Religious Doesn't Always Equal Smart.

We have moved!

We are done...sort of. We now just have to clean the old place, get the carpets shampooed at the old place, and put all of our shit away.

This move wasn't near the adventure as when we moved from Pullman to Portland.

The short version of that move is: the Penske truck threatened to overheat unless we turned off the A/C as we were navigating the steep hills and valleys of Walla Walla on the hottest day of the year, and my brother had to be rushed to the hospital the day after move-in to get his appendix taken out. Hooray. That was fun.

While this move wasn't as dramatic, it wasn't without drama of its own.

We were at the old house packing madly until about midnight when my limbs could only move like wet spaghetti and Rob called it a night. It was so hot we were so thankful to be leaving it to go sleep on a hard floor in a sleeping bag in a house with central air.

We slept in later than I expected, then left the new house to go pick up the moving van.

People at work kept asking us on Thursday whether we were hiring movers.

Our answer?

Fuck no.

I think their reasoning for asking this could be alluded to one or more of the following:

a) They have never moved themselves a day in their lives and were born with silver spoons in their mouths (which would make me question why they are working at all),

b) They moved enough times to consider moving services an essential expense, even if it means they cannot afford anything else (like paint),

c) They think we are loaded and can afford it (HA! Just let me write that down on my Louis Vuitton legal pad...),

or d) They look at me and my weenie arms and realize there's no fucking way I could lift anything more than a small bag of sugar. And they're about right. I may be like an ant and can lift my own weight, but it's not for very long--about ten seconds.

I guess, in a way, we had our own movers. Rob, his dad, and my brother. Those poor saps volunteered to help! Of course, we thanked them profusely, my sister-in-law bribed them with Burgerville, and I made sure they had cold beer when they were done.

Rob and went to pick up the moving van. This moving van company franchises out their rental agencies, so this could be anywhere.

Like Godz Isle Auto Sales.

I should have known that any fine establishment that spells anything with a z instead of an s should be a place I avoid at all times.

We drive in, and I have to slow way down because the potholes are so deep in their "parking lot."

This "place of business" isn't just auto sales, oh, no.

They have cars, trucks, ATVs, motorcycles, scooters, outdoor recreation apparel, and...free Bibles.

At least that's one of the first things I saw when we opened the door to the office.

Scrawled in Sharpie on a cardboard box sitting on the dirty glass counter was, "Free Bibles Take One."

Oh God.

I realized what kind of place this was.

Auto sales for the uber-religious.

I looked around some more and then realized I should have just kept my eyes on the dirty carpet.

A clipboard was tacked on to a post and on the clipboard was, printed in Old English font was: "Hello. This is God. I am in control of your life, so don't be mad. I love you."

Wow. That didn't even make any sense.

And on the door to the back office was a big Ten Commandments poster.

My heart started racing. I needed to get out.

Right then, the pudgy man behind the counter finally acknowledged that we were even standing there.

"I'll be with you in a moment," he said as he went back to helping the enormous bearded man standing in front of us. It took Mr. Pudgy 10 minutes to finally say something to us. Usually in retail, you acknowledge the next customer in line right away--this way, it makes them feel they've been waiting less time.

We waited long enough for me to notice the overly neon "Open" sign when a tall, gangly man walked in and asked us, "Back already?''

I had never been here in my life, and now, this balding, stick man was asking me if I was back already?

We both gave him a bewildered look. He paused and then asked, "renting a moving van?"

It was almost as if his brain had two modes: Renting a moving van, and back already?

He switched modes, sat down at a computer and we told him we had a 17' truck reserved for Marsh. We reserved it online about two weeks ago.

About five minutes passed by until he finally brought up our information.

"Marsh?" he asked.

"Yes," my husband replied.

He then switched positions with Mr. Pudgy, who walked enormous man out the door to his moving truck.

"What's the name again?"

"Marsh," my husband replied.

"Okaaaayyyy..." he trailed. It took another ten minutes, and in that timeframe, I was looking up other truck locations, ready to call them to see if they had our size truck available, because I could tolerate this no more.

Mr. Pudgy came back, switched seats with Mr. Gangly, and then asked, "what's the name?"

"Marsh," my exasperated husband replied.

They switched computers again, and finally, Mr. Gangly said, "Oookay...reservation for 10:00 for Marsh. 14-footer?"

I could feel the blood begin to rise from my toes.

"No, we have a 17-footer reserved," I said. I knew they were going to be a problem, so I opened up my e-mail to find the confirmation from the actual moving van company that mentions the exact length of the truck we reserved.

"Uh, it says here you reserved a 14-footer." Mr. Gangly said as he stared blankly at the screen.

"No, we reserved a 17-footer."

"Do you have a confirmation number?"

My husband whispered to me, "Do you have it?"

I did. I had it written down in my trusty notebook and had brought up the e-mail from the moving van company that mentioned the specifics of our reservation, including the size of the truck. By then, my fists were clenching and I was ready to call any of the other companies the minute my husband said, "Go."

They looked up our confirmation, looked at my e-mail (thank you, iPhone!), scratched their heads, and then said,

"We don't have a 17-footer right now."

Of course you don't, I thought, because you rented it to Enormous Man who came here before us!

I was pissed. I was ready to hop over their filthy glass counter, break Mr. Gangly's legs, and smoosh Mr. Pudgy's face until he cried.

My husband knew I had blown a head gasket and needed to pull over for a calming pit stop, so he knew to step in and finish the "negotiation."

Since the 14-footer and the 17-footer were the same price, the d-bags knocked down our price of the rental.

As my husband was signing the agreement, he muttered, "Next time, we're using Penske."

I love him.