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Steve surrounded by all the stuff that purportedly is going to fit in our car. We had to keep enough stuff with us for as long as it took us to find an apartment (which turned out to be four months), including clothing for multiple seasons, kitchen gear, and work supplies, like our two iMacs that perched on pillows on the back seat and which we had to pull out at every freezing hotel stop along the way. Plus, we wanted to take along anything that was too delicate, either by our standards or by law, to travel in the crates. Our apartment looks as clean as it's going to look. I burst into tears when our checkers-out wouldn't come the day we wanted and we had to delay our leaving another night. (We got a hotel down the street to have a real bed. It was next to Deja Vu Showgirls, so we kept expecting them to ask us if we wanted to pay by the hour.) The inspector must have heard of my precarious grip on my emotions, or maybe he overheard me ranting about how "We just want to LEAVE! Is that so much to ask?" the night before, because he took some pity on us the next day, checking off our stove as OK even though he said there were still crumbs down by the burners. We were just glad he didn't comment on the carpets — our vacuum clogged during our last run-through. We had intended to bring it with us or give it away, but at that point, we resolutely put it out by the dumpster. My hands were red, swollen, and bleeding from the various scrubbing and chemicals — I've always said I'm allergic to cleaning.
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