Last week, I wrote about ditching items to make moving a little more palatable and bemoaned the loss of my grandfather’s Japanese artillery shell ashtray. I long suspected it was stolen by a vindictive landlord, roving gangs of crackheads, a woman I briefly dated in 2016 and numerous other theories too paranoid and detached from reality to recount here.
Anyway, I found it yesterday as I was unpacking a box that contained a variety of cleaning supplies, which explains why I couldn’t find it for the past two years. How embarrassing. That raises terrible questions about my acumen as a housekeeper that I will address at a later date and likely not ever.
The piece of trench art has taken it’s rightful place on the low wall that separates the kitchen and the living room, right next to the dusty chunk of amethyst I’ve been hauling around since I was 11 or so. I’m thinking of putting the cat there as well.
Most of my possessions have survived the 20-mile transit from Boulder to Arvada, and now the magical process of finding them begins anew. I’ve since located some or all of the following property, but looking for it just added to the fun of moving. (Soft weeping.)
• My mood-stabilizing medication. I’m sure that will work out fine.
• My Birkenstocks. I have to lace up my Dr. Martens every time I saunter out to my truck to check all the doors to make sure they are locked. Again. And they always are locked. But maybe they aren’t. It’s awful. (See first missing item.)
• My two copies of “The Paper” DVD by Ron Howard that I watch to motivate myself whenever I feel like I don’t want to be a journalist anymore, and copies of “All the President’s Men” and “Spotlight” for when I want to beat myself up for not being a better journalist. Trust me; it somehow balances out.
• All that cheese and butter I took out of the fridge at the old place. I’m sure it’s still fine.
Of course, there’s still a load of stuff I should have tossed but didn’t for deep-seated psychological reasons that I will never understand.
• A Bailey’s Irish Cream bar mirror with a map of Ireland broken down by county. I assume that a DNA test would reveal that at the very least a sliver of me hails from Ireland. I am for all intents and purposes just a white guy, and a straight one at that (barf). I also don’t drink alcohol, and if I ever start again, it sure as hell isn’t going to be Bailey’s.
• All those “large” T-shirts I think are going to fit again some day. “Maybe you shouldn’t eat that third cupcake, John.” “Maybe you should shut up, John.”
• My cat. It would have saved me $30 a month in “pet rent,” which is some bullshit, because have you ever seen a cat hold down a job?