I really get annoyed when a word gets over used, like when people throw around the word love or hate or fury or rage. By over using it, it starts to take on a lighter version of itself. Take someone that says they hate lemon… is that person willing to destroy every lemon he encounters? Remove lemon trees from the planet? Pee on every piece of lemon candy they encounter so no one can enjoy it? No… instead they would just avoid the fruit when offered it. That’s hate being used in a way that makes it a lighter version of itself. Having said that, I can honestly tell you that I am furious.

Yep. I am. I think I scared my sister, when I talked to her on the phone tonight, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve never been this angry and certainly have never felt more helpless and betrayed. And this is why.

About two weeks before I moved, I got a visit from a surveyor that worked for the moving company I used when heading west. He went from room to room, making notes, offering comments, and generally checking out what was in the house. While in one of the bedrooms, he asked me, “What are the things that are absolutely the most important things that you want moved?” I laughed and before I could reply “All of it,” he told me he was asking about the things that needed extra TLC. I pointed out a box of pictures and a few other things.

Just before I left town, my sister gave me a photo album filled with pictures that had come from an archive that included about 50 years of family photos. She included pictures that were funny and memorable; she even added a capture to each page. I had every intension of putting it on my coffee table in my new place; if the new place caught fire, it would be the first thing I went for, since I don’t have any pets. It was a family heirloom, in training.

As I was readying my stuff for the move, I emptied out my two fireproof lock boxes: I wasn’t supposed to pack anything that had a monetary value. This included my car title, my deed, my will, and other stuff; I brought that all with me, because paper is hard to hurt and there wasn’t much of it. When all was said and done, I had two things that weren’t worth much from a “cash” perspective, but were very valuable to me for other reasons. One was the photo album; the other was an award that I had received when I completed my Masters degree, in 2001. Seeing as I was never recognized for anything academic throughout my youth, this one award made me feel justified that I slacked off through 17 years of education… after all if I ended the “game” with the top prize, then the rest of the school doesn’t matter as much, right?

Anyway, since I was concerned about traveling with these items, I had a great idea: put them in the lock box! It was fireproof, waterproof, and I had two keys for it. That way if the airlines lost my luggage, I didn’t have to worry. If I put it in my already tight carry-on, I was concerned that it would get mauled while in transit. The lock box seemed to be the best bet, all around.

When the packers came to my condo, I showed then the lock box and what was in it. While the movers were loading the truck, I opened the box to show them what was in it – it was against the rules to ship deeds, cash, jewelry, etc. – both the packers and the movers agreed it was a good idea. They too told me that these were the types of things that needed TLC and they would pay extra attention to them.

Of course, in layman’s terms this translates into “kiss your stuff good-bye.”

For two weeks I was in temporary housing. Since they limit you to only five pieces of stuff to be delivered for this temporary arrangement, I went with clothes, computer, and a couple of other things. Two weeks after that, I was in my permanent apartment, and I had the remainder of my stuff delivered. For five hours I had three guys running all over the house, unloading some things, unpacking others, all the while playing a madcap game of bingo. They gave me two sheets of numbers from 001-999 and as they brought stuff in, I was supposed to check them off.

I missed about five numbers. That’s OK because when it was all moved in, we went over the manifests. That’s where I found out that a bunch of stuff came in without numbers and a bunch of numbers weren’t checked off. Oh, and did I mention that I couldn’t read 75% of the manifest? If it was typed in a Wingding font, it would make been easier to read. Ten entries that I could read were just “black box” or “box”. That was very helpful. At this point, the movers matched up the boxes to the list and started to pack up some extra crap to leave.

Five minutes later, I was standing with the head mover, staring at every piece of hanging clothing I owned, that was now piled on the floor. The guy that unpacked the wardrobe boxes (and this was a “perk” of being moved by these guys) put everything on one side of the shelf/pole, and that was enough to pull it clean off the wall. The management company took care of it the next day, but I was still a bit annoyed by it, seeing as everything on the rack was covered in dry wall dust (meaning that I should spend about $300 in dry cleaning, over the next year.)

Twelve hours later, I was ripping through every box in the place because I had realized that I hadn’t seen my lock box. Thirty-six hours later, I could barely walk room to room: every box I had was empty and I now realized I was missing a lock box, a bowling bag (completely with ball and shoes), and my electric bass gig bag (which had my patch cable and tuner). I called my representative with the moving company, and while I was concerned, I pleasant: I was trying to adjust to my new friendly and laid back environment. She politely told me that it would take up to six weeks to put a tracer on the items. And so I started to wait.

Today, I got a letter from the moving company telling me that “We’re sorry but we’ve done all the we can” and that they “called all of the people that it might have been delivered to”, but they still can’t seem to find my items anywhere. They were also “sorry that I would have to file a claim” for my lose. Tonight, I reached back into my Italian-fueled, Northeastern-bred, are-you-talking-to-me cache of ire, before calling the moving company. It seems you can take a Yankee out of the northeast but you can’t take all of the northeast out of a Yankee, after all.

Because this is unacceptable. This is not something that I intend to live with. I can replace the bowling crap. I’m dealing without the tuner and I can get a new gig bag. What I cannot replace is the photo album and the award. I might be able to contact my University about it… I can hear that conversation: “Yes, um, I lost the award that meant so much to me, so can I get another?” Horrible, and not something I’m looking forward to doing, if the University can do it at all. There’s no guarantee of that. The album is the true tragedy of it all, because those pictures… those tangible memories – they’re gone.

I feel betrayed by my trust in the company, I can tell you that. I’m helpless in trying to fix the problem: I can’t go searching for it myself, and so the feeling of impotence that is infused in this mess is frustrating as well. I’m also pissed at myself for not taking the damned things with me, or for not just packing them in a normal box, seeing as most other things got here without issue. I also get to enjoy that nasty bitter aftertaste that irony can sometimes cause, seeing as the everyone involved in the move told me that they would pay special attention to this one particular item… and of course, that’s one of the only boxes they lose. I’m also a little peeved that I won’t hear anything from the movers until tomorrow morning – I know they’ll call me back, seeing as I left a Howler in their voice mailbox.

I can honestly say, without a doubt, that I am furious… it’s not an understated word, this time.