A Chick Called Mick

So, I’m moving next week.  Moving is mostly a terrible experience, so it never ceases to amaze me that I do it as often as I do.  In college, I once moved a total of 6 times in a calendar year, and that was when I could fit move everything I owned in a Geo Prism.  Now I have an entertainment center and a seven foot couch, and it occurs to me—as it always does when I am preparing to move—that I should know more weight lifters and guys with pickup trucks.  I tend to know guys like my friend Jeremy who referred to his black Honda as his “sensitive man car.”  Since I left for college, I don’t think I’ve ever lived in one place for more than two years, so the smart thing to do would be to court the burly, truck driving demographic as soon as the dishes are unpacked.  But I never do.

I’m moving to Austin, Texas, where I’ve taken a job teaching high school English.  I’m going to continue doing the blog for as long as the Times will have me.  Frankly, I’d like to maintain a connection to my home state.  You guys, I’m moving to a place where the blind can hunt, but legislators did try to outlaw sexy cheerleader dancing.  Not to mention that, in my experience, Longhorn fandom is a mental disorder worthy of being in the DSM-IV.  I lived in Austin once before, and I really liked it.  I think this will be a good opportunity for me, but if Texas follows through on their occasional threats to secede from the union, I’m heading back to the Natural State with a quickness.

So, I’m sitting right now on my seven foot couch surrounded by the half dozen boxes that I’ve managed to pack and wondering what I’m going to do with all of my stuff.  The prevailing philosophy just before a move is to go into “fire sale” mode.  Everything must go!  I’ve made the first trip to Goodwill with a trunk full of stuff.  I’ve got three bags of things I’m donating to the library.  (Among them is the copy of Confessions of a Video Vixen that I was previously too ashamed to give them.)

I’ve started to ask myself the hard questions.  Like: Why have I carried a pale blue wig with me across three states?  I decided this is the move where I say: No, the wig isn’t coming with me.  But I want the wig to have a good home.  That?  That is a trait I get from my grandmother.  We tend to keep things longer than we should, which is why she still has an old textbook my father used when he was in high school that he or one of his brothers hated so much they actually took it out back and shot it.  We hang on to these things because you never know when you might need a blue wig or a textbook riddled with bullet holes.

I’ve held on to the wig because I have thought for many moves now that maybe it would come in handy for Halloween.  And the fact that I might use it combined with the fact that I couldn’t think of anyone else who might has been enough to keep me dragging it from apartment to apartment.

But last week I had a thought.  I sent a message to one of the guys I met when I took the workshop with Improv Little Rock, asking if they had any use for a blue wig.  Specifically, one that looked like this:

His response?  “Yes.  Yes, we do.”

Now that that’s been taken care of, I just have to fill up the rest of the empty boxes stacked all over my apartment.  I'll confess the urge to just get rid of it all is strong, but where would I ever find another Xena Warrior Princess doll or the Cher workout video circa "If I Could Turn Back Time"?