Boxed In
This afternoon, the movers delivered the one piece of furniture we decided to bring from New York—our dining-room table—along with our gas grill, our hammock (complete with stand), Zach's bike, a mattress, and 70 boxes.
Yes, 70.
I know because they were numbered.
The grill and hammock (complete with stand) are in the backyard, still shrink-wrapped in protective plastic.
Zach's bike is adorning the living room, along with the rented couch, rented love seat, rented coffee table, rented end tables, and rented lamps. It's the one thing that makes the place look somewhat lived in (if you ignore the shrink wrap, that is).
The ridiculously heavy top of our butcher-block dining-room table is leaning up against a wall downstairs, not far from our borrowed dining-room table, which is set not with plates but with boxes, more of which are assembled underneath it. Neither table has matching chairs, so I've been doing most of my "dining" (takeout, frozen pizza, cereal, and the occasional healthy salad) at the coffee table, which has a better view of the rented TV.
The legs from our disassembled dining-room table are currently upstairs, in a room that until a few hours ago had been empty except for a litter box and our cable modem and is now home to most of those 70 numbered boxes. I can only hope that the cats can distinguish their box from ours.
Our mattress is upstairs as well. And while it's probably far more comfortable than the rented one that sits on the rented box springs that are in turn balanced on the rented bed frame, for the time being it is off duty, leaning up against the wall like a bored teenager.
I have emptied four boxes so far. One is already full of the crumpled newsprint I harvested in the process; another is waiting to be pressed into service as an overflow receptacle. The third has been broken down and folded up, and the fourth—the largest—has been repurposed as a fort for the cats.
If this keeps up I'll have to start my own business selling secondhand moving supplies.
And operating a day-care center for imaginative cats.
Yes, 70.
I know because they were numbered.
The grill and hammock (complete with stand) are in the backyard, still shrink-wrapped in protective plastic.
Zach's bike is adorning the living room, along with the rented couch, rented love seat, rented coffee table, rented end tables, and rented lamps. It's the one thing that makes the place look somewhat lived in (if you ignore the shrink wrap, that is).
The ridiculously heavy top of our butcher-block dining-room table is leaning up against a wall downstairs, not far from our borrowed dining-room table, which is set not with plates but with boxes, more of which are assembled underneath it. Neither table has matching chairs, so I've been doing most of my "dining" (takeout, frozen pizza, cereal, and the occasional healthy salad) at the coffee table, which has a better view of the rented TV.
The legs from our disassembled dining-room table are currently upstairs, in a room that until a few hours ago had been empty except for a litter box and our cable modem and is now home to most of those 70 numbered boxes. I can only hope that the cats can distinguish their box from ours.
Our mattress is upstairs as well. And while it's probably far more comfortable than the rented one that sits on the rented box springs that are in turn balanced on the rented bed frame, for the time being it is off duty, leaning up against the wall like a bored teenager.
I have emptied four boxes so far. One is already full of the crumpled newsprint I harvested in the process; another is waiting to be pressed into service as an overflow receptacle. The third has been broken down and folded up, and the fourth—the largest—has been repurposed as a fort for the cats.
If this keeps up I'll have to start my own business selling secondhand moving supplies.
And operating a day-care center for imaginative cats.
Labels: transition
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at
6:21 PM
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