| thoughts from a cunning linguist | |
Well today's the day that I pack up most of the final things--dishes, tchotchkes, more books. After today, I will be in internet withdrawal, probably until the middle of next week. The Disco Lassie (a.k.a. the Queen of Post-It Notes) is coming by this morning to assist me in the packing extravaganza. This evening the E-Bay Queen will put in an appearance. And this afternoon, the Divine Miss M will swing by to visit and lend a hand (she moved two cord of wood all by herself yesterday).
Yesterday my big packing trick was juggling a microwave (or not), thereby almost dislocating my shoulder. I wonder what tricks will be in store today...
I'm convinced that every time I move, the objects in my house get bewitched. Books seem to copulate and reproduce. Socks return from their exile to meet up with their mates again. An entire sleeping bag that I thought was lost or left behind suddenly appears in a closet. And every little thing for which a new home must be found or which must be packed in a box and shipped to another home far away grows teeth and sneers at me every time I pass it.
Yes, I think my apartment is turning against me. I believe there is a script in here somewhere for a horror movie, if only one can find it.
This might my cue to run for the basement where I will, of course, be fed to my own food processor by walking bookshelves or tossed in the dryer and whooshed away to the land of missing socks.
Come to think of it, this might be preferable to packing.
I know, it's been a sad state of affairs here at The Burning Bush. No crispers, not even a spark. It's been almost a month now. But the flame has not died completely. It's time to get back at it and restore bush whacking to its rightful place in the blogosphere. But first a recap:
The last time you saw the Bush Whacker, I was about to receive a lovely visitor from Toronto. (This visitor shall hereafter be known as Dr. Fem. The handle is of her own choosing, but I can vouch for the fact that she "handles "well.) We had a fantabulous 10 days here in Halifax, which included the the Pride parade and all the Pride week festivities that I know Maurice has already told you about. (The one drawback about the Pride week stuff: it was one big celebration of marriage! But more on this later...)
I've also begun teaching again. It's a summer class on Children's Literature, which is going quite well, but lots of work.
And in the middle of long distance affairs of the heart (yes, the story of my life) and teaching, I'm organizing a move back to New Jersey. Can I say how much I hate, hate, hate moving? For the record. At least on my way back, I get to be on Toronto for a couple of days to see the lucious Dr. Fem. But between now and then, it's packing boxes, grading papers, writing proposals for my supervisor, and managing stress.
There will, of course, be some time for festivities, including a dinner party chez the Queen of Sheba and the Grand Poobah of Culinary Delights. And the Renaissance Eyeore is driving in from Fredericton this weekend to see me off. New Jersey definitely does not seem so appealing when it means bidding au revoir to such wonderful friends.
Why can't life just be about bush whacking?