Tuesday, August 9, 2011

The Moving Maze

  I never was too good at Tetris. Now I feel as though I live inside the game. Odd shaped blocks surround me, and I must weave through the maze. I expend extra energy dodging boxes. Every day when I return home I discover the new paths through the boxes. This requires relearning the grid so that my poor toes do not continue to pay the price.

  The refrigerator is a wasteland. Old bits of cheese and peanut butter highlighted my recent search for a snack. I did recover two expired cans of Miller High Life beer. They were astoundingly refreshing (Now you know how desperate the situation  has become). Jill sipped her wine from a Styrofoam cup during dinner. She smirked as she enjoyed her beverage. I presume that the bouquet of the wine in a foam cup differs significantly from that which is served in a wine glass. The cookies and chocolate are memories. One lone peach hides in the fruit bowl. Paper plate service is the new the dining protocol.

  Moving generates an asinine amount of trash. So far we average approximately five bags of trash daily. I wonder what important papers are hopelessly lost forever. Hopefully several bills are in the mix. Half full trash bags litter every room. The hall has been reduced to one-way traffic. A four day old fried chicken box permanently resides behind the front door. Starbucks coffee cups decorate the counter tops.


  I was denied the use of the washing machine tonight. "Don't mess with my rhythm." Jill warned me as she neatly rationed and folded my clothes for me. A basket by the bed (next to a towering stack of boxes) has become my dresser. I figure by tomorrow the basket will be gone, and I will have a pair of shorts set out for the move. Where are my shoelaces? The crooked stacks of boxes make each room look like mini-cities which wait anxiously for Godzilla to come out of the sea wreaking havoc.

  The moving truck has been ordered. The candle on the good-bye cake has been extinguished. The mail has been switched. The batteries have been charged for the Flip recorder. Eight more boxes to pack and my eleven year saga of Douglasville comes to an end... (and forty odd for one of us [cough]).

More to come,


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