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August 31, 2005
Know what sucks?
Insomnia! That, and the prospect of carrying 5,000 boxes* on an hour of sleep.
*Note: box quantity estimated because tallyist got up to one hundred,** became despondent, and quit.
**ONE HUNDRED. More than ONE HUNDRED. There is truly something wrong with us.
Posted by hilatron at 06:20 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
August 28, 2005
Batten down
Good luck, New Orleans. I hope you're still around on Tuesday, and not just because I have not had a chance to visit yet.
And here I am, acting like a hurricane is headed my way when we are just shifting a couple of miles down the road. For shame!
Posted by hilatron at 04:12 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
August 18, 2005
Really? All that?
I'm packing for the much-anticipated wedding of the Captain and Agent Mike (don't worry! I have planned what to do in case of fire!), and am seriously scared by the amount of stuff I have to bring, and the variety of containers it must be brought in, in order to prepare for, basically, three days of hanging out plus one Event. Getting me presentable is starting to resemble a NASA launch in terms of expense and complexity. What happened to the girl who refused to carry anything except a man's wallet in her raggedy cords? I mean damn.
Posted by hilatron at 12:16 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
August 15, 2005
I am going to try just lying down on my problems, too.
This morning, catching a few winks after a poor night's sleep, I dreamed that I was trying to fix the leg of the blue chair. This somehow involved a hose, connected to a tap that had mysteriously appeared in the middle of our living room, and also the chair's legs were not stumpy sturdy armchair legs, but complex and spindly mechanisms with moving parts, levers and pulleys, and also for some reason a back brace was involved in the chair's cushioning. But anyway, hose. I was trying to fix the chair with a hose, and also getting ready for work, and so of course I flooded the living room, and the rug that we don't actually own was soaked, and the wood floor that we do not have was getting ruined, and the chair was done for, and also Murray pooped on my bag and my umbrella.
I think what with the multitasking and the danger to the nest, we will chalk this one up to moving anxiety. In the dream all I could do was run around flapping my hands and saying "oh no, oh no, what did I do?" as I realized that I really shouldn't have left the water running into the blue chair for so long, magical leg-repairing properties be damned. The sense of having done wrong, been bad, and not taken good care of my belongings was intense.
What with that, and the fact that I recently wrote "BOX KNIFE" on a box that does not contain a box knife of any kind, because I was speculating upon the location of the box knife while trying to inscribe a different label altogether, I think we're primed for a good old-fashioned freakout. Yay!
Speaking of freakouts, I bet you were wondering how Murray feels about moving. Who isn't? Statesmen, heroes, tycoons and kings, Murray knows that they all desperately await his opinion before making the slightest move. Since the fate of nations hangs in the balance, I will reveal to you that Murray does not care for the moving. Murray could do without it, thank you. Murray Is Not Pleased. Murray expresses his displeasure by sitting on things that we are packing in an attempt to prevent them from going into boxes, by becoming irascible and scratchy when we try to move him off the things, by running around hysterically, staring crazy-eyed and crooked-eared at invisible enemies, by climbing Box Mountain and knocking things off it, by flopping down in doorways in disgust and practicing his evil while we are moving through said doorways. Murray is getting very good at his evil, by the way.
I can't really blame him. Last time there were boxes around he got stuck in Queens with two strangers, who were insane and kept moving all the stuff around right after he had carefully smelled and inventoried it, and then was thrown in a van and driven to Boston and underwent the experience of all the stuff reappearing out of the boxes, not to mention a lot of swearing while the crazy strangers tried to put the desk back together.
There is no way to reassure Murray that this time at least he'll stay with the same crazies and the same stuff. When Murray is not being evil, he is being neurotically loving and affectionate, as if to say, please, I can't possibly take on the task of smelling a bunch of new people and things, don't leave me. This morning when I was putting my shoes on, he came and sat on me to prevent me from leaving, nuzzling his head into my armpit in a display of insincere adoration that was really quite touching. When I cruelly insisted upon getting up and going to work, he planted himself on a pair of my stinkiest shoes, staring at me defiantly and telegraphing "Fine, go. But you'll have to come back for these eventually, sucker!"
Posted by hilatron at 10:47 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
August 11, 2005
As if Dame Fashion were not enough of a reason to bring back the parasol.
A bird shat on my head yesterday!
So in case you were wondering why all the shampoo and soap and dish liquid and laundry detergent and bleach and rubbing alcohol and anything labeled "antibacterial" and Windex and 409 and rug cleaner and Comet and the whole liquor cabinet are all gone, that is why.
Posted by hilatron at 07:26 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
August 09, 2005
I think someone got their Noodly Appendage all up in my rental truck measurements.
I'm sure all the cool kids have seen this already, but since I am neck-deep in boxes, chuppahs, restaurant reservations and office supplies that fit almost perfectly into two beer cases except for like three things and now where am I supposed to pack those?!?, all you're going to get from me today is this Open Letter to the Kansas School Board.
Posted by hilatron at 02:02 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack