I've been busy moving out of the family house. I've been planning to do so for the past two years, but I've always been slow to pull the trigger. Anyway it's happening slowly but surely.

Checks are with the landlord. During the weekend I got the water running, got the place cleaned, screwed in some bulbs (most of which I'm changing to a white daylight cast). More than half my books are at the apartment. I am now the owner of my own refrigerator and a toaster. Tomorrow I'm taking delivery of a dining table set and a bed frame. The mattress is arriving next week. I put in an order for chairs, and bought the blinds that are getting installed tomorrow too. I still need a work table, a couch, a couple of shelves, a cabinet, lamps and light fixtures, a phone and Internet connection, and more chairs.

I just listed a litany of tasks and needs to hide the emotional upheaval that I'm, er, feeling, at the risk of channeling LJ. I've said before that I've moved homes seven times, and it never really gets easier. While packing the second batch of books, I unearthed scrawlings and "art" by 3-year old me. My pre-school teacher gave me "satisfactory" marks. I also found a binder of my very first rolls of transparency film. They were photos of rural settings, children posing, sunsets and, "patterns and texture" on plants. Horrible.

Anyway, I wanted this, I planned for this. And I am getting exactly what I wanted. It's time to grow up, but I'm still making time for patintero in empty parking lots, ice cream on the steps, gigging until way past my bedtime. You only live once.