The Universe is Laughing

Just when I thought the Universe was done with me, having reminded me of my need to practice humility, I learned another lesson: the Universe is not done with me.

You know, putting 50 pounds of $#@* into a ten pound bag is nothing compared to the job of culling down 6200 feet of living space and 12 years of accumulation and slicing, dicing and sluicing it down to fit into, oh, say, 150 square feet. I don't really know how big the damn mobile monster is, but I do know I can't put a t-shirt folded the usual way in any of the drawers. And anything left out on top of a surface must be velcroed down.

So Thursday, June 19, was my first packing day. Picture this: it's 11:00 in the morning, the piano mover is lost, the furniture movers are busy packing all over the house, their dueling radios turned on full blast to be heard over the sound of the crackling wrapping paper, Fran & Mickey, the garage sale team are giving me my marching orders about how they feel I should move my bed, all 6 million pounds of imported Burmese carving, into the room over the garage to "make a warm setting" ... oh yes, and Alba, my cleaning woman, has escaped to the second floor, there being no possibility of cleaning the kitchen at this point ... and then the lights go out.

Now there is no great need for illumination at 11 in the morning, true, but that also means no garage door can open, no water will be pumped, no washing machine can run, and just incidently, there is no airconditioning.

The best laid plans. Thanks, Universe.