Fine Plan / Fire Plan; too much stuff

DISCLAIMER:  Sigh, another post. Put down the phone and devote your full attention, or store to savour later. There is a slightly egocentric side to this post, in that the writer assumes that anybody cares in the slightest what is up with Regina and Chris. (The writer knows that everyone is clamouring to know more of the exploits of Pommes der Wunderkatzchen, sorry none in this post.)  DISCLAIMER END

Dear Gentle Reader,

Hello from the The Pinnacle where we are overlooking green park space (Signal Hill Park), blue water, and the ever idyllic Hong Kong Victoria Harbour (see above at night) awash with gently bobbing watercraft of all shapes and sizes (I should be a copy editor for Hong Kong Tourism).

We are now fully moved into our new apartment in Hong Kong; we have internet access via our non-firewalled neighbours...

So, I was gmail chatting with a friend the other day and idly commented on the sheer volume of stuff that Regina makes me haul around from country to country. 

There was an intake of breath that I sensed across the internet.  Obviously there were to follow words of condolence and empathy because I, of course, am known as an inveterate Zen minimalist.  Especially in the household "things" department.

Suddenly, to my infinite amazement, said friend (the invidious Steven L.) seemed to imply, actually, he flat out stated, that I am a pack rat.

Pack rat?  Pachyderm if anything, with my prodigious memory and smooth, unwrinkled skin... 

(Aside: Yes Regina, I have found the facial cream and will start using it.  

And when exactly did male wrinkles stop being cool, anyways?  

I desperately wanted to look like Robert Redford as a young man.  

I would stand in the frigid Albertan and Saskatchewan winters making absurd faces with exaggerated wrinkles, licking my cheeks to chap them, hoping the cold and dry would help my skin "set" to stay like that, just like parents around the world warn their kids about.  

And now my wife henpecks me to put skin cream moisturizer on.  Go figure. 

Aside Over.)

Anyway, back to my point about the mess in the house. 

I hold that I can blame Regina for making me carry all the stuff, like skin cream junk that clutters up our house, around from country to country and from house to house.  

Therefore, by extension, Regina is unequivocally responsible for the accumulation of unnecessary stuff cluttering up our house.  

Except of course for the wickedly cool stuff that I collect.  If you are appreciating it when you enter the house, that's my stuff.

But what a lot of stuff there is, no matter whom is responsible for it.  

I knew there was trouble when the movers came into the house, looked at each other, looked at me, and then laughed.  

I especially knew I was in trouble when the rooms were full of boxes (by full, I mean that there were no interstitial spaces to squeeze more boxes or bodies or Minotaurs into) and the moving guys said that they wanted to take a lunch break...  

And then they said, and this is where I became a bit nervous, "and we'll unload the second truck... the other half of your shipment... after lunch"...

I am sure my neighbours loved threading and wriggling their corpulent bodies through the tiny gaps in the hallways to get to what they considered their rooms.  

The good gentlemen from the concierge desks downstairs (yes, that was meant to be in the plural) came up to have a chat with me about the situation and how I intended to deal with it.  

I explained, repeatedly, that things would take a bit of time, but that I had a plan.  

They kept saying "Fine Plan, fine plan" back to me, in a curiously concerned fashion, and I would reply,"Yes, fine plan, its a fine plan" back to placate and mollify them.  

Only it didn't seem to work; the concierges never seemed to be mollified by my repetition of "fine plan" back to them.

It took me a day or three to realize that the concierge SWAT team were saying either "Fire Plan" or "Fire Man" and they considered the cardboard obelisk garden which I had created in the common space hallway to be some type of impediment to people, or even a fire risk.  

Sheesh, nobody appreciates impermanent art anymore.  

If only I had had some formaldehyde and a shark.

Anyway, things are looking up.  

I have been ruthlessly culling things.  

I even evacuated the Swiss Dust Bunny collection that I had imported here at great personal cost and in flagrant violation of the CITES convention (Convention on the International Trade on Endangered Species of Wild Flora and Fauna).  

(They appear to be multiplying in the streets; I am of course implicitly referring to the Swiss Dust Bunnies.  The only places where international conventions multiply in the streets are in Geneva or in New York.) 

We purchased two more armoires, and are getting some shelf-holder-upper-metal-tabbie-thingamiggers (see, my German is improving) sent to us by the ineffably wonderful Fabilicious to put more shelves and hence more things into one of the older armoires.  

This place will be almost as shipshape as a yacht when we are finished.  So, guests, come on over to check it all out.

My Dad is supposedly coming over soon, as is Fab, but others are strangely silent.  It's really nice here.  

I found the going away picture book that Nicole, Arne, und Julia made for us and there is a section in it for pictures of Genevusians (the technical way of describing people who live in Geneva as opposed to those who have been born and raised in it) who visit HK.  

These pages won't fill themselves, kiddos.  Get busy, visit, and pose for photos.  And Inga, don't think that a broken arm is going to get you off of your impending visit here with your Mom.

Lets call that a day, Gentle Reader, and we will see what comes next week.

Tschuuuessss,

Chris, Regina, and Pommes