“Uh uh. You know better, Bob. You go out and do what you have to do and then you’ll get you a treat.” Even with Sassy Angie’s imperial command, he didn’t budge. I tugged on his leash and a reluctant Bob followed me out the front door. After he got done doing what Sassy Angie instructed, we came back and again he sat in front of the desk until she handed over his Pup-eroni. It has taken him three days to get into a habit. He’s a little slower than me.
We came back upstairs and started to unpack some more. The apartment is an intricate maze of paper and corrugated cardboard. If I were five, it would be fun. The chaos is so disruptive, though, that my movements are robotic in my frenzy to rid the place of all boxes; from the tall, over-produced wardrobe containers to the smaller ones with more paper inside than glassware. A forest was sacrificed for the sake of my move and the globe feels a little warmer.
The randomness with which everything was packed makes me dizzy, running in circles trying to put everything where it will eventually belong. So many items landed in DC that were meant to stay in LA and I find myself on a waiting list for a storage unit. Until then, I will live haphazardly cramped and in a constant state of grump.
I did manage to connect my TiVo today and the sun came out. When I opened a box that contained a bud vase given to me by Scott, the first-aid kit and some wiring, I found my precious TiVo remote control. I thought.
There is perhaps only one thing I know better, tactilely, than my TiVo remote. I’ve caressed every curvature, button and cursor on it to the point of oneness. I have fallen asleep with it in my hand and woken the next morning, still gripping it. I know my control so when I picked up this stranger pretending to be my remote control, I flopped on the couch and wondered what alternative reality I had hopped into.
My remote had a nice big bumpy TiVo button on the top – the boss of the panel. It was roundish and polished and stood above all of the rest. The one that traveled across the country, the one who had the nerve to appear in that box dressed as my remote, is a flat rubbery knob and it feels out of place when my finger presses its command. I can’t explain the switch but something very wrong happened in the back of the big rig moving van.
It does work, however, and I am certain I will get used to the difference. It’s not like I’m a stranger to change.