Moving Day Madness: My Trailer vs. Me
Today was my first official moving day with the travel trailer, and honestly, it started off strong. I had a latte in hand, the sun was shining, and for a moment I thought, “I’ve got this.” Spoiler alert: I did not, in fact, “got this.”
By 10 a.m., Texas reminded me that heat = death. The power in the RV went out mid-pack, and suddenly I was living in a portable oven hotter than the pits of hell. Me and the dogs bailed into the truck with the AC blasting, burning through gas we couldn’t afford like bougie fugitives on the run.
The electric came back on around 2 p.m.—perfect timing for the absolute hottest part of the day. I decided to tackle hitching the trailer. Usually it takes me about an hour, but one sway bar decided to channel a demon from hell. Three hours. THREE HOURS. It was me vs. that bar, and I swear I heard it laughing.
As soon as I won that battle, my tongue jack quit. Naturally. After poking, prodding, swearing, and almost crying, I discovered a fuse wasn’t seated right. Fixed it, but my lupus decided to come in hot—my hands felt like they belonged to a 100-year-old man with arthritis and a grudge.
Still, I got hitched up (miracle) and went to weigh the rig so I didn’t end up as an overweight idiot on the highway. Victory dance. Then came the two-hour drive—heated seat and heated steering wheel on max, baby, because my body was over it. Halfway through, my tail lights quit working. Of course, the cord had come loose and popped the fuse. Easy-ish fix, but still: universe, chill.
The sunset was gorgeous—pink skies, peaceful vibes—but then it hit me. Sunset means darkness. Darkness means my first time backing into a state park site. I had practiced at Walmart like the classy gal I am, but this was a whole new game. And my backup camera? Brand new piece of junk. Dead.
So there I was: pitch-black park, narrow roads with deep drainage ditches, dogs whining because it was past dinner, and three dudes watching me struggle for an hour and a half. They didn’t offer help. They didn’t even smirk. Just stared. Men.
Finally, I admitted defeat and tried another spot. Immediate tree collision. My bumper dented, my roof crumbled like a little bitch, and then—because why not—I scraped the entire side of my brand-new truck against a slot sign. At this point, I was basically starring in a sitcom called Trailer Trash: The Series.
I waved the white flag and called a hotel. “Do you take pets? And…uh…can your lot fit an RV?” The nice man said yes, just “pull around the building.” Plot twist: there is no “around.” Just a dead end.
Enter my guardian angel: a hotel employee who actually knew how to direct me without judgment. With her help, I parked. We both agreed the “how to get it out later” problem was tomorrow’s problem.
I finally dragged myself and the dogs into the hotel room—and here’s where the angel’s halo stopped shining. The hotel itself was… let’s just say “character building.” My second-floor room smelled like cat piss and cigarettes, and when I flipped the lights on, the roaches scattered like it was a surprise party they weren’t ready for. Too emotionally and physically wrecked to care, I left the lights on, hoping the creepy crawlers had stage fright.
The dogs, however, were not impressed with our accommodations. Every creak, drip, or hallway noise sent them into DEFCON 1 barking mode—“Mom, danger! Mom, danger!”—until I zapped them back to silence. But just as I started drifting off to sleep, they’d do it again, as if auditioning for a synchronized bark team. Protectors of the realm, sure—but tonight, I just needed protectors of my sanity.
And so, the day ended: me in a roach motel, dogs barking, body screaming, spirit barely hanging on.
Lessons of the Day:
Coffee is not enough to fight Texas heat—it takes a truck AC on max and maybe an exorcist.
Sway bars are forged in hell by demons who hate joy.
Lupus doesn’t care that it’s moving day—it just shows up like an uninvited guest.
Backup cameras lie. Practice at Walmart, but expect the trees to win.
Men will watch you suffer for hours without lifting a finger, but women will swoop in like angels and save your butt.
Trailers and trees have a magnetic attraction. Spoiler: trees always win.
When in doubt—call the hotel.
But if the hotel smells like cat piss and roaches scatter when you turn the light on, maybe… keep driving.
Dogs are loyal protectors, but also dramatic night-shift security guards with zero chill.
Tomorrow problems should always be left for… tomorrow.
Full Time RV LifeDivorce RecoveryDog Mom LifeRV DogsSelf Discovery
