Then To Bed, Part II
Wednesday evening. Listening to the news behind me, having returned from the old apartment with another load of kitchen stuff. Finally have all the Calphalon and other expensive cooking gear that I never use anymore sitting on the floor in boxes. Wonder where I'll put it? I mentioned this apartment is larger in all respects than the old apartment, except for the kitchen, thinking, well, I don't cook anymore, so, so what? Packing them made me think of all the stir fry I once cooked. I have, for example, one of the large Chinese six inch thick chopping blocks that I bought at a San Francisco restaurant supply house. I have all of the things a young man needs to stir fry for a convention.
Maybe try cooking again on weekends. Breakfast at the cafe down the street, stir fry in the afternoon. Vegetables. A salad. Broiled chicken on the barbecue grill I haven't used in over two years. Cook all of the things you can't find around here unless you go to an Asian restaurant. Too many burger stands and Seven Elevens. Hmmm. Real food. Nah, what am I saying? Just dreaming.
Same routine today, but I feel better. Not as tired, generated some energy for packing, the nose just a little damp, you understand, so the air I inhale has a slight cooling effect, the lungs just on the edge of turning liquid. No fever, no runny nose, but, you know, on the edge. Another long nights sleep is in order after I move those boxes.
I ordered the cat panel for the sliding glass balcony door. I finally realized it wasn't a replacement door, but a panel that fits between the wall and the edge of the sliding glass door itself, just wide enough to have a cat entrance at the bottom. MSJ, an experienced cat owner and expert, gave me the PetSmart url. I pointed and clicked. She had a thirty percent off promotional number, which she entered for me at my work station. It's in stock and shipping tomorrow to the new apartment. (Why did I not do this when I moved into the old apartment? I talked about it. I wrote about it. And then did nothing. Point, click, ship. Shit.)
Thursday, thank God. One last load sits downstairs in the car. Not much to it. I'll bring it up later. Tomorrow I'm leaving early for a doctor's appointment (Another mole or two to be removed, stitches to be removed from the last time, I'm not thinking about the biopsy. Too many biopsies lately.), then swinging by the old place and cleaning the bathroom and the kitchen. And then I'm going home. And then I'm going, I don't know, to celebrate, to look forward to the weekend, to puttering around on Saturday putting up books, hooking up the stereo, repacking some of the empty boxes with things that need to go into storage. I have this feeling I will actually do it. I have this feeling I am going to like this place. I often get feelings like these after a stiff drink half lying in a leather chair listening to the news:
"Someone has hosed down the entire Congress of the United States with military grade powdered anthrax. The bastards seem to be thriving on it, licking their fingers and sending out for pizza, staggering around the halls and making political speeches. Everyday Congressional behavior."
Downstairs now. Unload the car. Then to bed, part II.