Jersey Style

So those of you that have been with me for years remember the debacle of moving the Buttlickers two years ago. Because how could you not? But I've noticed a lot of new traffic here (Hi! Um, sorry about my bad language. And the goat balls. And um, sucking) so I'll catch you up...

2006 - This was the height of the housing boom here in the Desert and EVERYONE was buying new, giant, custom, overpriced houses. Well, everyone but us, because we love the ghetto and you know, being able to pay our mortgage AND eat. But my husbands friends, the Buttlickers, were seduced by an 80/20 ARM loan on a $400,000 semi custom house. Across the street from a dairy farm. I think they probably had to pay extra for the ambiance of cow ass. They decide to move on a day that registered 112* in the shade. But we're nice people (read: SUCKERS) so we show up to help them move. With our truck. And our trailer. And our hand-truck. And tape, boxes, drinks, tie downs and a babysitter for their children. (yeah, I KNOW). And guess what? THEY HAD NOT PACKED ONE SINGLE BOX. Okay, that may be an exaggeration. There were some boxes that were packed. From their last move. There were four trucks there though, complete with two or more movers each. That's what friends do, right? So as we pack them, the wife leaves. LEAVES. Leaves the kids, the house, all their friends and goes to Home Depot to buy paint for the new house. AND DOES NOT COME BACK. (Why, yes, I DO carry a grudge for ages!) Seven hours and two tanks for diesel fuel later (that I paid for), we break for lunch. That we pay for ourselves. Seven more hours and we go home, exhausted and vow to never, ever move them again.

2008 - They haven't paid their mortgage since last summer. Because he has lost five jobs in less than a year and has found himself to be unemployable in an industry he's worked in for 20 years. Their mortgage has reset bringing the monthly payments to the sum of twice their income. The house goes to auction and they have to move again. Guess who they call? Right. Guess who are the only people to show up? I'll give you a hint, they're suckers. So there we are, the only people they know (including their families!) who show up. I don't say this to pat myself on the back for being a good friend, I say this because I am clearly lacking in some mental capacity. I KNOW they are not fully packed because they TOLD me they weren't. Again. Yet there we are, with truck, trailor, cart, baby-sitter, drinks (they had nothing but tepid tap water - and two cups). Jersey Smooth showed up about a half hour after us and Dr. Hotstuff came by about an hour after that, so we set to moving. And you know what? I was glad I showed up. Their house was so filthy it made me feel much better about my own. (Shut up. I know I'm a bad person. Believe me, I KNOW)

The move was pretty uneventful, except for the screaming match. And their kids hitting each other with sticks and screaming so loud my uterus shriveled up. And Mr. BL almost rolling the truck. And the fact it was over 100*. And spending $50 on Gaterade, ice, bottled water & popsicles. And the second screaming match. And the third screaming match.

We did get all the furniture and packed boxes moved on Saturday, so we didn't feel at all bad about telling them they were on their own on Sunday. Then Mr. BL, knowing our house is 30 years old and a spec house at that, says Hey! Do you guys want new bathroom fixtures? Or some ceiling fans? Because we paid for all these upgrades and we're taking them with us. Right. They're taking the FIXTURES with them. Now you're probably saying, what kind of person moves out and takes the toilets. But me? I'm saying, SCORE! Because my toilets? They SUCK. One doesn't always flush and one flushes sometimes, but then leaks water from the tank and makes an annoying sucksucksucksuck noise and then flushes itself. Despite 6 replacements of it's hardware. So me? I promise Jersey Smooth some pizza and rootbeer (because a. He's a cheap worker and b. he used to be an actual licensed plumber) if he'll steal me the toilets.

Which is how we wound up back there on Sunday at lunch time. Where guess what? They had not moved one single thing. They had however managed to convice Dirty DEA and his lovely bride to drive 100 miles to come and help. And where was Mrs. BL? At the new house. Taking a nap. So we stole the toilets and left.

No, we didn't really. We stole the toilets, the ceiling fans, the faucets and the light fixtures and then helped pack the rest of the stuff (crammed in trash bags) into the truck. While making fun of their collection of breast pumps and thousands of dirty socks stashed in every nook and cranny of the house.

Then we went home and changed our phone numbers. Because I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.