The Big Blue Box of Booty

It’s here, it’s here, it finally arrived!

Seeing that shipping container show up at the right address, on time – how it looked just like it had in January, driving away from the apartment – how the braces held up through shipping, so that boxes failed to spill out onto the road when the doors were opened – how it was full of our crap, and not someone else’s crap or 8,000 toaster ovens –

It was like betting $5,000 on a hand of cards at the casino and coming out even. Uneventful, anticlimactic, the best I could ever have hoped for.

Of course we considered donating or selling it all and starting from scratch. However, it was quickly apparent that no one wanted my smelly derby skates nearly as much as I do. In fact, we had 500 cubic feet of stuff that we figured we wanted more than anyone else, and would rather not have to buy again.


It took three months of online research, screening companies, comparing quotes and reading online forums to finally decide how to get our stuff to the UK. We were warned about customs fees, train yard fees, tarif fees, fees for having fees, fees for having a container in a yard, out of the yard, running into bad weather. Apparently, if your container is lost at sea, you don’t have much recourse. International waters, anything goes.


We still did donate or sell lots of things. The purge actually began 8 months before we moved – first clearing out a four bedroom house, then paring the apartment into what was worthy of being packed. I would not be surprised to find that my fiance had my name on the short list for hoarders.


All our most precious things have been on a long journey, not unlike our own, across the pond. And today, after having been packed and stacked in Chicago, they are here in Southport 7 weeks later, where they are to be immediately stacked and packed them into a relative’s garage, where they are likely to remain for another 7 weeks. But not before I triple my wardrobe by fishing out three more pair of yoga pants.


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