bunt sign

Wednesday, August 9, 2000

Mostly out of necessity, but partly just because I had an excuse, I indulged myself a little today. I spent a lot of time lying on the couch, reading or watching TV. I had to get the crew's payroll checks written and mailed, and there were a few minor items that popped up and demanded my attention, but for the most part I was able to ignore the job and take care of myself.

I'm not sure if I managed the pain or it managed me, but we came to a sort of understanding. I would pop Advil like candy, and the pain would stay in the background, except for an occasional cameo appearance to remind me to keep a low profile and not overstep. Limits have been set, and limits must be respected, or a price must be paid.

Strange, the cravings you get when your choices are restricted. After 24 hours of pudding and soup, I suddenly had to have a granola bar this afternoon. Although it was painful to eat it, I think it was worth it. I have to say, though, that my indiscretion made it seem like a longer time between doses of pain killer.

I'd like to thank everyone who suggested scrambled eggs. I had to get out the notes I took from an article in the food section of the paper a few months back, to remind myself of the proportions of ingredients and the timing.

Unfortunately, the ingredients came together rather haphazardly, despite my efforts. And since this was my first time doing it on this stove, the timing was way off.

I opened the egg carton to find that about half the eggs had swelled out of proportion and cracked themselves. The half-and-half was only six weeks past the expiration date, well within my tolerance. But I couldn't find the salt shaker and had to pour from the box. You can guess how well that went.

For some reason, the butter wasn't crackling after several minutes on medium high heat. I got tired of waiting and dumped the eggs in anyway. As long as it took for them to cook this way, at least it gave me time to wash the mixing bowl and utensils. I gave the wooden spatula a workout, flipping the eggs over and over, trying to get rid of the runniness.

Now, you can bet I wouldn't be telling this story in this much detail if the eggs hadn't come out nearly perfect. A little too much salt, but otherwise the best I've ever made. So, as I said, thanks for the suggestion. Easy to eat, and just the ticket in my condition.

As I was walking out to get my mail this afternoon (the only time I ventured out all day), my landlord pulled into the driveway. This was not Fred, who lives next door, but his partner Jerry. He asked if I'd decided whether I wanted the house on the other end of the property, and I told him I was glad he gave me a shot at it and eager to move in.

Things moved a little too fast for my addled brain after that. Soon Fred showed up, and we all three were deciding that I would be moving the morning of September 1.

Did I have plans for Labor Day weekend, they asked.

Well, yes, and more to the point, everyone I know, and anyone I could ask to help me move, would be at Shasta Lake all weekend.

So, here's Jerry's plan: He'll show up early that Friday morning and help me move everything I want to supervise directly — the computer, the stereo, the copier. Then I can leave for the lake, and everything else will already be packed and clearly marked, showing the room it belongs in.

Jerry and Fred will spend the rest of the day transporting everything to my new digs, and when I get home from Shasta Monday night, someone else will be living here, and I'll be living way over there.


So I'm back in full packing mode, looking for boxes and sorting out what can be tossed and what must be saved. I'm making a list of calls I have to make — utility company, phone company, cable company, garbage company. I can't make any of those calls yet, because I still don't know what my new address will be.

I don't know that it will be any easier to move simply because I have recent experience. In fact, it will be harder to motivate myself to re-pack the few things I managed to unpack. But at least the cleaning will be less taxing this time around, since I haven't been here long enough to leave much of a mark.

In fact, this place will soon be a receding memory in the roster of homes I've inhabited. We moved so many times when I was a kid that there are many places I don't remember at all. But I was at my last address for thirteen years, so four months is but a tiny, forgettable speck of time. I expect that this will be my last move, if not forever, at least until my Very Last Move.

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