Whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin? No, seriously, whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin?

 So, Mary got me a new name. Actually, a new domain name, new email address, new Facebook page name, new website, new everything. And I've slowly gotten used to the new name. You've probably heard it on the street, or in a café or in our new house. It sounds a lot like this: "Billy whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin?" That's my new last name, whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin. It's a bit strange, but what the heck. Beats the alternative, Billy Imgoingtoremovealungfromyouthroughyournoseifthiskeepsup. I'm a true believer in Mary's ability to do just that. Straight on out till morning, third scared lung from the right. Honest. She can do it.

As I sit here, typing on a couch without having really slept all night and occasionally noticing I've dropped off, typed a whole bunch of even more evident gibberish than normal, it occurs to me that this has been taxing, this moving gig.

We recently, like sometime in the past 15 minutes or so, moved from Eunice to New Orleans, which is roughly the equivalent of moving from Atlanta to oh, say, Macon.

I would love to say I've done it well, this boxing thing, but everyday readers will know better without my writing anything. A tiger can't change his stripes, especially if he can't find what box he put them in.

Just is what it is. Once again, I tried, and I failed. Like ducks whose only job is to walk from one little lake across the road to another little lake and then back again, I left the lake, waddled across the road and just before getting there, someone yelled hey, Billy whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin ... and when I turned to see who was calling my name, splattttt. Dead duck in the middle of the whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin.

The exceptionally good news is that I can see the bottom of the whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin quagmire. Seriously. The boxes are not growing, mutating, virusing any longer. At least I don't think they are.

The idea that we've lost many things isn't as evident as it once was. I'm sure the idea still exists at the back of my mind, but stark raving mad fear isn't covering my head like a flock of growing, mutating, virusing seagulls and longer. Now my head is covered by the normal assortment of tiny, tiny hairs.

Till Mary gets all red in the face and her front teeth start rattling and she screams Billy whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin and the hair that had grown out (in my ears and nose of course) since the last time she had yelled suddenly explodes like tree needles powered by hurricane winds.

Soon, and very soon, we will put all this to bed, if we could find all the rails for all the beds. And this time, we're going to keep the whatboxdidyouputsoandsoin boxes. Just cut the tape off, flatten them like a lousy pan of cornbread, put them into the new attic we have, and be done with it, er, them, till the next time my name changes to Billy Areyousurethatyoupackedthedangthingatall.

Ironically, that is on my old driver's license that I use to check into and out of hotels for vacation. That's better than what's on my social security card, the idea I've had all my life, the very early ID ... William Whereareyourkeysglasseswalletshoes Wasthataboxyouputthemin.

This is the very reason boxing has died.