I am at last beginning to get my act together in the house. For the first several months I was kind of walking around in a daze, waiting for someone to come and say it had all been a mistake and that we’d need to move back to our 750 square foot apartment, but now I am starting to be capable of walking through a room and thinking “Wait, should that ugly plywood shelving unit really be in the corner of our beautiful living room? Or could I find a better place for it, like someone else’s house?”
Wait, should I still be storing my CDs in a hideous filthy plastic chest of drawers?
Wait, should the bathroom tile have shreds of carpet glued to it?
Wait, why is the kitchen so ugl — LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU.
(SO not ready to think about the kitchen yet.)
All this is by way of explaining why I rarely talk much about my day-to-day life here: it’s because I’m so focused on the house, which is extraordinarily boring. Except to me.
Okay, back to books and dog jokes.
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