“We're moving on up ... to the east side ...”

- Theme song from “The Jefferson's”

Have you ever woken up in a strange bedroom and for a while wondered where you are?

Well this is the situation that I have found myself in every morning for the past few days. I slowly open my eyes to a new day, look around the room and notice that nothing is where it's supposed to be.

I begin to nervously think to myself, “Where am I?” Usually after a minute or two it dawns on me to how it is that I have gotten myself into this mess and why the walls are a different color than what I'm used to.

Oh, wait a minute, maybe I should take a pause to clarify the first few sentences before you come to any strange conclusions as to what yours truly has been doing during his evening hours.

So please, get your minds out of the gutter while I explain that this latest adventure is no where near as fun, exotic or exciting as anything that you might have envisioned it to be.

It goes like this: After deciding to make a quick change in my career path (fired), and networking through fellow like-minded business professionals (in the unemployment line), I found myself driving a long commute every morning (finally put on a shirt and found a job). Which brought me to the decision to wake up every morning in a strange bedroom. Which of course means (drum roll, please) that I've moved into a new apartment. (What did you think I was talking about?)

I have read studies that show that dealing with a move is as stressful as a death in the family.

Now I don't know about you and your relatives; and I certainly don't want to judge anyone, but when someone in my family kicks the bucket it has never involved renting a U-Haul truck.

Though now that I'm thinking about it I do believe it would save a bunch on funeral expenses.

Also, when someone dies I'm not expected to do the packing. If I was, Aunt Tillie would have been laid to rest in a cardboard box stuffed with packing peanuts, instead of a casket with flowers. To be fair, the lifting part is the same but at a funeral you at least get a cool title like pallbearer.

When I'm moving there's no pageantry. All there is is every brother I can con into stopping by and any friend that owns a truck (this is why I made friends with them in the first place, sad but true).

The only thing I do find in common between a funeral and a move is the amount of food and beer you have to supply to get the job accomplished.

My only wish at this point is that when I wake up tomorrow, I'll start to feel like I'm finally home.

Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here, each

Sunday, in The Citizen.

He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com