On Sunday afternoon we were sitting on the couch trying to stay awake (see: triathlon start of 8:30 = wake up at 5:15) when we heard the most teeth-rattling commotion coming from outside. Someone was revving an engine, and it was either a Harley fitted with some sort of victrola-style amplifying cone on its rumbly bits or it was some jackass with a broken muffler who didn’t have the decency to…oh…yeah…um. That would be me.
I gave George the Jockey a key to my car on Saturday and told him that he could do whatever inspections he wanted to but I still needed to clear out my stuff, clean it up, and pump the tires. Sunday afternoon, he had the car started (as evidenced by my rattling windows), and when I looked outside he and his manservant were hosing it down and going at the cobwebs with a broom. This morning I found most of the contents of my car in boxes on the front porch. My mix tapes are in good condition considering their environment for the past year has been 100 percent humidity with a 100 percent chance of mold, but I’m a little afraid to go through the rest of the boxes because (a) mold and (b) I already noticed one big thing was missing (a plastic warrior breastplate from Halloween 2003), so I’m afraid to find out what else he threw away, even though deciding what is trash and what is a priceless keepsake is not his call to make.
All afternoon I’ve been dreading going home and looking through the boxes more thoroughly. I’m also pained to think that when I get there the car will already be gone (even though I told him I needed to go through it) and that I won’t have one last chance to sit in the driver’s seat (on a plastic tarp, to protect my pants) and take a few (thousand) pictures.
Still, George took Simon aside and told him to take good care of me, and he offered us the use of his massive extended-cab pickup truck if we need it during the move. Verdict: Even though he’s been touching my priceless keepsakes, we still love George, who was, incidentally, listening to SHOWTUNES when we stopped by on Saturday. Does the fact that it was “Dance: Ten; Looks: Three” (a.k.a. “Tits and Ass”) maybe cancel it out? No?
In other moving news…er, news about moving, I have apparently had a bundt pan in my house for a very long time. I discovered it while poking around in my tippy-top kitchen cabinets in hopes that there might be things stashed away there that I could actually pack into boxes, unlike all the other stuff that absolutely can’t be boxed until Stan is relocated (because as long as he’s in Simon’s apartment, Eve has to stay in my apartment, which means we need to sleep at my place several times a week, which means I need all my clothes, dishes, food, appliances, furniture, and vital electronic devices there in case I need them (and I will totally need that bundt pan, yes?)). So far the only thing that’s been moved is a scanner, which was supposed to go to Simon’s in July, and a bag of old shoes that has been under my bed waiting to go to Goodwill for more than a year. If you are a size 10 and enamored of late-nineties footwear, the Goodwill on University Avenue in Berkeley will BLOW YOUR MIND.
So, this bundt pan. I suspect my mother gave it to me five years ago, when we both fantasized that, in moving to my own apartment, I would be blessed by the various gods and goddesses of domesticity with both the ability and the desire to bake stuff. Now that I’ve discovered the bundt pan and am once again delusional about my kitchen skills in the wake of moving house, I’ve added Find Mom’s Tremendous Recipe for Applesauce Cake (The Moistest of the Moist!) to my growing to-do list.
As shamed as I am to have lived with the bundt pan for five years and not known it, that’s not as bad as making a special trip to buy a popcorn popper only to discover three days later that you already have one (and bigger!), which you think you’d have noticed when you moved just thirteen months ago. Anyone want a popcorn popper? It comes with a butter-melting tray and a 23-pound cat!
We went to the REI D&D discount sale and bought some shoes and clothes for 60 percent off and then Simon tried on various baby backpacks because it makes me happy and, also, promise to do things to him in the parking lot.
In a matter of ten minutes, Eve was transformed from DestructoFeline to Impotent Diva of the Pink Press-On Nails. She squirmed a bit when we applied the tips (we could only do about two at a time before she wriggled free), and I only caught her chewing on them once. She’s walking fine, her attitude is pretty much the same (surly to moderately surly), and two full days later, all ten are still in place. I hope it’s not too early to declare the endeavor a success, because if this doesn’t work, I don’t know what else to do.
Simon swam 1.5 miles in 58-degree shark-infested bay waters, ran 2.5 miles to his bike, rode up and down and up and down hills for 13 miles, and finished with a 10k run, which included the infamous sand ladder. I woke up at 5:15 and froze my nuts off standing around watching him, all for a few lousy pictures. Here’s a handful, showing the various stages of the race and three cute kids. I’ll get the rest on Flickr right after I take my bundt out of the oven.