I've had this neck pain that has lasted for nearly seven weeks. I briefly mentioned it in a previous post and I thought it'd get better by now, but it has yet to improve and it's driving me nuts. So much so that I turned off the DRG stimulator yesterday to see if that was somehow affecting my neck. I swear it feels a little better, probably just psychosomatic, but my foot pain has once again increased. However, I think I slept better last night. I'm a teeter-tottering mess. I'll keep the stimulator off a little longer to see what happens.
I've really noticed the neck pain while trying to back out of the driveway at our new homestead. According to the plat map that we received during closing earlier this week, the driveway is 9.8 feet wide with brick on one side and an iron fence on the other. It's damn near impossible for me to get down the drive without destroying my neck as I try not to clip the side mirrors off of the car.
We are fully moving into the new home this weekend. Even though I will probably move boxes over my prescribed weight limit, I do plan to take breaks to bitch and moan about friends/family carrying my stuff like Danny Murphy's character calling Ben Stiller a dipshit in There's Something About Mary. "You already put a fucking nick in my piano!" "Heavy!?! What I wouldn't give to know what heavy feels like, you insensitive prick!"
Speaking of pianos, my wife was looking for a piano recently to fill some space in the house and for our daughter to learn how to play. My wife found online listings for cheap and free pianos. Lots of them, in fact. Turns out it's difficult to give them away. A day later I came across a story in the Washington Post about how nobody wants a piano because it's impossible to get rid of them. I clicked on the story using up one of my free stories you're allotted monthly as a non-subscriber that I've been saving for the impending impeachment stories that, at this point, seem like they are never going to happen. I do have a sneaking suspicion, though, that we are actually living in the Twilight Zone, or at least I am, and in reality I'm probably dead or in a vegetative state where the Cubs never won the World Series and Donald Trump is actually in prison for tax evasion and sexual misconduct, not the Leader of the Free World. 2016 was something, right?
For the past few days since our closing we've been dropping off fragile and oddly shaped items at the house and familiarizing ourselves with the area. To date, we've visited our kid's new school as well as the DMV for updated drivers' licenses. Wednesday night we even brought our dog to check out the house and his new stomping ground, something our daughter felt was necessary for him to get acclimated to his new surroundings. That night we found a bar that allows dogs on their outdoor patio and had some cheap chicken. On the patio we met our first local who was the proud owner of a young poodle that wouldn't stop trying to hump our elderly dog's face. The owner of Facehump, Matthew, informed us that as a child he grew up in Ottawa and moved away to Chicago when he was older for theater. (Or is it theatre?) In the city he lived in the same building as John Cusack. I guess that is a big deal? Coincidentally, my sister-in-law lived there, too. Matthew asked where we lived and according to him, he's spent plenty of time in our home as a neighborhood kid and divulged that there used to be a dumbwaiter inside. Damn! I wish the dumbwaiter was still there and I could be like Webster going between floors without using the stairs. You know, I think I may look into getting that re-installed and we can nix that Gremlins chairlift idea because I don't want to go crashing out a window. We also learned Matthew enjoys drinking to excess and I'm hoping he forgot about meeting us already. Matthew said his mother lives near our home and we may see her walking Facehump on our block because she takes care of the dog during his benders...I think we may need one of those Ring video doorbells or at least I have to find which box we packed up the bear spray in. ASAP.
Also, outside the bar on the patio, my wife and I listened in on a group of 20-something males who were taking a cigarette/vape break next to our table while they discussed their Pop Warner football draft. In regard to seven and eight-year-old children, here's a little of what we overheard: "We gotta find a way to get him the ball in space." "There's no way he's 98-pounds. He's at least fucking 120, dude." "Here's the thing, it's a draft and you're going to end up with some pussies on the team." These men, I'm guessing, fantasize that they are Jerry Jones, the Crypt Keeper-looking billionaire owner of the Dallas Cowboys. Now, I almost spoke up, not only since it was going too far, but I was tiring of inhaling vaporized caramel pear e-juice and because my kid wanted to collect the $33 dollars for the swear fund (three of which I owed), but Matthew couldn't stop distracting us while he talked to us about dogs and dog etiquette. Meanwhile, his dog CONTINUED TO MOUNT OUR DOG'S FACE!
I'm still anxious and nervous about moving, but this will be a good, no, a great experience when we look back on this move down the road.
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