With a lease signed on a new apartment last week, and a move-in date scheduled for later this week, things have every right to move extremely fast. So why have I only packed 15 soft-cover books? A very inexpensive psychologist might suggest that I am suffering from a kind of pre-partem depression, where the thought of uprooting myself is crippling. It’s not true, though. I want to leave. I look forward to new walls and windows, to a new view, and an extra flight of stairs. But, as I look around my current apartment, and try to imagine an orderly packing procedure, I just lock up. I’ve reached for dishes and newspaper wrapping, then thought better of it. I’ve considered moving all of my CDs and DVDs and VCDs and DDDs and CVCDVDs out of their jewel cases and into neat, anonymous binders, but that strikes me as sort of insane and impossible. (For instance, if I consolidate like this, what happens to the beautiful hand-drawn map that came with the Criterion Rushmore DVD? Does it get flushed? And what happens to those cute and decorative, hand-screenprinted cardboard sleeves on some of my CDs? Only a cold android could see fit to pack those away, sparing only the plastic digitally-encoded music disc inside? And how am I supposed to distinguish Dirty Debutantes 15 from Dirty Debutantes 37 without consulting the box for mnemonic triggers?)
So, instead, my apartment is a crowded mess of flattened boxes from a neighborhood liquor store, packing tape, and Diesel jeans with unfortunate denim rinses that need to be donated to Goodwill post-haste, draped across the backs of chairs. (Does anyone want to buy a chair?) And, in the middle of all of it, one empty book shelf, looking very much like a tooth that’s been knocked out of my apartment’s face.
So instead of focusing on the practical, I’ve turned my attentions elsewhere. To prepare for my move and its attendant changes, I’ve renamed one of my cats. From this day forward, Choo Choo Coleman, who is hefty and awkward and unaware of her tremendous dimensions, will be known as “Lavender.” That might sound ridiculous to you, but I promise it gets funnier every time I invoke her name. Here are a few examples:
“Your ass is blocking the television set, Lavender.”
“Oh my God, did you just take a smelly shit, Lavender?”
“Lavender has breathing difficulties directly related to her obesity.”
And, although I haven’t told her yet, I’ve also renamed my girlfriend, whom I will be living with in our new place. Sorry, Lollipop Necklace!
