A moving story, redux.

Now I remember why I never wanted to leave the carriage house. Skylights and exposed brick and huge closets and great location aside, the real reason I fully intended to stay put was this: moving sucks. Every muscle in my body aches, my thighs and arms are covered with box- and wall- and furniture-inflicted bruises. I have a hole in the top of my foot from a mattress frame and a gash on my shin from an errant printer. I've been up until the wee hours every night since Thursday (first sorting and packing and cleaning, then sorting and unpacking and setting up and rearranging), which coupled with the massive amounts of dust I've sucked up over the past four days has left me fighting a losing battle with illness.

But at last, roughly 99% of the insane quantity of crap I have accumulated over the past six-plus years, plus 97.5% of Steve's significantly more manageable quantity of crap, is somewhere in OUR house, garage, basement, or storage shed. Bit by bit, rooms are starting to look liveable, boxes are being emptied, furniture is finding its place, and a home is emerging from the clutter. Steve spent hours last night putting back together my father's wonderful oak desk and setting up my computer, and I now have a lovely home office from which to blog once our wireless network is installed tomorrow. My "engagement boxes" are finally displayed on a special shelf, having been tucked in a corner for the past six weeks. Shasta Cat has survived her initial terror at being displaced and is happily roaming the house, wiggling her way into the myriad new hiding places it offers. My clothes have all found their way into closets, drawers, and shelves (admittedly in four different rooms of the house, but I did leave Steve an entire half of the bedroom closet!). And for the first time in my adult life, I have an actual guestroom, with an actual guestbed, which serves no other function than to house actual guests (the first of whom, Steve's parents, arrive Friday).

And I'm never moving again.