Does FedEx ever *not* come while i am half-naked or in the bathroom?
Or, do i just spend an inordinate amount of time half-naked or in the bathroom?
Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand
by krisis
Does FedEx ever *not* come while i am half-naked or in the bathroom?
Or, do i just spend an inordinate amount of time half-naked or in the bathroom?
by krisis
Having now a house that i adore, i am more interested than ever in filling it with things i desire. Yes, in the past i’ve wanted that shiny piece of electronics, or that solid piece of furniture, but the space that i existed in never really invited them. Now, though… now i am dangerous in every store, because where there was once just a speculative glance at any item, wondering how it would fit into my household there is now a lustful fingering of my credit card, knowing that i can fit it under the limit.
Not good for my line of available credit, but seems to be setting us up for some wonderful entertaining and music-making opportunities this summer.
In related news, i know that i can’t carry the sectional couch on my back all the way from Snyder Ave (and probably can’t even lift the corner of the box two inches off of the ground), but i’ve almost convinced myself that i can haul the flatpacked desk from Ikea up Front Street as if i was a pack mule. This is, however, not a good idea.
Not a good idea, Peter. Not a good idea.
by krisis
Disheveled. And, after all-night packing, no longer a resident of Pine St.
by krisis
Somehow moving just isn’t moving without some kind of impossible hurdle. Having come up short on hurricanes & delinquent roommates, here’s what we’ve cobbled together:
There is no possible way for the moving truck to get onto our new street. The laws of physics seem to explicitly preclude it. Furthermore, the plausibility of any turn the truck has to make once we’re in South Philly is completely dependent on who is parked closest to the corner, and how bad they are at parking.
And, the more exciting part:
We are not done packing. I’d say i’m about 80% done with my own things, but i keep forgetting that i live with this other person, and that some things i typically think as of hers are really only thought of that way because she largely cleans them, but that i am actually responsible for packing them.
Usually going down to the packing wire isn’t a problem, but professional movers are due here in about 6.5 hours, and they aren’t going to be nearly as helpful as Erika and her “Look, it’s a [random unpacked thing], where should it go?” routine, which pretty much was singly responsible for getting me packed the last time.
6.5 hours. I think as long as we keep picking CDs we both like we’ll probably make it. Unfortunately, all of my CDs are packed.
Wish us luck.
by krisis
Packing always makes me feel like blogging, perhaps because my first week of blogging featured ongoing packing.
Packing for me is never just about putting things into boxes. It is about reviewing, reflecting, and reconsolidating. Boxing my CD collection goes fast (four boxes, now), desk stuff slightly slower. Slower still is looking through a box of “peter papers” to see if anything can be disposed of yet. Nothing can be, of course, but i take the opportunity to reread almost everything inside.
At the bottom, wedged beneath a battered purple binder containing a hand-scrawled short story that only Gina has read, is a summary of a day of media-deprivation i did for my first class with Ron Bishop. My sentences are sprawling and glib (a clear precursor to this diarrheal exercise), and reading through their words to their naiveté is pure nostalgia.
I was tempted to throw this paper out, as it was just a glorified diary, but something i say in the conclusion stopped me. Feeling as though all intrusive messaging had been flushed from me at the end of my media deprivation day, i apparently sat down to write a song.
Attached to the back of my paper, for Ron’s perusal, is what had to have been the first ever printed copy of “Under My Skin.” He might have even been the first person to read the lyrics.
Amazing. So, yeah, i’m keeping that paper, and all of Ron’s wry comments therein.
Somehow, this move feels as if it’s already over. Maybe that’s too much faith to have when my solution to every problem so far has just to throw money at things, but the idea of moving into an entire house where Elise and I rule every room and closet is just too tingly and wonderful to be diluted with any anxiety about the move itself.
I keep saying that we’re moving to a house, and i keep wishing that we were buying it instead of renting it. All in good time, though.