Well, almost. It's hard to believe we've been down here almost three months. The move was like a pregnancy in that regard: it seemed the end, the move itself, was off in the hazy future and would never happen. Then it does, and suddenly you're looking back and wondering where the time went.
Carrying the analogy forward, just as the first few weeks with a newborn are chaotic and disorganized, so it was for us in our new house, and any of you who have ever undertaken a major move will understand. We are now ninety-five percent unpacked. The other five percent is boxes of papers, bills, old checkbooks and such that I am tempted to throw in the fireplace and burn just so that I won't have to go through them. Except that our fireplace is electric, with these pretty little flickering "flames" that I can turn on and off with a switch.
Or I could haul our old firepit onto the driveway and burn the stuff there. Except that we've already received one scolding citation from the fascist homeowner's association for not hauling our garbage cans in soon enough after the garbage collection. I'm sure they'd schedule an intervention or an involuntary commitment if I actually started burning papers in my driveway.
Or I could unpack. The. Boxes. Perhaps tomorrow.
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