Tuesday, August 23, 2005

I Thought I Packed That

Last weekend was an epiphinous few days in which it was revealed to me that my chances of successfully practicing Buddhism are along the lines of successfully dating Natalie Portman.

Slim to none. Natalie, I am told, does not date rabbits.

No, I wasn't pasting my head shot in Magazine Man's wedding album, in short, I moved from my large expansive hutch in the country to my compact patch of ground in the city. Having spent the last few months preparing, purging and packing, I thought I would be done with this location change in record time with not even a bead of sweat upon my brow.

See Natalie Portman reference above.

How do we ever accumulate so much shit? Now, I know about C.R.A.P. but I don't have that problem.

Do I?

Apparently, I do have some minor affliction of C.R.A.P. Not severe enough to keep western action figures from the sixties that even I don't remember or to finally clear out the garage only to find that '62 Impala I lost in...'62. But just serious enough to catch myself carrying a four foot length of bird's eye maple that will make a fine something, somewhere, sometime.

Yes, if you ever need to inventory how bogged down with the trappings of life you have become, move.

So I'm in this old new house and things are fine because sometime in the last eight years I stopped giving a shit about disorder. I'll clear it up eventually but right now the day is at its end and I'm on the porch watching the sun set and the neighbors walk by.

I christened the old girl in the usual fashion; fire off a champagne cork and let the cork rest where she falls for perpetuity, or gets shot out the side of the lawnmower next spring, knocking the neighbor's dog unconscious.

Then the old girl, in her usual fashion, paid me back by starting to break. No, not badly but she was built in '27 and has all the affectations of that age: Mystery electrics, dubious plumbing, floors that ain't quite level.

A good friend of mine just bought a place and is a little concerned about a slight dip in one of the upstairs rooms. The dip remains even after I have left the room so it's gotta be the house. Listen, don't worry. Pour a bucket of golf balls on any floor in my house and you get a two dimensional representation of how planets get sucked into black holes.

The toilet runs. Just a little. So I jiggled the float. Just a little. So it broke off in my hand.

Home Depot is on my speed dial pad.

There is a huge English Walnut out back. Squirrels are currently going after its nuts. At least I think they are. Those sounds are either walnuts dropping or chunks of siding falling off.

Oh, and there's a hot tub. In the basement. Don't ask. I think some part of Silence of the Lambs was filmed there but I can't be sure. At any rate it's a relic from the seventies that looks to be candy-striped when I get the courage to lift the cover. Right now its an ideal shelf upon which to rest my collection of shop lights.

So there you have it. New house, new adventures, new reasons to stay up until four in the morning with rags and buckets.

Oh and I REALLY need to have a yard sale.

2 Comments:

Blogger Magazine Man said...

Yard sale?!?

(no! Must...resist...)

Anything good, like, from previous jobs?

(Can't...must...call...C.R.A.P. sponsor...)

9:47 PM  
Blogger Thimbelle said...

Oh wow. You must have WAY more intestinal fortitude that I do.

I'm a-skeered to even think about moving, let alone the consequences of actually going through with it.

Welcome Home, Mr. Rabbit!

1:45 AM  

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