Yesterday a reader named Judy was kind enough to comment (in response to my post, A Working Class Zero, about having just moved to our new home) "Home at last. Good on you, John! [How exotic!] How much more unpacking do you have to do?"
Well, Judy, here's a photo of my new office, taken seconds ago:
Let's see what we see here:
Books. I have about 50 cases of books waiting to go on shelves that are waiting to be bolted onto the walls first because this is California, and via earthquakes God has made it clear that he doesn't want people in California to read. Which explains Hollywood. But that's a whole other can of hair gel.
Canned air. I don't like regular air. It's too common. I prefer my air in a can. That way, I know where it comes from. Mine is from Canada. They have excellent air in Canada. You can almost smell the bear droppings in it. In fact, you can. Which is why I'm actually going to change to air from France. I can hardly wait to smell the croissants!
A laundry basket featuring my fancy Nike workout pants. I used to enjoy wearing those pants to work out. But since undertaking this Giant Move, my wife and I have been eating out a lot. And so now I enjoy wearing those pants because of their elastic waistband. To me, "Just Do It" now means "Order The Tierra Missue."
My laptop case. I have three laptop cases. Oddly, I have but one lap. I always like to keep a laptop case ready to go, though, in case anyone suddenly invites me to a very important meeting of some sort. No one ever, ever does. I hate the world.
The heaviest lamp in the history of light. That golden lamp you see in the background is solid brass. It weighs about 30lbs. It was an object of wonder for our movers, each of whom Officially Declared it the heaviest lamp they'd ever been bitter about having to move. The lamp was given to me by a dear Christian friend, a man who is 85 years old and in fantastic shape. He thought I, too, could use some exercise. So he gave me his lamp.
Well, I'm off to do anything I can to turn our kitchen from a mountain of half-empty boxes and wrapping paper strewn everywhere to a place where I can finally start creating the kind of food that will eventually give my Nike pants less reason to laugh at me.
Write me! Give me any reason to stop having to wonder whether or not I really need three colanders!
Save me from working here.