New Neighbors Move In

My new neighbors have all their pictures on the wall, less than 18 hours after moving in. (We'll come back to how I know this). That's utterly insane and far to organized.

The moving truck showed up at 3:30 on Friday, with Young Couple, Cute Baby, and Her Parents in tow. They had the movers and their two SUV's totally unloaded within a couple hours. I took the dogs for a walk at 6, and sympathized with the over-stuffed garage. It'll take them months to clear that out, I was quite sure. And smug. Hell, it's been a couple years and I'm still digging out my garage and I have at least 6 pictures without permanent residence on any of MY walls.

So the pups and I are gone oh, maybe an hour. It was a nice night, there were squirrels to chase; cats to tease, and disgusting things to eat. We get back, and all that's left is a ginormous pile of flattenened boxes. The garage is completely empty. I stop dead in my tracks. How can this be happening? What are they, alien movers that sprout multiple arms behind closed doors? It's a 3-story townhouse, for god's sake! Lugging things up and down the stairs exhausts everyone, just ask any of my friends! They all comment on "it must be such a good workout living here." Tell that to my broadening beam, I say.

Anyway, I gape. Not a peep of a sound comes from inside -- no swearing, thumping, grunting..you know, typical moving-day hell noises. The pups are tugging at me for dinner so we trundle inside.

Last walkies at about 9:30...this is the part I said we'd get to later. From the darkening street, I can see into their living room as long as their curtains are open and the lights are on. Which they conveniently were. Everyone is sitting around on furniture that is thoughtfully placed, as opposed to haphazardly shoved up against the wall like all normal freshly-moved furniture should be. And here's the rub: hanging on every single wall I see...pictures. Mirrors. Knick knacks, for god's sake! What is the matter with you people? You should be exhausted! You just drove from Montana with a 6-week old Cute Baby and everything you own in tow! I expect to hear wailing (from adults or infant), gnashing of teeth, and general sounds of despair. Nothing.

Who has this easy of a move? I mean, I moved 5 times in 2005 (I do like the alliteration of it) and it was AGONY. I still have nightmares about lost underwear, missing toothbrushes, and that deja-vu feeling that comes post divorce (I know I used to have x, where the HELL is it???) since I wasn't sure who got what for quite a while. He moved out first while I was out of the country for 2 weeks, and took MY down quilt, my sleeping bag, not to mention my camping clothes. Why, I ask you? I NEVER want those back.

Anyway, so I took the dogs out for morning walkies with trepidation. I heard the garage door go up, so I knew they were up to something. It's your first day post move, stay inside and stumble over boxes, and scream at each other about "where the hell did you put the coffeemaker, for gods sake!" So the dogs and I trot out (they trot, I drag behind) and I stop dead in front of the open garage. It is freshly swept, barren of all things moving, and yet...there's at least a full-flat of Two Buck Chuck sitting tidily in the middle. Maybe they used the boxes for moving? I give a furtive look around and peek inside. Nope, I see bottles. Whoah. That's a lot of Chuck, considering the Trader Joe's is all of a mile away. And there's another 2 in the city, so it's not like there's going to be a Chuck Emergency, right??

I hear a polite cough behind me and jump, mentally chastising the dogs for not putting up a warning. Oh no, they're getting chin scratches and ear rubs. Traitors. "That's a lot of Chuck!" I say brightly. Her Father agrees, and explains that there is not Trader Joes in Montana, so they are stocking up. I babble in relieved agreement. I am relieved because I pictured the piles of empty bottles on recycly day, and the driver cursing us all for our imbibing ways.

Young Husband comes out, and the men proceed to install shelves in the garage at light speed. I'm openmouthed, dumbfounded and jealous, and the dogs and I finally trot off for the morning's potty run.

"These people are too perfect" I mumble as I pull an assortment of poop bags out of my pocket. Tinkerbell looks at me over her shoulder and her brown eyes are full of pity. Traitor for an ear scratch and a cookie, I think to myself. I vow NOT to look in their windows anymore -- I may see hand-stenciling, faux marbeling or real marbeling before lunch.

They are so darned efficient, maybe I should just hire them