January 2004

I Moved to the Future

There's a short list of Sisyphean ordeals in this day and age, but moving must be tied for second with manually unclogging a drain in a public restroom. If you ask most people, they may say that moving is a joyous experience, full of wonder, excitement, and adventure. These people need to be locked up. And lobotomized.

I've had the somewhat unique experience of moving overseas recently, and I can confidently say that "adjustment" is a long way off. Japan is certainly an interesting place, but since Uncle Sam was in charge of shipping my household goods to me, I just about begged for a loaded sidearm to keep me company.

One of the first things I did on base was stay at "billeting", or, as I like to call it, "an Air Force Holiday Inn", because that's essentially what it was. While I was put up in this hotel, I arranged to have my own quarters reserved and readied for my move-in. So, let me tell you about moving into a "Q".

The BOQs, or Bachelor Officers Quarters here on base are meant for: A) Bachelor Officers, and B) Single Civilians. This might sound Jim Dandy to you, but let me set you straight. My Q is widely known (and this is no joke whatsoever) as "Menopause Manor". Needless to say, there aren't many people my age living here. Most of the past-due-date women teachers on base live in my Q, and their rooms were readily identifiable as I was lugging my suitcases to my room (#
112) by the cutesy doormats, wafting potpourri, and Kitten motif doorsigns.

But enough about the old broads. The military nowadays contracts moving companies to ship a person's household goods that s/he cannot bring on the plane. I had a good supply of clothing and teaching supplies with me in my suitcases, but the good stuff was sitting in a warehouse somewhere for 2 weeks.

Then, arrival day came. I received a phone call requesting my presence on the following day (of the phone call) at a certain time to receive the movers and my junk. I had, by the way, 850 pounds of junk, and I had no idea how they'd packed it. That's right, I didn't even pack my own stuff. I was already in Japan when that happened. ALl I had to do was set it aside, and my folks held onto it until Atlas Movers came and wrapped it all up.

At 3:12 in the afternoon, I got a knock on my Q door. The movers had arrived, and the paperwork relay race began. Initial here. Sign there. Initial there. Sign twice here and here, and date them both. Oh, and date this here. Put the needle there, and make your fist into a ball. The blood flows easier that way, you'll see. Sign that. Hold this cotton gauze over the puncture wound while we take some blood out of the other arm.

After the goddamn Olympics of Clipboarding and Paperwork was done, I went out to the moving truck and saw, no joke here either, three wooden crates, each about 3' X 3' X 4'. One of them was mine, and they popped the top on mine. Inside was a veritable rabbit's warren of brown paper and tape. Somewhere underneath it all was my stuff.

Fast forward to the unpacking stage. Yee-haw.

All in all, it wasn't as painful as I'd feared. I'm still adjusting to a lot of things here, and I've rearranged my Q at least three time so far. That's a lot for me. My advice to anyone doing what I did is to pack what you need for about a week, and buy laundry detergent and groceries your first day there. And, for God's sake, buy your favorite booze. If that's unavailable, buy something that looks interesting and experiment with it until you go blind.