Disclaimer.

Don't say I didn't warn you (see post title, above).

When you bring your cat to the vet with a 'poo' sample, please refer to the 'poo' as a 'fecal sample'. Otherwise, the vet people don't understand why you're trying to hand them a smelly, plastic shopping bag, explaining that you've brought Eesa's poo sample, as they've requested.

Who knows what the hell they thought I was saying....

Nooks and Crannies

I held my first intervention. For a hoarder unaware of his hoarding habits.

Here's the play by play:

Me (to hoarder): 'Thanks for bringing home the bacon during our last week in Baltimore.'
Hoarder: 'I don't mind working...because you'll be home packing everything...right?'
Me: 'Yaaaaay' (insert sarcasm here)
Hoarder: 'Glad that's settled'
Me: 'Not so fast buddy...the computer desk is stacked with cassette and VHS tapes which I don't understand in the least, considering your love affair with new technology and your recent purchase of a DVD player the size of my cell phone. Also...there is a suspicious three-drawer dresser that seems to have become a resting place for....how do I put this nicely...odds and ends?'
Hoarder: 'So?'
Me: 'Well, it's not just the desk and the dresser, but the various corners of each room, shelf, and drawer that hold random yet highly important paperwork. Your filing system is...well, it's the whole house.'
Hoarder: 'So?'
Me: 'Let's 'Tour le Hoard'. First destination, the bathroom medicine cabinet. 'Ah HA...your health AND car insurance certificates.'
Destination two, the kitchen towel drawer. 'What do we have here...your tax return paperwork.'
Hoarder: 'So?'
Me: 'Ok...let's skip your filing system for now and re-discover the abyss of the three-drawer dresser.' Reaching into the top drawer I pull out clear, plastic, lensless glasses with a button that activates neon lights that encircle the rims, assorted pairs of shoelaces, a cell phone from 1998, two remote controls to TV's we don't own, an Orioles Magic CD (and you thought they just played baseball?), and nasal spray that expired in 1982.
Hoarder: 'Ok, I see your point. I'll sort through this stuff.'

Skip ahead three days...I'm packing and boxing and boxing and labeling when I come across the three-drawer dresser.
The hoarder's made some progress...he's added a mini tambourine, three multi-colored ping-pong balls, a bike tire pocket pump, and oddly enough, yet another cell phone circa '98.

I suppose Kevin Millar did give a stand up performance on the Orioles Magic CD. Maybe some things are meant to be keepers.

R2D2 Snubbed Me

Automated phone systems have gotten very clever. Stupid bureaucratic processes requiring patience and concentration needed to jump through hoops of fire, juggle chainsaws and walk tightropes ten stories high. And I'm not being dramatic.

As I transition out of my job, joining the masses of unemployed and traveling vagabonds - I haven't heard anything from my lovely state government or received any promised funds since they teased me with a ton of unemployment paperwork and a 'prepaid debit card'...with no money on it. Liars.

When I tried to call those grand folks at each of the 1800 numbers listed on each of the pages and pages of 'fine print'...robots answered. And when I pressed zero or five or seven or two, for the operator, robots answered. And when I waited on hold for three days...finally a robot answered and told me that all representatives are busy and to try again later. The robot actually said, 'Goodbye' as it hung up on me. Bastard.

Don't human beings work at these organizations? If the robots do all the work what do the people do all day? Blog?

Help Me, Omar!

My Dad always says, 'You get lost...you find your way. You're never lost forever'.

But I don't think my Dad has ever been lost in Baltimore, where you can easily you find yourself in a scene from 'The Wire'.

And it feels like you're lost forever. After 10 years in Baltimore, I think I've got the city routes down and if I get lost nowadays...I can only hope I'm in a scene along side Omar.

But here's the thing...not everyone gets lost like me (you're thinking...'Duh. I don't').

To Noah, getting lost is actually....FUN. Because when Noah gets lost, he finds our new favorite dive bar, the best burrito spot outside of Mexico, a scenic overlook, field of wildflowers for the picking and then finds his way home. Don't look for cameo's of Noah on 'The Wire'. He doesn't get lost there.

Starting over in a new city with new roads, shortcuts and lots of traffic (that more resemble parking lots than freeways).... I vote for a GPS for my own driving escapades. Anyone second the motion?

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What plus what equals...OCD?

Math is not my forte. But I've recently realized a series of equations that actually seem to make sense. For example:

Thursday, July 16th = last day of work

Last day of work = first day of packing.

Packing = 'yes, this is really happening'.

'yes, this is really happening' = OCD.

OCD = cleaning out every drawer, closet, basket, storage apparatus and organizing all components by thoughtfully placing each in a box on which, I've meticulously labeled with a list of all innards.




And all that crazy, listed above = three more days of total denial of the packing project that lies ahead.

We're moving? Since when?