A revolution is a good way to look at my move which concludes on Saturday.
I’m stubbornly sitting in the old place like a prisoner refusing to leave jail. I thought I was a lifer here at Sing Sing Susannah, what do you mean I’m free to go?
The new place is clean and new…why you can smell that Benjamin Moore from here draping the walls like painted livery. A doorman will be on duty with big hands and a matching smile. You know what they say about doormen with big hands don’t you? They can carry all your packages and still press the button to the elevator.
Here I have laundry men who pick up the restaurant’s linen I live above (till tomorrow) who toss it down the stairs without looking. How did you get that bump on your head Susannah? I was hit by a sailing table cloth.
I’ve given the term, creature of habit, all new meaning having visions of having to be smoked out.
The part that’s amusing if you’re looking for that sort of thing is, I’m merely moving seven blocks and one avenue up. My pal David Stewart went from Korea to Iowa without a whimper managing even to blog along the way.
Pam crisscrossed the globe like the Concord with two suitcases before settling down, and any minute could still make another surprise landing.
What’s my point?
WHAT’S MY FUCKING PROBLEM?
Glad to get that off my chest.
The one chromosome I have left knows, all will be well once I’m no longer given the choice of loitering, awaiting the laundry for that impromptu game of catch.
The doormen, Moe, Larry and Curly (I’ve yet to master their names) will guard my comings and goings like knights hailing taxis.
My food will be delivered without having to answer the door with a baseball bat, and when I get up in the morning to go to Starbucks, I won’t have to vie with any garbage walking down the stairs.
Now for me, that’s pretty revolutionary.
Here’s to a New Year of moving more than shaking.