a more accurate account of casualties

captures my feelings of surreality -from Internet Archive Book Images on flickr Commons
captures my feelings of surreality
-from Internet Archive Book Images on flickr Commons

Update: we’re in San Francisco now, Richmond neighborhood. I’ve become a bit more protective of my location in recent years just because I’ve seen people get way more liberal with the psychic attack with way less reason than ever before. Now all it takes is a blow to the ego. Back in the day, nobody did it without a Reason. ((Back in my day. I’ve read the Crowley and Fortune about that stuff. In truth, we seem to be going through a retro period with that shit.)) I managed to meet David Salisbury, and the folks at the Mystic Dream. It was a refreshing experience – I can’t remember the last time I went to a Minnesota Pagan event where I wasn’t snubbed, verbally attacked, bored, or all three with the exception of Paganicon. (To my friends asking me to go to Paganicon next year…er, got airfare?)  I so want to take a conjure class, but at this point I have enough money for a new couch, and Pantheacon registration. Also, both events: Pantheacon is over Valentine’s Day weekend, and Paganicon is over Saint Patrick’s Day weekend. You’re really trying to punish us non-Celts who haven’t sunk the whole of our identity into our Paganism, aren’t you?

Moving casualties: 5 – bottle of nail polish remover (why was it packed?), a soap dish made from a recycled vinyl album, the four-cup coffee maker, some of Mike’s Magic the Gathering cards when a pen exploded on the decks, one of the plane white Ikea lamps. …almost my dignity.

Packing absurdities: 1 – someone packed the wet soap in with a different soap dish. We haven’t opened all the boxes yet, but that seems to be the worst of it so far.

Pizza places tried: 1. Fireman’s Pizza. It’s like if Pizza Hut actually had a conscience about its ingredients and delivered the personal pan pizzas.

Chinese places tried: 1. Hunan. Don’t get the crabmeat soup unless you love bitter melon.

Handicaps: Midwestern plague hovered on move-in day. Had to go it alone as Mike was in training (normally not an issue, so of course today…) Glad we moved as fast as we did – San Jose felt like wife jail.


The packing up and moving out went smooth, fast, and was finished in about 4 hours. The moving in, however….

took about seven hours, and at the end of it I signed a stack of papers to get those assholes out of my house. Since they were moving into a one level apartment and the packers moved us out of a three story townhouse… there’s a lot to explain with those discrepancies. A play by play would be too exhausting, so a few highlights:

*when the foreman (or whatever they call the crew lead) asked where the bedroom was. Starts off ok, they do need to know where they put the bed.  Conversation should be simple: “this is the room. Right there, facing this way.” Nope, this guy had to make it as uncomfortable as humanly possibly, especially given that there was exactly one bed on that damn truck. He demanded – didn’t ask, demanded to know where I sleep, and why a lady alone needed a three bedroom. I actually had to invoke the loathed word “husband” as self protection. (I admittedly used it the day before when a coffee companion used the word “boyfriend” for Mike. In that case, I had been using “partner” with that person but I realized I needed to add some weight so he understood the full scale of the relationship.)

Thus suitably creeped out, I set up my Ipad on movie long enough to get video of all of them, and for them to see me taking video. So if my body got lost at sea, the ever invasive ICloud people could proffer a list of suspects.Thank the gods for that stupid movie Sex Tape – it had them good and paranoid it’s all on a cloud somewhere.

It did not get better – these guys needed way more help and attention than the packers, and kept finding excuses to ask me dumb shit “Do you really want all the boxes here?” When I told them where to put boxes, they usually went in the wrong room. They kept asking me what various pieces of furniture were for. I have hired movers on several occasions as many of you know from the “sorry, everyone else has borked their moving karma with me by too many failures to reciprocate. Don’t help, don’t ask for help” policy.  I have never, EVER dealt with the degree of hassle I did with this crew. Oh, and the youngest kept asking me to look up places for them to go to lunch. “I just moved here, kid.” “Google can help us!’’

I finally resorted to downloading Bubble Pop! on my Ipad to keep from going completely insane.

At the end, I had to listen to the foreman tell me about what a “people person” he is while the kid sat in my chair playing with his phone. Moving is always stressful, and I am still pretty upset about this move. Of all the things Mike had to leave me to deal with On My Own this was by far the worst one he could have chosen. At least I discovered Fireman’s Pizza out of it. But I was moderately traumatized by the end of it. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it here before but I have a diagnosis of PTSD (sort of, as in “do I have this?” “that’s an accurate assessment.”)  – I am very, very high functioning, and can go without medication because I am fucking lucky. If this had gone on another hour it likely would have had to dial my old therapist’s emergency phone line.

As it was… well, this is the phase of moving I really hate. Somewhere between today and yesterday my BB cream disappeared. I am using the Fancy hair smoother because the coconut water spritz is living in the walls for all I know. I am also in the process of – for the second time in two years – jettisoning about 70% of my wardrobe. Storage is tight here, and as it is Mike is keeping his clothing in a closet in a different room than mine. This bugs the shit out of me. Of course, because this is the North Bay, I need pretty much all except my subzero weather clothing from Minnesota. The only way to dress here is in layers.

The building is nice – we are the only non-college students here and I think we got the place on the strength of my lack of income rather than on the strength of Mike’s job. I might? be the only woman living here. From the sounds below us every night, it’s more likely I’m the only woman living here legally. The boys below us are the age I was when I started college, and the ones further down are possibly nontrad age – they definitely seem far more mature and grounded, anyway.


I can’t say that since after the move things have been terribly adventurous. There’s more Chinese obscura cuisine, and fusions I never even considered, like the Vietnamese Italian place right next to the Italian place owned by a Vietnamese couple. The neighborhood we’re in is the opposite of trendy, thank the gods. While the relative isolation/self-containment of the Presidio tempted me, my friends were right about this one – someone as oriented towards the city spirit needs to be in the city, not living in a liminal space that is not city and is not not-city.

We can walk to the grocery store from here, but it’s a minor haul. We can sort of walk to the two main drags, but right now I am really only in good enough shape for the closer of the two.

We’ve mostly ordered in – this illness has been quite persistent – and part of it has been me in that hellish moving phase where you know you already have things but you still sometimes need to buy them.

I have specific, simple plans for the near future. Mainly about fulfilling old obligations and clearing a path for new projects. Sorry to be vague, but I’ve found that plans are like birthday wishes – you get too specific outside if your therapist’s office, they won’t come true. I’m really glad we’re finishing all this before Mercury Retrograde, that’s for sure!