I hate it when people are like me, in that they collect very heavy books, are short and thus need large clunky shoes, are quiet and rabbity and thus don't like to ask for help, and then need help moving.
I helped my niece Katie, the Littlest Oncology Nurse, move to a house on the edge of the Hawthorne district that she will be sharing with a couple of friends.
Since all her friends seemed to be involved in a complicated apartment-shuffling procedure this weekend, she had to scrape the bottom of the barrel of available warm bodies and came up with me, her parents and her grandparents. Poor thing. She deserved a better crew. But we got the job done.
I always feel sorry for her when both her mom and I are around, because her mom can't help but revert to calling her Janice. Or Janice/Katie. It must be hard to look at me (at a hard-living 45) when you're 23 and say to yourself, yeah, I guess I can see the resemblance.
Three flights up to move out and 1 1/2 flights up to move in.
Calgon, take me away!