Thanks to the heroic efforts of Mom, Dad, Justin, and two guys named Tyrone and Eric, I am now installed in the new apartment. Nobody complained. Nobody gave up and went home. Nobody cursed the day books were invented. All in all, a fairly successful move.
But no less a pain in the ass than any other move. We all know, intellectually, that moving is horrible. It’s stressful and demanding and it makes grownups cry. Perhaps the true minimalists of the world relocate easily, but the rest of us want to get to our new residences with our ironing boards and our Scotch tape and our house plants. Which means packing and shifting all of those stray objects from A to B. And that always, always sucks.
Thank goodness for the Olympics. I’ll write an appreciative letter to the IOC (right after the scathing letter to the people at Budget Truck Rental) and thank them for having the foresight to schedule the Games for a time when distractions have been sorely needed. It’s hard to whine too much about schlepping a thousand boxes of heaven knows what over 1200 miles of America’s Flat and Boring Heartland when I can turn on the television each night and watch Michael Phelps and Darra Torres shatter record after record. All those other Olympians are pretty impressive, too. But Bob Costas keeps talking about Michael & Darra, so they’re my peeps. And I get to wake up to the Olympics, too. Mom tends to tune into Good Morning America, and Al, Meredith, Matt, and that other Dateline lady are doing local color spots about Beijing. The funny thing is that all of these reports are nighttime deals. So Mom & I are puttering around the hotel room, gearing up for another day trying to navigate northern Houston, and the sun is blaring through the window and the outside temps are ascending, and all this time the GMA (Mom’s chummy abbreviation) gang is huddled in some dark square allegedly in Beijing delivering golf claps after tai chi demos. They all look kind of ill. Instead of being bathed in the cheery light of morning, we’re seeing them in some kind of alternate reality steeped in perpetual darkness. I think Lauer will crack first.
To summarize: So far, my observations of Texas have consisted mainly of strip malls, intense humidity, and gun ranges. I might as well be in Robbinsdale.
