"Toto... I don't think we're in Bako anymore."
I can't believe it's already been a week.
The move was remarkably smooth and outrageously expensive. It was my first time moving "long distance", which is anything over a hundred miles. And it's a racket. "Long distance" moves are priced by the pound, by law. It's a Ponzi scheme and it's predicated on the fact that no one knows how much all their shit weighs. Here's how it works...
You fill out a standardized online inventory of your crap. It's very detailed and I erred on the side of caution and over-estimated the number of boxes, etc. You submit it to potential movers. I contacted about a dozen, some in Bako, some in LA, some in Orange County. The movers contact you back. With your inventory in hand, they ask you the size of the home you're moving, which in our case was a three bedroom house. Once you relay that information, they pause ever so slightly, and then they say...
"Well, for 8000 pounds, we charge 21/23/25 cents per pound."
It was suspiciously the same with every single mover. After I mentioned the three bedroom house, every last one of them came back with "Well, for 8000 pounds..." Now, you could be forgiven for thinking all your shit weighs around 8000 pounds. Every single mover, with their years of experience and your itemized inventory in hand, has thrown out the 8000 pound figure. And 8000 pounds sounds like a lot. It is, it's four fucking tons!
But in hindsight, you'll notice they didn't say "Your shit weighs around 8000 pounds." It turns out "8000 pounds" is mover-speak for "sucker".
The first red flag was when the movers showed up and the foreman made a big production of showing me the certificate they got from the truck scales when they came through empty. It was kind of like when a magician has you check out the box or hat or whatever to prove there is no trickery involved. It actually means you're about to be played for a fool.
The movers made quick work of everything and around 1pm the last of our things was loaded on the truck and the doors slammed shut and red flag number two popped up. Actually, it was more like a four alarm siren.
"Your stuff weighs way more than 8000 pounds" the foreman says.
NOW you tell me!? AFTER everything is loaded and locked on the truck?! How much more?????
The foreman shrugged, he didn't care. It's all part of the scam. And then he delivered the coup de grâce.
"I'll need one of you to follow us to the truck scale and verify the weight."
Our hearts sank. The only reason they would have us do this is if they knew in advance we were going to be shocked at the weight and dispute it. It was to cover their asses.
The boyfriend reluctantly went since I had the dogs. I left the house about 15 minutes after him and as I was driving out of Bako for the very last time, the phone rang with the news...
Our shit weighs 21,000 pounds!
And that was after we sold off two rooms of furniture!
It felt like a hostage situation but between our meager savings and a loan from my parents, we were all moved in by sunset.
And then there's the "house"...
The first time I saw it was when we moved in and, as feared, it's doll-house small. Just getting the basics in was like an advanced game of Jenga. Currently, the garage is full of everything that wouldn't fit and if I ever hope to park my car there we will be downsizing even further. It's a little like living on a boat or in an RV. An RV with pull-outs. But here's the thing... I really like it. These are compact times and I rather like living a compact life. The ironic thing is, while I'm fine with it, the boyfriend, who picked it out and fought for it, is the one who's most distressed. Primarily because his grand design vision was D.O.A. the minute the furniture started moving in and he realized just how small the space is.
At the end of the day, it's all a small price to pay for being out of Bako, for being close to family and old friends, for the work opportunities and peace of mind.
Not to mention, our health.
The first revelation our first morning here was... the air. That's one of those things you take for granted, air. Until you live somewhere like Bakersfield where it's in short supply. I walked out the door with the dogs and could smell eucalyptus and the ocean, which is a vast improvement over the stench of burning cow carcasses and pesticides which we'd sadly become accustomed to over the past two plus years. Within the first two days, the hacking cough I'd developed back in December vanished.
So so far, it's all been wonderful. I couldn't be happier. The boyfriend too.
We haven't really met many people yet, but the boyfriend and I have perfected our backstory. It goes something like this...
"When the economy tanked, we both lost our jobs and eventually we had to sell our house in LA, and yadda yadda yadda, we moved to Orange County."
'Nuf said.
As regards to future plans for a new blog... maybe. Probably. I really miss the writing so I'm sure in time I'll fire up a new one, but not right now.
And the reason is simple... I'm happy. I haven't been happy in four years. And I think we can all agree, happy blogs suck.
So give it some time. Knowing me, this too shall pass.
So thank you all for reading the blog. And if you ever find yourself passing through Bako, think of me fondly.
And consider yourself warned. ;-)
