Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Well Isn't That Moving?

My back hurts. I swear I’m going to see a doctor soon.

And we, the whole office people and I, moving from one location to another aggravates my weak back. But I don’t mind. At least things haven’t been ordinary for the past days—excruciating moments when we sit in the office, do our usual tasks and let our butts grow as if “butt growth” will do us good.

So these days, no work in our office gets done. What with the packing?! How can we work? Our official things are sealed in random boxes and so are our “corporate minds.” (Yikes, “corporate” daw, o?!)

We pack all day thus explains our exhaustion. (Hmmm…that sounds kind of weird. Either way, it holds true. You’d naturally feel tired when you do that thing all day!)

So we’re moving. I’m excited. Not that I’ve been deprived of moving. In fact, I’m an expert having moved houses six times in my whole hippocampus-developed lifetime.

Let me enumerate: From Canley Road we moved to Santiago Street [1st move]. Then my mom, one day, had the brightest idea to transfer from the third apartment door to the first one, being that the latter was slightly bigger [2nd move]. Later, as part of a major change in our lives, we packed our bags and headed to Malinao [3rd move]—Malinao which experiences its own version of high tide thanks to incessant rains. Add to that our next-door neighbor who turned their home to a furniture workshop, constantly emitting paint fumes. Both factors drove us to Plaza [4th move]. Everything in Plaza is cramped and fresh air, just as the water supply, is rare. But if you stand just above our staircase you’d smell McDonald’s foods while in the bedroom you’d savor the mouth-watering aroma of Max’s fried chicken! And life in Plaza is almost as cramped as those we see on telenovelas, where the hungry bidas hold on to their tummies while they watch the rich ones get fatter everyday by eating in restaurants like Max’s (or probably McDonalds, too). Until one day the old evil witch, wearing her gold chains, pearl earrings, and silver bangles, will drive the poor bidas away while shrieking, “Get out of my house! You are not my relatives!” Luckily the bidas find a better abode to take shelter in. Then again, going back to our family, hopping to that new spot in San Nicolas [5th move] wasn’t an entirely lucky decision. The house was all right but what was in store changed everything. (Perhaps it is even the reason why I mourn right now.) In San Nicolas, swarms of termites attacked around 25% of what we owned thus prompting us to use all chemicals possible to solve that matter regarding co-existing with pesky insects. It proved to be one of the worst ideas in the world as days later, our youngest, our Nichi began suffering the consequences of prolonged exposure to harmful chemicals and soon thereafter was diagnosed with leukemia—the perpetrator, so to speak, of his early demise. But four years before Nichi’s death, mom had the same brightest idea she had in Santiago. Hence our sixth home relocation from San Nicolas to San Nicolas.

See? I’m not making up the unbeaten six-time move claim. And I haven’t included my dorm hops yet.

Still, the prospect of packing, moving and unpacking doesn’t fail to keep me thrilled. I guess, I’ve learned to enjoy it. As a matter of fact, I have captured some of the moving progress of our office department in photos:

Early today. Things are packed and labeled. Our area is devoid of that asbestos ceiling that gives me the medical creeps and walls that hinder you from believing that you have X-ray vision.

Just arrived. Some of our Department’s tables and shelves are blessed with rain, although I’m using “blessed” in the not-so-favorable light. I guess, what I really mean is, “they got soaked by the uncooperative rain.”

View from the top. The stacks you see are not boxes. They are the tables and cabinets shown above. Amazingly, the hired hands are macho enough to carry one shelf per pair of hands, or I mean, per person.

Here I am. At the old office. Beside our group’s box number three. Smiling.

Perhaps my back wasn’t aching then.

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