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.

http://tokyo5.wordpress.com/2010/04/02/godzilla-tokyo-hollywood/

  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,

gf

Moving Day Blues

  As I relace (by the way Webster does not acknowledge this word "relace") my moving shoes, my thoughts wander through the past eleven years. I know these shoes well. Somehow they are comfortable even after many years of neglect. Maybe I am a Gypsy.

"Medusa" by Jonathan Ewert

www.elfwood.com

  There are many details to work out. Dates need to be studied schedules need to be changed. Cable men worry the mind the most. Checkbooks stretch and creak, under the immense weight of deposits and fees. I recently found out what a concession fee was. What a holy crock of manure this concept is. By the way, breaking a lease brings out the Medusa apartment lease ladies. Anyway, Concession Fees are the monies that one would have paid if the lessor had not given such a remarkable deal. Such as, fifty bucks off the monthly rent (because possibly my hair was quite coiffed on a Wednesday). One must pay all of these discounts back as a penalty for being a Gypsy. People do not like us Gypsies. This is no good. (Go back and say those last two sentences with a crappy Russian accent to get the full effect.)

  I often wonder how much stuff I could get rid of. I have a full storage unit which I honestly have not missed much, save a barbecue grill and some fishing poles. I could just donate it all to charity and take a $3000 tax credit. No, the wife would not have that. We must have stuff. We must pack it in endless boxes and take them down endless flights of stairs. I wonder if the Japanese Tsunami survivors miss their stuff. Wait, stop. They are not Americans who save everything and buy bigger stuff every day. They are all minimalists except for the Sumo wrestlers. I am sure that they have a lot of stuff. They are the most American Japanese... then again, maybe not. They are very important and religious allegedly. They have shrines. That is what is missing from the WWE. Shrines. That is the ticket.

  Oh yeah, stuff is everywhere. Boxes scribbled with nonsensical descriptions of the contents. "Bathroom" or "Greg's Crap" are the norm. Some are unreadable and look like designs from a Mayan calendar. I have stubbed my toe thrice this evening. Look at Gypsy feet. They tell a story.

  More to come.

gf