FACT: I hate moving. I loathe moving. I DESPISE moving.
FACT: I have moved a total of five times over the last five and a half years.
REASONABLE CONCLUSION: I was dropped on my head repeatedly as a small child, and as a result, I have the intelligence of peat moss.
To make myself sound even more idiotic, each move has gotten progressively more complicated. The first three were in-town moves, for all intents and purposes; the fourth was from Reno to Las Vegas. And the most recent one was to Tucson, Ariz.
I have told many people -- both friends and strangers, both in Las Vegas and Tucson -- about this move. And everyone, without exception, has responded with the same query:
WHY?!?
Go back and read the REASONABLE CONCLUSION paragraph for a possible reason.
Another reason was the fact that I was offered a really cool job that I was smart enough not to refuse, despite my history of being dropped on my noggin. So, with that, I decided to move.
Since the company for which I am working was paying for the move, I was able to get a moving company. The first thing I did was called and arranged for some estimates. This sounds like a simple process. But then again, so does childbirth, and if you ask most women how simple that process is, you'll probably get punched in the neck.
The representative for the first company came, and I am not exaggerating when I say this woman could use some medication. She, without provocation, told me about her failed recent relationship and a number of other personal problems as she whizzed around my apartment doing the estimate. She then extolled her virtues as a moving estimator and said, essentially, that all other moving companies -- including the other company I had set up an estimate with -- are crooked bastards who will overcharge me and/or give me a lowball estimate and then refuse to release my stuff unless I pay them bazillions of dollars extra.
The representative of the second company, thankfully, seemed far more sane, although he also implied that every other moving company in the world -- yes, including the company who employs psychoestimator -- has the ethics of Enron executives in need of their morning coffee.
I went with the second company. Yes, their estimate was $200 cheaper, but the primary reason I went with them was that the woman from company No. 1 was so alarming.
After a few hitches in the getalong, the company came, packed up all my stuff, and left me behind with a TV, some clothes, an air mattress and my cat, Beavis. (It is an odd feeling for people you've never met before to come, take all of your stuff and then leave as you watch them drive away.) I then cleaned my apartment and left. (It's also an odd feeling to get your apartment spotless and then leave, never to return.)
And at this point, the star in this moving tale becomes Beavis, the aforementioned yellow mutt tabby cat.
First, some history. When I moved from Reno to Vegas, Beavis was a sweetheart of a cat. He barely made a peep, and was content to snooze in his cat carrier almost the entire way without incident.
Well, times change, and for whatever reason, so does the behavior of neurotic cats. Let's just say that for the first two hours of our trip to Tucson, Beavis yowled.
Not meowed. Not cried. I'm talking yowled, the kitty equivalent of screaming at the top of your lungs. I love that cat as much as any other being on this Earth, but those two hours made me debate why in the world anybody would ever want a cat within 17 miles of them. I now think ancient Egyptians, who once worshipped cats as gods, were the dumbest people to ever walk the Earth.
Anyway, we arrived in once piece, unpacked the cat, and went to sleep. The next day, my friend and I went to breakfast, leaving Beavis alone in the apartment for the first time.
When we returned, Beavis joyfully greeted us at the door. However, Beavis was black.
Did I mention that my apartment has a fireplace? Well, it does, and Beavis had discovered it. After a trip to the drugstore (to buy some tearless shampoo) and one of the more contentions baths in the history of the planet, Beavis was soot-free, and my nerves were shot.
But now, here I am, in Tucson, all settled. The stuff is unpacked; the movers have been dealt with; the cat has learned to avoid the fireplace.
And I have decided that whether or not I like Tucson, I am going to never move away this apartment. I am retiring here.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan on exile in Arizona. He was just kidding about retiring in Tucson; he'll be back in Nevada one day. His column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.