Not Junk

Being relocated by professional movers has been exceedingly complicated.

I've been in touch with, at last count, eight different people about various parts of the move. In most cases, it seems like the responsibilities are subcontracted downward three or four levels—it seems somewhat unnecessary to me, but then again, I'm not trying to run a nationwide relocation service, either. I suspect it's complicated at the very top of the chain...but I really don't know how complicated, exactly.

One of the many problems with this is that my email and cell phone have been flooded with messages. This caused a problem last night when I discovered that I had not yet confirmed that corporate temporary housing would be available to me upon my arrival in Ye Olde Seattlee.

So, I sent an email to my relocation coordinator. Her response was roughly,

I'll book that when you turn your form in.

Sans the attitude, though. I suppose that if I had written it, the message would have been significantly more vitriolic. And probably in one of those voice-of-God things I do.

And lo, Joseph looked upon the valley of the damned and asked, "where is my apartment, Oh Lord?"

And the Lord put down his long island iced tea and spoke upon Joseph, "Maybe it's where your housing application is: shoved up your ass."

Anyway.

Digging through my email, I found that—oh shit, I hadn't filled out the form yet. I remember receiving it and thinking it was a recap of another form, sent back to me to make sure it was all correct. Clearly, I don't look over those closely enough either, because it ended up getting filed in the "looked-at-and-confirmed-to-be-correct" file.

Anyway, after sending everything back, I got a response that implied that temporary housing would be available, but that my exact address would not be determined until a few days before I arrived.

OK, then. And, in the future, I may not even file anything prematurely. One can dream. Dream of filing.