Well, I’m not, but the post is, so away we go…
We’ve spent large chunks of the past few days working on clearing out Spackle Manor. Some of the stuff we found has made the trip here to
Mondo Estates The Space-Age Non-Bachelor Pad the New Place, but quite a bit will apparently be going in a garage sale. I’ve already told Mrs. M that I’m not going to be able to do the garage sale thing — even if I liked garage sales (which I don’t), I don’t think I could handle seeing too many things with too many associated memories headed off for a buck each.
Along the way, I’ve run into a serious downer. I discovered that about a dozen boxes of books and papers that I couldn’t get to (because stuff from my folks’ house blocked my access) became condos for rodents and were ruined. This is the second time I’ve lost major portions of my library over the years, the first being when a storage locker at an apartment was flooded. In both cases, I was able to salvage some books, but not nearly as many as I lost. This is galling. When squirrels are simply filching sunflower seeds, that’s one thing; when they go full Visigoth, my appreciation for them drops significantly. Such are the problems for people with more books than shelf space.
The current round of clear-out came just in time to re-aggravate all the joint pain that had begun to fade from the initial move. So again, I find myself thinking that instead of adding the Grim Reaper to their landscapes as a memento mori, medieval painters could have simply included an image of a middle-aged fat guy trying to relocate. Between the exertion and today’s rain, bring on the Tylenol… or perhaps even the Darnitol (a nod to fans of Mr. Block’s criminal defense attorney, Martin Ehrengraf — whose collected adventures will be available soon).
We received a delivery of furniture yesterday morning before heading to work at Spackle Manor. It’s very nice, and maintains the Modern look of the living room and breakfast nook. Because I’m easily amused, I’m particularly thrilled by the kitchen table that includes a built-in Lazy Susan (“Ooooh… spinny!”), but the whole deal was quite pleasing, and less expensive than my dad’s Eames chair and ottoman set, which sits in the living room as well. On the downside, the delivery truck pulled down the phone line. It was still connected (as this post demonstrates, but it’s hanging slackly across our driveway, blocking half of it. Fortunately, the phone company has remedied matters, but it was a bit unnerving.
Mrs. M and the Spawn have begun discussions regarding a dress for the Junior Prom. Apparently, such negotiations are about as relaxed as chats between the Koreas, and I think I’m doing well to avoid the debate as much as I can — it seems fraught with peril. Teenaged sighs have been approaching gale force. I only went to one prom, myself — it was my then-girlfriend’s junior year (I was a sophomore). She wore a lovely antique white dress, and because it was 1981, I wore a chocolate brown tux. Nice, huh? At my wedding, meanwhile, Mrs. M and I both wore white — my dad said I looked like a drive-in movie screen with feet. His best friend said I looked like Sydney Greenstreet. So I would appear to be 0-for-2 with regard to formalwear. I wonder if I could get away with wearing my academic regalia to the Spawn’s wedding one of these days?
Of course, compared to lots of folks, these are happy problems to have. Still, I’ll be glad when these things settle down as well, and maybe I can get back to writing again. In the meantime, here’s some music. Not to be confused with the Outsiders from Cleveland (who hit with “Time Won’t Let Me”), here are Holland’s Outsiders, with a nifty blend of Pretty Things R&B and balladry.
And in the spirit of tomorrow’s celebrations:
What has a pot of gold, but only seven fingers?
See you soon.