Anything Lime

A mysterious moving phenomenon

Up until now, I thought the expression, “We lost that [insert miscellaneous object here] in the move” was bullshit. Seriously, how do you lose something “in the move”? Where does it go? How exactly does it happen? Does it sprout limbs and dance the jive before simply walking off? What?

Moving is easy. You put all your crap into boxes, move it and unload it. Where within this flawless process is there room to lose things? Where? Someone please fricken tell me because I don’t know.

We moved in a few separate trips and were quite organized with the way we went about it. We packed up the things we would need first, and we unloaded things as they came into the new apartment to avoid any unnecessary clutter. We never had a bunch of boxes stacked in corners or junk piled everywhere like we did during our my last move. We even would load boxes with similar items so that we could keep track of what was in which boxes. We then color coded the boxes, slapped bar codes onto them, created a database spreadsheet and cross-referenced them in a binder labeled “Important Moving Documents.” That way, if something was missing, we could ask questions like, “Have you seen item 42 from box 14? It seems to not have made it here, even though items 43 and 45 seemed to have arrived safely, along with the rest of the items in box 14.”

So how did four items (so far) manage to grow fins and swim off into the sea of lost things?

The worst part is, we discovered they were missing when we needed them. Two things come to mind: First, it’s a shame that I lost things I use regularly and need often; and second, I hope I didn’t lose any of the stuff I secretly hoard and don’t keep track of. You know, like the piles of pretty packaging or the baggy of miscellaneous souvenir key chains or the bucket of broken shoes I don’t yet feel comfortable throwing away. What about that stuff? I might lose it and never know it’s gone! Damn me and my inexcusably weird pack rat urges!

The “gone but not forgotten” list so far: 1) Our gravy boat — a gift from Patrick’s parents who bought it more than 30 years ago while in London. They picked it out as a housewarming gift especially for us after visiting a psychic who told them that they would one day have a son, Patrick, who would grow up to meet someone who shared his love for maple syrup, and they would need a spectacular gravy boat. 2.) A set of two cake pans Patrick bought for me while I was on my death bed the first time. I pulled through, but sadly, the cake pans did not. It might have actually been the cake that saved my life. Now we’ll never know. 3.) Our crock pot. I’m weeping right now. Openly. On the floor of my cubicle while my office neighbors walk by and offer me chocolate. “She’s inconsolable” they whisper. But I hear them. Oh, I hear them. 4.) My waffle iron. My dad gave this to me during one of my visits to his house in Michigan because I really enjoyed the waffles it made. It lived with me in college and then I brought it down here only to have it go the way of Old Yeller. He was so young. I’ll never eat waffles again.

What’s so mind boggling is that there is absolutely no reason for this. There’s no way we could have left them at the old place because we stuck our heads into every nook and cranny and emptied every space of that apartment. We double checked and triple checked and quadruple checked each cabinet, drawer and hiding place to prevent this very situation.

Where did this stuff go? Somewhere between the empty, old apartment with NOTHING in it, and the new apartment, it all just vanished. Unless each of these items pulled a tuck-and-roll stunt move out of the car on the drive from residence A to residence B, I’m utterly clueless as to where the hell these things have ended up.

We always kept the cake pans with the strainers, cutting boards and cookie sheets — all of which have relocated to their respective homes in the new apartment. The gravy boat lived with the mugs, which have also made it. The crock pot might or might not have died as a result of the tuna-noodle …eh em… “incident.” But… there is NO reason that a lover of waffles should be without a waffle iron. Oh sweet waffle iron that lived next to the electric mixer and that should have been in the same box as the electric mixer… where have you gone? WHY AREN’T YOU LIVING NEXT TO THE ELECTRIC MIXER?!

So now I bid adieu to all of these precious belongings, which must now be replaced as they have gone to live with countless single socks that have evaporated out of the communal dryers at my last complex and floated off into oblivion. Adieu things. Adieu.


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