. 2 years and 3 years – need I say more. It was a wonderful sight to see them so excited when they did arrive from Chez Grandparents. And we’d really worried about how attached they’d be to the old house and how they’d feel really funny about the new one. Nope, just pure glee. And then when you want to do anything – unpack, paint etc ensure they are nowhere near.
Fuck you beige – we went with teal
5. Don’t plan your child’s birthday party within a month of moving. Clearly an over ambitious move. I was convinced it would be fine, but something has to give – in this instance it was the cake. I have quite bad parenting shame about the Pinterest fail that is my daughter’s ‘ice palace’. Hmmm, it was an interesting process, one I don’t want to repeat. But she loved it and so did her friends. Don’t mock me too harshly:
I could weep at the cake shame