A Moving Experience

Moving during a pandemic. What could go wrong?

I was moving from a two-bedroom to three-bedroom apartment . I was

going to have a home office and a man cave. And since I had moved more

than a few times before, I figured I had the logistics well in hand.

I would move the boxes, carefully labeled so when they reached the

new digs, everything would fall into place. The heavy stuff was left to the

moving company, which is, after all, what 18-year-old boys are good for.

I was careful to label the boxes, “Important Stuff,” “Not so Important

Stuff” and “Misc.” My sense of organization astounds even me at times like

these.

The problem started as soon as the last of the boxes arrived at my new

home. I labeled the boxes, all right, right on top. And therein the first

problem arose. I had neatly stacked the boxes one on top of another. You

can see how this quickly became problem.

There were a few things I needed right away. Like TV remotes. I have

lots of TV remotes because I had decided that I could get along without

cable and needed the remotes for all the streaming services I was going to

use. The three TVs remained silent, as I foraged for the remotes and,

although some technical people said I could use the TVs by pushing buttons

on them, I was not going to admit that I couldn’t find the remotes.

That problem paled in comparison to the missing checkbook and bills.

At the old place, I always kept the checkbook in the same night stand next to

the bed. But when I went to look for it at the new place it wasn’t there. As a

matter of fact nothing was there. I seemed to recall dumping all the night

stand stuff into a box. Which was the good news. I couldn’t remember

which one had the checkbook, which was the bad news. I didn’t know

whether to be concerned about the bills because I figured if they didn’t get

paid, the credit card companies were pretty good at keeping track of those

things and would be sending me reminder notices in the not so distant

future.

Then there was the stove. I didn’t move the good old-fashioned electric

stove because the new place had a good old-fashioned gas stove. This

became a technical deal until I figured out that by lighting a match and

holding it near a burner, the burner would ignite.

You will be glad to know that I didn’t blow up my new apartment. And,

after a friend showed me how to turn the burner switch all the way around

and to light the burners, I was well on my way to making breakfast.

By the way, the garbage disposal doesn’t work here in the new place.

But I figure it will sort itself out, once I find the remote for it. It’s probably

next to the checkbook.

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