Most people know that the term “SNAFU” means a mix-up of some sort. But not everyone realizes that it’s actually an acronym, whose literal meaning is “Situation Normal: All F*cked Up.”

Just when my move seemed to be going according to plan, I received a phone call from the movers at my destination this morning, advising me that the delivery of my worldly belongings to their location had been delayed — not just a day or two, but a full week.

I won’t go into all the details here — I’ll save those for a later rant — but I didn’t want my readers to think that this was actually going too smoothly. Or, as my grandmother would have said: “God forbid!”

There was a time — in prehistoric days, before the advent of the Internet — when I vividly recall picking up the phone, calling a moving company, telling them what I needed, and leaving the rest to them. One-stop shopping, one vendor to deal with, one price quote. Done. Theoretically, you can still do that . . . if you have an unlimited budget. Which I don’t.

Now everything is booked online, and although there are actual people associated with the companies, finding their customer service phone number can be challenging. And when you do finally reach someone, their tasks are so compartmentalized, you end up talking to at least three different people in three different locations before getting the answer you need . . . if you’re lucky.

But at least I wasn’t speaking with a Chatbot! Something to be thankful for, I guess.

At any rate, I think I finally have things straightened out, and have even found a bright spot as to how I might use the lag time in delivery — although at this point I’m not assuming anything will actually proceed according to plan.

In the meantime, I still have four days, including today, to get things wrapped up before D-Day, so I’d better get busy. But be assured that I meant what I said at the beginning of this screed:

I am never going through this again, until the day they have to carry me out.

And as for Welsh playwright Dylan Thomas’ plea to his father:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

. . . well, I’ll have to think about it. After this move, I may be too tired to rage.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/3/26