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          Most years on New Year’s Day my friend Bonnie and I cobble together whatever women friends we can and go on the annual “Where In The Blue Blazes Back Country Chick Trek”. It involves back country skiing, and just in case you don’t know, back country ski trails are marked with blue blazes on the trees. Now do you think its cute?  Well, it is. Anyway, this year there simply wasn’t enough snow. You can ski at Showdown on the groomed trails, if you like that kind of thing (I don’t), but out in the wilds its no dice, unless you’re one of those gung-ho types who doesn’t mind having to take off your skis now and again to ford a creek or climb over a fallen tree. I’m not one of them. This year, its strictly captive skiing. Catch and release, if you will. Instead of a skiing escapade, I’m going to have a deskapade.

          I succeeded in moving all my furniture out of the old house and into the new except for my mammoth desk. It probably weighs about as much as an extra-planetary object within the Kuiper Asteroid Belt, but that isn’t really the problem. The problem is that there is no way for one person, no matter how big or strong, to grasp more than one fifteenth of its surface area. I know this because I think that’s how many people it took to move it into that house. I think even then we had to take the legs off, the drawers out, and remove the molding from the doorway. It wasn’t easy. I think, based on the avocado-green, plaid pattern on the top, that the desk was built in the fifties, when they tended to kill two birds with one stone and build desks that doubled as bomb shelters. Between that desk and my new house comprised of 40+ yards of concrete, I’m all ready for Armageddon. Bring it on.

          That’s what my friend Scott the Fixer said when he learned that the Desk (I think it deserves a capital D by now, don’t you?) had yet to be moved. Twice before this I’ve assembled small teams from the Department of Heavy Lifting to move things, and each time we approached the Desk, sort of poked at it with a toe like a beachcomber investigating a beached whale to see if it might groan or blow a stream of watery snot from its blow hole, and then we arranged ourselves around it and gave a preliminary little heft, only to conclude that it would, as expected, require a football team to move. The Fixer, however, claimed that with his dolly he, his wife and I would be able to move it ourselves. If memory serves, he said “Don’t worry, I can take that desk down. I’m on it.” Brave words, even for a big guy who doesn’t have a bad back.

          After moving the desk, and the last bits of pottery and various tables and what not that are still in the old house, I’ll be happy that previous bouts with the Dept. of Heavy Lifting managed to wrestle my tub into the house, since I’ll be looking forward to a nice, hot soak. I’m a serious aficionado of hot baths, and having lived without a tub in my house for the last ten years, I’m approaching the backlog of baths with gusto. If only I were a poet; I’d write an ode to my tub.

Oh, Tubby, Tubby, so much better than a hubby,

Your caress rhymes with ess,

And soothes my savage beast.

But I’m not, so I won’t.


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