I have survived the move. Oh, look, a fluffy place to — BOOM.
I’ve unpacked every box and set up the kitchen. I keep not-finding things I thought I had, or hadn’t thought about having, and I hit the grocery store nearly every day. I keep buying mustard, which I don’t quite understand. I’ve run the gamut of exhaustion to elation and back to exhaustion again because apparently that’s how I’m wired these days.
Cat tried to escape out the living room window — out a ledge narrower and a floor higher than the last apartment — the first day back to work. Because of course.
Even with everything unpacked, there are great swaths of empty space waiting the delivery of some IKEA furniture. I only have the papasan chair, which is frankly doing terrible things to my already stressed back at the moment, but I’m sort of getting used to having all the extra space. Still, a couch, a table, these things are necessary and good and, fingers crossed, will come assembled.
Still a week to go with no Internet. Great when it comes to breaking the social media habit. I’m more able to leave the phone on the shelf, for example, or in another room entirely, but all of my writing is in the cloud and that’s proving challenging.
Very, very challenging. What have I done? What have I done? Aaskhfskdjfhsdkfhs…
Reading, however, has never been better. I am loving Jo Walton’s MY REAL CHILDREN, and should finish it tonight. It does such interesting things, and Walton seeds her hints so deftly. Much love!