Home sweet moving container.
So I moved to DC a week ago from Vermont and things are going really well so far. And by really well, I’m mean they’re going about the same as Todd Akin’s campaign to upend Sen. Claire McCaskill (I’m in DC so this is the obligatory political reference) went. Which is to say it’s going crap.
Allow me to explain with as much brevity as I am able. Which is not much.
First, there was a hurricane named Sandy, who came blazing into town wearing a satiny Pink Ladies jacket singing Summer Nights and looking all doe-eyed. Except she wasn’t actually doe-eyed since she practically wiped out coastal New Jersey. Because of the storm, all my worldly belongings got held up in a moving truck somewhere near Scranton. Which is an amazing place to get stuck, by the way. As a result, they weren’t delivered until a few days after I moved into my apartment. No huge tragedy considering the scope of the storm, but an annoyance to be sure. Unless you like sleeping on an air mattress and crying into your pan-Latin(o) takeout. Which I don’t.
When my stuff finally arrived (all in one piece thanks to the amazing Tetris packing skillz of my pal, Warren), I realized I would have to take care of the arduous task of unloading my mobile storage unit myself. Being new to a place means that you have no friends and thus nobody to help you do anything without payment. Luckily, I have a couple of friends in the area. Unfortunately, they’re all homosexual men who don’t like getting dirty. Ooh, icky. So I put on my Hulkamaniac hat and went to work alone.