No worry

I am here. Or, rather, there. I am up at Suzanne's, in her very empty but functional apartment (hey, there is ONE SPOON that she didn't already pack, but all you need is one at a time, yes?) and we are on the cusp.

The boxes are all packed. There's no food left in the refrigerator, except for some shrimp we will cook tomorrow, a microwave Weight Watchers dinner we can't eat because the microwave is already in Maryland, some ham, a can of tuna (the can opener is long gone) and some fruit and condiments. The rabbits are already in Maryland, eating a truly insane bounty of Romaine lettuce I left for them. The place echoes.

We went to dinner at a steak and lobster place up the road (Jack Baker's Lobster Shanty, if you are from Middlesex County, New Jersey) and had a nice dinner, came home and had a smoke and a drink and talked a lot. Suzanne got tired and went to bed a while ago, where she is listening to Les Paul on the iPod/speaker/radio/CD thing I got her for Christmas. She got all dolled up tonight, heels and black nylons and a short wool skirt and her hair all pinned back as she does, and I did my blue cashmere blazer and a sweater.

Bye, New Jersey!

I did this trip so bare-bones, I don't even have either of the Apples tonight. I'm typing this on Suzanne's Windows (soon to be Linux) machine, albeit on Firefox. But I figured I wanted to write something.

It's odd... a lot of people I know of both genders have asked me "are you stressed with her moving in?" Shit, no! I've lived with women most of my adult life, and she is much more worried about the rabbits than about herself. Moving is just one of those things I got good at, having done it 27 times between 1980 and 1996, and never again. I know what to do, and have imparted as much of that wisdumb as I could to her. I am a very hard guy to worry these days, because I tend to be very calculating: if I can do something about something that worries me, I do it. If I can't, fukit.

Everything related to Suzanne's move comes down to one or the other of these options.

Everything.

Tomorrow we will load up our cars -- me, the rental Hyundai with the enormous trunk and the absurd 3.3L V6 that still gets 30mpg, she with her dented Impala -- and go to sleep. The movers will allegedly show up at 8:30, they will load up the piano and the couches and the china cabinet, and then I will drive to work. They will show up at our house in Maryland Tuesday morning, unload everything, and drive away.

Then, the rest of our life starts.

I guess I should go see if she's still awake.