The Big Move

 Did it. Got my stuff from one house to another. What should have taken one day I managed to squeeze into five. It’s like I wanted to bottle my dread and ration it out. But it’s done. There’s a new place to call home.

I was disappointed no one offered to buy anything from my moving inventory besides me. Buying me would cost too much as it turns out the Kansas City Royals still own my territorial rights. That posting did start a family argument however.

My Dad called to tell me, “I liked your moving inventory, but you misused the word shclocking. You meant to use the word schlepping.”

“What does schlocking mean?”

“A schlepper is someone who’s always carrying stuff with them.”

“I know that. But what does schlock mean?”

“Schlock is junk.”

I could hear my Mom in the background. “No. it doesn’t.”

“Yes it is. Schlock is junk”

“That’s the word I wanted to use. All my stuff is junk.” I told them.

“No it’s not.” I could hear my Mom say.

“That’s nice of you to say, Mom, but it’s all pretty crummy stuff.”

“No your stuff is junk. But it’s not schlock. Schlock does not mean junk.”

It was strange that my parents were so passionate about the definitions of Yiddish words since as far as I know the only formal Yiddish education they had was a Mel Brooks double feature they went to in the seventies.

Of greater concern about my new place is the amount of sleep I’m getting. On Thursday I woke up at noon. Saturday I woke up at one in the afternoon. I’d put the blame on the new mattress, as my old futon was like sleeping on those Indian needle boards, only less comfortable. But after I got out of the shower shave combo, at 1:30 on Saturday afternoon my brother was just getting up. I know sloth could be hereditary, but I’m slightly worried it’s paint fumes from the newly refurbished walls that are knocking us out. It couldn’t just be laziness, could it?