Beginning this weekend, my wife Cat and I are moving to a new apartment.
Moving. As in boxes. And tape. And … excessive, American-style ownership.
And, eventually, me in a corner, crying.
We’ll be in our new place Wednesday, May 28.
We are very, very, very glad to be leaving the place in which it very much feels as if we’ve been trapped for the last two years. We’re only moving about ten blocks away, but it’s like ten blocks between Yucksville and Yaysville.
Still. Moving. Moving means work — lots and lots of work. Those of you who’ve been reading me a while know that work and me go together like ice cream and a sandstorm. But what can I do? I’m stuck packing. In my office, from whence I am now a’writin’ this, I have four, double-door, 7-foot tall bookcases jammed with so many books my bookworms are suing me for inadequate living space. The tops of those cases are piled with books. And I’ve got at least five more cases worth of books lying in piles all over this room.
What I like best about my library is that having it makes me look smart. What I like least about it is that whenever I have to move it, I end up looking like a “Before” ad for a chiropractor.
Okay, I have to go pick up Cat from work now. We’ve got rolls of tape, half the world’s cardboard supply in boxes, packing paper, dish packs, felt pins, rope, pulleys, dollies, loading ramps, backhoes, dumpsters, teams of Teamsters standing by, wrecking crews out on the street ….
You know, I used to actually be a card-carrying member of the Teamster’s union. I used to load 150-200,000 pounds of food onto trucks throughout the night out of a warehouse in Long Beach, CA. I was 22, 23 then, and built like … well, like a 22-year-old who spends 12-hours a night throwing around half a million pounds.
I’m not that guy anymore.
Right around this time tomorrow I’ll be wishing like heck that I was, though.
Well. Or not.
Anyway! Wish us luck!!! Love!