One Fork at a Time
I hate moving. I hate moving almost as much as I hate camping. I have acquired several years of shoes and accessories and candles and crap that I am now packing up and moving into a condo that as of the last time I checked, the internet still does not work. Unless it works soon, I am going to be the neighbor that comes over, not for a cup of sugar, but to ask for a wireless network password.
Still, I have found a lovely condo on the right side of the tracks for a price that I cannot refuse. I tried to offer my blog as a down payment, but the agent just tilted her head to one side and asked, "what's a blog?" I informed her that according to Technorati, my blog is pretty damn valuable and that if she played her cards right, I was willing to consider incorporating an ad to her place of business on it. She tilted her head to the other side and told me who to make the check out to. My blog will remain ad free.
I am taking my time moving. There is no sense in living in just one place when I can have half my stuff in one place and the rest of it someplace else. In fact, this has solved all of my shoe storage problems. Open toe shoes and sandals are at the condo. Slingbacks are at the townhome, unless they are open toed, and then they are at the condo. It takes me a little more time to get dressed now, but in my wisdom, I have a full length mirror in both locations.
Yesterday, as I sat in one of my living rooms surrounded by boxes touting names such as Bacardi and Stoli and JD, I began to feel overwhelmed. I wrapped a fork in bubble wrap and placed it in a box next to a vase of marbles and an incense burner and a bottle of plant fertilizer. With a marker, I labeled the box, "Sh*t That I Don't Need, But I Own Anyway and Can't Seem to Part With."
Needing a break from packing, I brought the box over to the condo to unpack it. I was only able to score three boxes from the package store, so I have to unpack every box with each trip. I placed the items in a drawer in the kitchen. With my labeler, I designated this drawer as "Sh*t ThatI Don't Need, But I Own Anyway and Can't Seem to Part With." I printed six more identical labels for the rest of the drawers in the kitchen.
As I was leaving, a burgundy Cadillac pulled up. A man got out and asked me if I was moving in. He told me that his mother had lived in the condo until she died about eight months ago. He didn't say, "my mother lived there until I put her in a nursing home where she died." With that, he convinced me that the woman died in my new bedroom. Rather than ask him which bedroom she died in, I said, "I'm so sorry for your loss." He replied, "She was 75," as casually as he could have said, "What the Hell, let's go get some beers." I am pretty sure that he murdered her in the bathroom of my new condo. Her angry ghost is just waiting for me to take my first shower there.
He told me that I had a really good spirit looking over me there and that he still drove by every day in case I needed anything. I flashed him that smile that says You-Are-Creeping-Me-The-F*ck-Out-Dude. We shook hands and he drove away.
I went back to the town home and drank, surrounded by my three liquor boxes. I surfed the internet for exorcism practitioners and wrote the first draft of a novel in which the protagonist hits rock bottom in her town home surrounded by empty liquor boxes and decides to change her life one fork at a time.