There's of course some bad news too...

...but I couldn't be all Debbie Downer from the get-go. First, the house is old. A hundy, abouts. So in the remodel they jacked up the floors while reinforcing the foundation, all in order to keep the pritty pritty hardwoods. Apparently it's not an exact science, so walking in a straight line from the front door to the back gives me Mardi Gras flashbacks. I have yet to get my sea legs, and I'm blaming my first-morning-hangover on motion sickness. No way was it the three beers. Three beers. Number two in the sad state of the union. I have lost my tolerance for alcohol. There will be no lazy afternoon sipping IPAs on the back deck, unless I nurse one pitiful little Coors Lite until it's just warm piss water. Which is marginally worse than the cold fizzy piss water it starts out as. They call it the Silver Bullet, but everyone knows Coors is shootin blanks.

Number three... downsizing and the invevitable overflow of incredibly confusing belongings. If my key bowl could talk, it would be speechless. If my desk could communicate, it would cry. And if Pooey's room weren't inanimate it would apoplectic.






But we got this going, which is nice. The books are still on holiday. They will return happy, as we all do when we take a long vacation in a storage unit.


Alas, my house is a lesbian living in a straight appliance world, like sending Ellen and Porscia to Utah. She digs this stove, also a lesbian, but I'm afraid the Appliance Church will send them to Reconfiguration Camp, or whatever the old boys are calling it. (Secretly, the stove will just buy a strap-on and they'll go on as spinster roommates to appease the Appliance Elders.)