Moving

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Katy and I recently moved to a new apartment.  It was not the first time we had moved, but it was the first time we had moved while she was eight-and-a-half months pregnant.  The last week has motivated me to write a book for future first-time dads who are stupid enough to time a move-in at this very late stage of pregnancy.  Not a huge batch of future readers, but it’s probably more than the number of people who have purchased my other book 101 Ways to Stub Your Toe. 

As anyone with a pulse already knows, one learns an enormous amount about loved ones, strangers, and other idiots during the moving process.  To nutshell this for those of you who are reading this while in the restroom, I’ll tell you I’ve learned that I am very good at sweating and putting boxes in the wrong place.  Furthermore, I mastered the craft of stepping on fallen nails I’ve missed in the process of putting up simple wall hangings.  If anyone out there needs someone to suggest absolutely ridiculous arrangements of furniture, televisions, beds, spoons, clocks, keys, and hats….I’m your man.

Katy took in a lot about my abilities as a so-called “man” as well over the past seven days.  Men have their own set of rules–perhaps a lousy term for it would be the Manstitution.  We know looking weak sucks.  We are quick to judge other adult males who wander around home improvement stores based solely on what they happen to be carrying on their shoulder and/or the size of their squeaky metal cart with two-by-fours (whatever those are).  We desperately want other big, tough men to help us move, but we would usually prefer never to help another guy; that is, unless the possibility of a flower show or jewelry trunk show has been recently brought up over dinner.

As for this guy, I’m glad to say the move is all but done.  I have just a few more paintings to re-hang.  Let me just finish putting on this Dora band-aid…

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