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7.51AM CDT 8/30After a rainout last year, Kallisti and I caught a day game at Wrigley. I made a DnD run prior. We walked to the park a couple of hours early in hopes of scoring some tickets. It was hard to gauge availability. Day game = good. Holiday = bad. Plus, the Cubs are the winningest team in baseball, playing another good team in the league. Besides, Wrigley Field regularly sells out.
Scored standing room tix, despite the bullshit crowd management guy who said they wouldn’t start selling them till the seats were sold out. Ended up in the park super early. Watching batting practice, avoiding the mean little old ladies who kept shuffling us from place to place. The key to standing room is squatting – something I have become very familiar with of late. Grab some seats, acting like you belong, drink your beer until someone comes around and properly claims their seats. For the first 2 innings, we had sweet seats until their cow owners with enough concessions to last until Labor Day. Grabbed a couple other seats, which were being guarded by some bitch in a pink Cubs shirt. Ironically, their owners really didn’t care.Overall, the beginning of the game was kinda lame, but it really picked up in the 7th. The weather was perfect – cloudless, 70s, nice breeze. Sori hit a beautiful homer, and suddenly things were more interesting. Briefly ran into some of Kallisti’s friends before heading back to the apartment for some more Old Style (at the park it’s either Old Style or Bud, neither of which are that amazing, but somehow Old Style is less nasty). I surfed through his music, got our dance on before heading out. He was heading to Wisconsin, and I was squatting in Andersonville.
After a full day of travel and 2 weeks of power touring, it was nice to loaf around a familiar city for a day. Just left me mellow, recharged.
Woke up at 5AM because my body is still subtly jetlagged. What is 5AM Chicago time is noon in Prague and Budapest. Fortunately, my sense of laziness prevailed and I slept till 10. Which after being up for the better part of 24 hours the day prior, was really nice. I woke up and instantly started composing my to-do list, but I still had a little bit left in Middlesex, which I wanted to give back to S., and the idea of just loafing on the couch, reading a novel, in my jammies, was irresistible. Finished my book, took a shower and instead of getting much of anything done, ended up just hanging out with Kallisti all afternoon.
For the ultimate in idleness, celebrating our mutual unemployment, we drank Old Style, played on the PS3 and listened/danced to music during the daylight. Watch people across the street pack a moving van. Got cheeseburgers from O'Donovans and made fun of the Conventioners.
Then I changed and went to Green Dolphin to go dancing with friends. It's a great spot, has a nice sized dance floor, lots of dancers and a live band. And last night - no cover!
All in all, it felt like a leisurely Saturday. And perhaps even more appealing - normal. I have spent so much time in flux (moving, travel, couchsurfing, etc) that I crave a sense of normal. Whatever the hell that is. In lieu of normal, I have been relying on routines, even if they only last a couple of days. But yesterday required no real thinking. No converting currency, or trying to translate languages, or introducing myself to new people. It was all familiar, comfortable, fun, normal.
Right now, I sit in my old library branch, getting all the stuff done that I should have done yesterday. And hope it stops raining.
2.49PM CEST
Yesterday, I decided that I wanted to see the inside of Parliament, which is the largest legislative structure on the continent. It's also magnificently neo-Gothic. Unfortunately, none of the tour books really tell you what to expect or how to procure tickets. So when I arrived shortly after noon, I can only guess that since there was no queue, there were no tickets. And I got the brusque guard who spoke only Hungarian.
So it was my mission to see the Parliament today, dammit. Went to bed early in hopes of getting up early to get in queue for the 10AM tour. Well, I got up early-er and even with busting my hump the 2.2km to Parliament from my hostel (I would have spent more time fighting with the ticket machines than I saved taking public transit), I only arrived at 10. I figured I had missed my shot, but asked about the queue. Apparently there were still tickets available. I was a bit confused, but stood in line anyways. Ended up having a lovely conversation with another American and getting tickets for the 12PM tour.
(original crown jewels from 9th century)
The tour itself only lasted 30 minutes (the building is symmetrical and we saw the half not in use). The inside is just as grand as you would expect, with lush carpeting, gold everywhere, and a historical fascination with the number 96. Also, all of the materials in the building are Hungarian. Unlike the U.S. Capitol, the chambers and halls are bright, colorful, as opposed to dark, wooden and cave-like.
All in all, I waited 90 minutes for a 30 minute tour. Fortunately, it was very nice outside. But it was definitely a lesson in power. Clearly, this structure was built to be imposing. It is covered in spires on the outside and gold on the inside. The guard only lets two people at a time walk across the pavement into Gate X to get tickets. Even when the queue is spilling onto the street. Walking inside, you are both impressed and intimidated. Mission accomplished - I bow to the power of the Diet.
If it says SAJH, you say sh-EYET, and you get cheese. Yup, eating shite in Hungary has a totally different connotation.
Since the hostel's free internet consists of 2 terminals which are permanently in use, I am at the American-style coffee shop, which has a lovely berry-chocolate smoothy, free wi-fi, and apparently shelter from the sudden storm. So I can blog for either 75 more minutes or until my battery craps out, whichever comes first.
Budapest has slowly grown on me over the past 9 hours. I arrived on the overnight train, which always disorients me. Finally found the hostel, despite desperately needing to pee, but the hostel wasn't really ready for me, despite its promises of flexible check-in. So I had free breakfast (well, black coffee since the milk smelled off) and tried to talk myself into getting up and going, but when she offered me my bed, if not my locker, it was irresistible. Also, then I could check in properly when I woke up.
At first, I was having problems navigating or finding an operating ATM. Clearly Prague is the "pretty sister", because Budapest does not seem to have so fully embraced its tourist potential. Lots of construction and trash blowing in the streets. Then again, once I had a gyro in me, and the narcolepsy was wearing off, the day was looking much better.
Hungarian food looks much more exciting and appetizing than Czech. It's closer to Greek, which I love. In fact I passed a Knossos Tavern, complete with bull iconography! Also, Hungarian is the most alien language I have ever seen, even more than Greek. Lots of z's and accents. I couldn't even pronounce phonetically if I tried!
Fortunately, the National Museum is really close and easy to find from my hostel. Which was good, since my grasp on Hungarian history is tenuous at best. They had some nice, diverse artifacts, which seemed poised between East & West in a way I haven't seen before. You can still smell the incense that has infused the wood in the 15th century inlaid church kneelers that aren't hidden behind plexi.
Walked past the Old Synagogue to St. Stephen's Basilica, which is plenty cool from the side, let alone full-on. Climbed up to the tower for my first glimpses of some of the other famous landmarks. As I could see the Danube from the church, I decided to head for that.
About halfway across the Chain Bridge (which is way cooler than the conveyance to Grammaria's), I was getting bored with it all. Kept walking to at least hit Buda. Walked north to get a better view of the Cathedral when I found a tempting looking dinner special. And holy crap - one of the best meals EVER! Rose duck with sour cherry sauce in lemon-balm with corn porridge - a Transylvanian special. The duck was delightfully rare with a flavorful crust. Corn porridge reminds me of polenta. Both were beautifully complemented by the sour cherry sauce. And the Sailor Apple beer I had. Funny enough, the menu featured Hungarian, Transylvanian, Slovakian and German food, but Belgian beer (including Delirium on tap!).
The only thing better was that as I was lining up a photo, all of the city lit up, including my photo. In fact, I didn't realise what had happened until I reviewed the picture to see if it was blurry. And Budapest is breathtaking by night. If you want to see the blue Danube, check it out at twilight.
When I have more juice on the computer, I will post the pictures.
22/8/08 11.57PM CEST
Not even Honeysuckle-Grapefruit body mist can entirely cover up the smell of muffin dung. And since I don’t have a super-pressing agenda, this is still funny. Especially since I am making friends as we all cobble together and struggle to communicate what is going on.It’s been a long time since I found myself on an overnight train, minimizing lodging costs, maximizing time spent in European cities. Fashionista had to head back to Bruxelles briefly before starting school in Italy on Monday. I was bummed to loose my travel buddy, especially after discovering some kickin’ nightlife. But it gave me the chance to see some modern art at Museum Kampa, watch dogs play in the park and do a lot of aimless walking through the city. I figured I would find one of the cool-sounding restaurants and have a nice meal before cozying up on some 2nd class floor. Of course, this involved the “scenic route” which cut me pretty close to my departure time. But with a bit of hustle, I made it on to my train in enough time to snag an open cabin.Actually, the cabin looks pretty nice. Red seats like knock-off velvet with fresher padding, newer faux-wood paneling, nonsticky floors. At first glance, I think that sleeping in this will be a cinch. Then I get a pair of Spanish-speaking guys heading to Brno and a Czech mom/daughter who were in town for shopping. I’m the only one in for the long haul!So I dive back into Middlesex before I start dozing. I am mildly aware of what is going on. And then I wake up and ask, why is this train stopped? And eventually, the better question – why is it moving backwards? Apparently, we are experiencing technical difficulties. A conductor explains something in Czech that everyone but me seems to understand. I understand funny noises, being towed backwards and lots of guys hanging out of windows. It’s actually pretty funny. For the first time since I arrived, it is raining, making standing outside unappealing. I have no idea what time I was supposed to arrive in Budapest, let alone what time that will (hopefully) happen now. Who knows, I may have another lovely day to spend in Prague.The one unfortunate part of this little adventure – the smells. After my inevitably requisite dash to catch the train, I was less than fresh, so I took a couple of spritzes. In general the train seems to be populated by smelly backpackers (of which I am probably one). Also, the Czech mom just threw a dead brown banana peel into the mini trashcan. I have pretty much parked my nose under my shirt, which still smells Bath-Junkie fresh.The afterward – after about an hour either stationary or rolling slowly in reverse, it seems that they have swapped out engines as we are moving forward again and at a fair clip. People are climbing back into their cabins for what will hopefully be a quieter trip.
8/18/8 18.37 CEST
While better planning might have been nice, I think what I really need right now is a beer. I am waiting to meet the Fashionista in the Prague airport in what, to me, seems like the most obvious place – in front of the Duty Free Neuhaus. Since we never really figured out a meeting point. Which would have been clever, but a bit tricky, since we are both arriving from totally different places into a an airport neither of us has been through. And sadly, all of the screens display departures, and none display arrivals. But I am sitting across from some cologne ad featuring a very rugged-looking Ewan McGregor.
On one hand, I seem to be the height of fashion, since red rolling bags are popular. But then I see all these women in their skinny jeans, heels and such. And I’m in yoga pants and cherry flats. Then again, I have never been a fashion plate. And certainly not when I have to spend 18 hours in transit.
Getting to O’Hare always tests my patience. Walking to the stop, I watched the bus pass by. But then I caught the other bus. Which of course, was the wrong one. So instead of cutting across town on the 92, I went all the way down Damen into Wicker Park to meet up with the blue line. OK. If I had my CTA card, I could have done a transfer, but I was operating with cash and new that this bus would definitely intersect with the blue line, however inefficiently. Fortunately, I had checked-in online. Landing in London took 2 hours from when we touched down to when I actually made it into the terminal. Two shuttles, a couple more queues. Apparently the whole reason Europeans travel is to shop the glamorous duty-frees in the airports. And Crunchie Nuggets are not sufficiently chi-chi to make it into the shops.
After several attempts to see a concert at Old Town Center, I finally managed after I moved out of Chicago. My cousins were seeing a friend play guitar behind Chip Taylor. While that is not something I would have thought to see, it was a good concert. The opener really wanted to be Feist with a violin, but kinda missed with her Prince covers and entire lack of stage presence.
Chip Taylor was old school. Lots of storytelling. Acoustic and kinda country. But my cousin's guitarist friend was phenomenal! Such sonic diversity and precision.
After the show, we had a beer in the green room where I shared my sharpie so the guitarist and backup singer could autograph the wall. Then we headed across the street to another bar to just hang out. It was fun to meet and chat with real musicians, and to just hang out with my cousins over a couple of drinks.
Today, my other cousin and I went to church, which was pretty liberal. The priest pretty much said "don't stand on ceremony" and they tapped up to take up the gifts on the fly. And you don't refuse. Especially when the usher uniform is Hawaiian shirt!
While I love traveling, and I love Chicago, but I don’t love the drive, and I really don’t love the panic that necessarily comes before. It’s the step you conveniently forget about. And the process of leaving home was only exacerbated by the fact that I’m not just packing for one trip but 2. With a mind on trips 3 and 4. I am tossing backpacker stuff in one bag (that isn’t a backpack and it’s kinda weirding me out). Stuff for Chicago (Cubs t-shirt, skinny jeans, big facewash) into another bag. And then I am trying to organize my stuff for the drive back to VA to prep for CA. All the while frantically stashing my junk and undies into closets and boxes because it’s not even my house. And while I don’t really like leaving my own apartment in shambles when I leave, the idea that Lil Sis will be returning before I do made it not an option. It’s one thing if I chose to live in squalor; it’s another to have someone else walk into it.And of course, I am completely convinced I have forgotten something, even as the other part of me says that as long as I have my passport, computer and credit card, I will be fine. I am not going anywhere so remote that I can’t just get what I need.The drive through Ohio and Indiana is kinda dull and flat. And given my general impatience/distaste for it, I suspect my drive to CA is going to SUCK.But seeing the word Chicago start to show up on the highway signs, and crossing the Skyway to see the Chicago skyline still gives me chills. I love it! And right then “My Kind of Town” came up on the shuffle. It’s good to be home.
Before I commission to Spool to the great beyond, I should say a few words.
The Spool joined AWLM in 1999, rescued by our token male at work. Spool was quickly assimilated into the Ludwell lifestyle, which involved being painted, handprinted, spilled on, and the center of the ER parties. It was the perfect height for putting your feet up, or opening a pizza box on. And the bottom part of the spool was a great place to put drinks that didn't fit on the top half. As we did cool things, we memorialised them on the Spool. And as everyone else grew up, Spool stayed with me, delighting in our mutual ghetto/gypsy lifestyle. I have chased Spool down a couple of hills, rolled it to different apartments, but I fear the end is nigh.
Practically speaking, it would be a bitch to take the Spool to California. Not that it wouldn't be really happy to be in yet another dorm. But it's bulky and only fits in the Civic one way.
So I debate the best way to send off the Spool. Because just tossing it in the dumpster just seems wrong. Storing it is an option, but when is the next time anyone is really gonna need Spool? Here is my ideal:
Gather the Mob at Lake Matoaka after dark. Finish inscribing Spool with all the events that have happened (babies, graduations, houses, etc). Then set it ablaze and roast weenies and marshmellows. Then roll it into the Lake.
While the idea of a true Viking funeral would be great, my archery skills blow. I liked another suggestion - cramming it full of fireworks, then setting them all off as it rolls into the Lake, but that would probably get me arrested.
While I'm not sure how it will get back to VA, I am certain I could find a way, if I could find a good reason to do so.
on iPod: "Shame on You" - Lily Allen
PS Let me find some pictures.
To the best of my memory, I was never really freaked out by people wearing animal costumes, even as a small person. Then again, I was 4 when I first went to Disney, so at least I was big enough to run away or use words to express my displeasure.
There is something so inherently silly about the whole thing. Just about any of the British Trigger Happy TV skits made me laugh out loud repeatedly (dogs beating each other up, bunnies humping in the elevator). Probably my favorite monologue ever is "Jay" by Jane Martin about a girl who plays the mascot for the Toronto Blue Jays. My favorite security call at JLL was the time a person dressed like a chicken was beating up a guy dressed like a cow in the food court at Union Station. The only thing funnier than receiving the call was reporting to the cops.
I have learned to roll with things being a theatre person, but seeing a chicken and a gorilla outside Kantner one morning was a little weird. And now using people dressed as animals to train zoo keepers makes me giggle.
With all this talk about tapping alternative resources, I have decided to jump on that bandwagon. Sadly, this does not mean I am driving a little battery-operated SmartCar. Instead, I am capitalizing on my ability to bleed easily.
Like every good college town should, Athens has a plasma donation center. Which means that twice a week, I roll down to BioLife, spend an hour in a curvy chair, listen to the iPod and flip through trashy magazines. And get paid! As long as you don't get the big smelly phlebotomist, things are cool. It doesn't hurt, and it is pretty satisfying to watch the plasma fill up. And the process is kinda cool to watch.
I tried this back in January, but because of scheduling and medications in flux, I wasn't able to donate. I only gave it another chance a couple weeks ago, now that I have free time and a stable medical history. My first donation involved a charming hematoma that only just faded. The big smelly phlebotomist poked me weird, so during the RBC return, my arm started puffing up. The other nurses took care of it superfast. In a quick instant, they removed the needle and iced and elevated it. So not only is this guy smelly, his venipuncture blows. (Another nurse had to correct his work yesterday).
I like doing plasma. Not only is it some income, I also feel like I am helping. It is so easy for me to do something that can make a difference. By the same token, I have no problem donating whole blood, but my type is the only one they have sufficient supply of. (It helps being universal recipient, too). By the same token, I am an organ donor. And if I have the recoup time available, I would do bone marrow. Having read Stiff, I am starting to do a bit more research into options for my beautiful corpse. Which sounds macabre, but it seems like such a waste to just pump it full of chemicals and then stick it in a box in the ground when it could be put to better use. Although, I am still holding out hope for spontaneous combustion, which would just be cool.
God bless Cheese Fiend and Mom#2 for introducing me to the wonder and perfection that is puppy chow. Named such because you just want to stick you face in the bowl and shamelessly wolf it down.
First, it's possibly the ultimate crave food. Sweet, savory, crunchy. It's Crispix rolled in semi-sweet chocolate, peanut butter and powdered sugar. So I was super excited when Crispix were on sale, and I had discovered, in the process of moving, that I had the rest of the ingredients already.
Even though it is basically junk food, it is impressively filling. It has upped my hematocrit, and I have (re)discovered that puppy chow makes good diet food. Who knew? For some reason, since I made (and started devouring) my puppy chow, I am able to lose weight AND eat crap. This stuff is awesome!!!
I realise that I whine alot, but things are not all bad. There are pictures like this. And I get to take Bud for a ride in the car and buy him chicken nuggets at the drive-thru. Gomez comes on the radio and we are both happy campers.
Neither insures your good health, nor is particularly a healthy system.
I have spent most of this summer fighting with my health insurance, trying to get all of my claims paid. Every day at lunch, I got to make yet another phone call. Chasing down paper work and the right people. Right now, I have one doctor all cleared up. And now that my student services are selectively being rescinded, I have to get my prescriptions at Kroger. And the whole $4 thing apparently doesn't apply to me. Grr.
Today, I had to deal with my sleeping sickness. When I tried to fill my prescription last week, they told me I had to run out of my current one first, even though this wasn't a refill. Now they tell me that the script as written is impossible to fill since no such drug exists. Why they couldn't tell me this last week, I don't know. So now I am out of my sleeping sickness medicine. And the only way to get a refill is to wait for snail mail or drive to Lancaster with gas at $4/gallon (all narcolepsy meds are controlled substances). Assuming my doctor ever even calls me back.
As a result of that debacle, I really haven't gotten much done today, since I spent so much time dealing. And of course, my body is back into narcolepsy mode, which makes getting much reading done difficult. It's all really frustrating. But I spent today moping (watched Love Actually) and owning the suck. So tomorrow I make more phone calls and park my ass at Donkey with all my free refills.
To make up for skipping out on Secret Garden, and to make up for the entire lack of TV, I hit the media library hard for some high culture DVDs. Bunch of girlie, period movies, and a BBC documentary called How Art Made the World.
This 5-part series looks at ancient cultures for the origins of art. At first I was totally rapt with the accents and interesting theories. And lots of Greek art. In general, the series is pretty good about relating to modern day. However, as I watched more and more, I realised how frightfully Euro-centric it was. I understand that being government sponsored, you should probably focus on Britain, at least as a grounding example. Yet, Dr. Nigel Spivey only ventured out of Eurasia once, to South Africa, mostly to compare San rock painting to the much older cave paintings in France and Spain. And it is really focused on visual arts, which doesn't really include performing arts. It is thought-provoking, and pretty. But now I feel the need to check out some DVDs on Bunraku or something.
Additionally, I checked out Becoming Jane. While I can't say it was hugely historically accurate (let me tell you about the hairstyles in the last scene - so 1860s, when Austen died in 1819!), it was lovely. I love watching James McAvoy pine. And it was a fun homage to the Austen novels. Also fun - the pop-up video special feature. It makes me want to dig out my BBC Pride and Prejudice.
While I can't say I was burning to bust ass on the machines, I was actually feeling motivated to do some structured cardio (hiking up the hill to the library doesn't count). So I tied on the sneaks, filled the water bottle, sync-ed the iPod. It's way less fun without a gym buddy, since I had no one to complain to when I overcharged the resistance on the machine so it felt like I was walking in hummus (thanks Scrubs!). But when I went to be swiped in, I got turned away! Since I am not registered, I am not allowed to use the gym. Which is crap, since I have been using the gym all summer, and I have library privileges.
I didn't really want to unpack and set up the Wii for just a couple of weeks, but I guess I will have to.
Yesterday, I felt the need to get some culture, Athens style. I had friends working on OVST's Secret Garden, which was written by Marsha Norman, so I headed over for their matinee.
I was impressed by the number of kids there. Including the wiggly kindergarten set. And while this is a musical based on a children's book, and I love the idea of getting 'em hooked on theater young, I also know that your average 5 year old is not going to want to sit through 2 hours of a musical in the dark.
The production made great use of projections to eliminate the need for excessive set. The blocking was more in keeping with staged reading or concert, but the vocals were good. And the costumes looked good. However, about half way through Act 1, I remembered that a) I hate musicals, and b) I never really liked this book. My mom was horrified. K blamed my preference of Austen to Bronte. I was torn. Do I sit through another 90 minutes of music that isn't particularly inspired and a story filled with whiny brats, or do I be the bad audience member and bail? I hate it when people leave, and I very rarely leave. But I didn't leave until intermission.
I am happy to support the arts and artists. And the production itself wasn't bad. It was the musical itself that was repellent. But I still felt guilty not unlike when I skipped Madness to watch the Cubs in the playoffs.
on Pandora: "Down for So Long" - the Rapture
Now that I have moved out of my apartment in Athens, I am alternating between couchsurfing and squatting. With Lil Sis out of town, I have her entire apartment to myself. Got most of the stuff tucked away, but I still need to go through it. By Saturday, I was pretty much just dumping crap into boxes and bins and driving it over. So I need to sort out all of my remaining Athens stuff. Make sure I return all my library books. All in anticipation of my Big Blowout in September. I have already warned my family that when I get back to NoVA, I am dumping all of my earthly belongings in one place (the basement) and I am just going to take a day to sort/cull/pack. This will be my third out-of-state move in 2 years, so all of my stuff has become jumbled. Distance and space has dictated what goes and what stays. And now that distance is at a maximum and space is at a minimum, it is really time to prioritize.
Squatting in a house with no TV kinda blows. Like I could drive over to Smokin' Fairy's place and chill on my couch, but that would be a little weird for his roommate. Besides, sometimes I just want the ambient noise or leisure of lounging on the couch in my jammies flipping channels. All the more time to catch up on my reading list, I suppose.
And here's my other rant. With caveats of course. I move alot. Which is funny, because a) my parents still live in the house they brought me home from the hospital and b) I don't particularly like moving. Besides the whole college/summer thing, when I graduated, I lived in 3 different places the summer in Williamsburg. Then Cheese Fiend and I backpacked and Eurailed for 9 weeks. Parents' house for 3 months. Massachusetts for 3 months. Parents for 3 months. Surrogate parents for 2 months. Random house in Falls Church for 3 months. That was just 2002. In 2003, I moved to Charlottesville. Then I moved IN Charlottesville 3 times (1st apartment, then better apartment, then house to accommodate 3rd roommate). Then Chicago, which involved living out of my car for a couple of weeks. Athens for a year. Now I am still in Athens, squatting in a different apartment for 2 weeks before more backpacking. Then couchsurfing different family members, driving cross country and living in CA for what will hopefully be a while.
OK. So in all the times that I have moved, only 2 people ever helped me move out. Sure, roommates moved their stuff out, but I was always the last one out and the one who moved all my own boxes. Not that I can't do it, just that it sucks. So this time, I had some veritable strangers move 2 pieces of furniture. But all the rest was me and the Civic.
But the exceptions are kind of surprising. One was Mom#2. She helped Cheese Fiend and me move (packing the kitchen, which I HATE), and she helped me move my own crap (PFM was busy with all of Cheese Fiend's books). The other was Kallisti. Who cut out of work early, took the L to my stop, walked the mile from the stop to my house to help pack my car in his nice work clothes in the August heat.
The other part of this is how many times I have schlepped the crap of others.
This isn't to say that people haven't helped me. Mom drove a van of my crap to Athens, and has taken boxes of my crap back to NoVA as a prelude to my moving. She will also be driving me and said crap cross-country. And then there are the siblings who unloaded it, the college roommates who put up with it, and the other roommates who accommodated it.
I think I need to stop moving so much. Or at least stop moving in freakin' August.
If I ever bitched about the Chicago-Athens via VA move last year, I really should have saved that up for this year.
Right now, I am surrounded by crap to be donated, crap to be packed, and just crap. This week, I have been focused on moving large objects, spending tonight moving the small stuff. It's kinda tricky because I still have to live, so I don't want to pack everything. But at the same time, I don't want to have to pack up again. And with all of my stuff in so many different places it's hard to really organize. The spool is at Smokin' Fairy's; me and half of my Athens stuff will be in Lil Sis' apartment for a couple of weeks. Plus all of the stuff in various basements and attics in Virginia. I won't get a chance to have all of my stuff in one place until September, when I have to re-organize in terms of storage vs what can fit in the Civic to go to California.
Today, I was saved by the kindness of strangers. When all of my friends who I know well enough to ask moving favors from bailed, I was starting to panic about getting the big furniture out. The futon isn't even heavy, but it does require something bigger than a Civic and a second set of hands to get it out of the apartment. Fortunately, the new secretary I am training volunteered her husband and her husband's truck. It took about 5 minutes to load the futon and the spool. I'm not sure what I would have done otherwise. Tomorrow, ReUse is picking up the bed and other junk.
OK. Back to my trash TV as I pack the freshly-washed dishes.
