Here's the low down on the apartment in numbers:
Ikea couches: 1
Completed bottles of wine: 4
New scratches in the hardwood floor: 1
Bags of tortilla chips consumed: 2
Loud house parties next door that keep us awake: 2
Times Janelle has glued her fingers together with wood stain: 1
That is not a comprehensive list.
Though The Move for me has been within the same city, I nonetheless find myself in the throes of transitional angst (big surprise, right??) It takes 30 minutes longer to get to work than before, and the number of new expenses are staggering. It is hot hot hot when bed time comes because our third and top floor apartment soaks up sun all day for a cumulative effect similar to an oven. The smells and sounds and patterns are unfamiliar. I yearn for the day when I stagger into the kitchen for morning coffee and grind/brew/pour like on automatic, without fumbling for beans, outlets or counter space.
Still, this place has hints of Home forming in it. Already I like the way evening light filters in the northwest windows. Our gerbera daisies seem comfortable on the windowsill. The floors creak gently to welcome me back from work. We are fortunate for this little apartment, and for the chance to begin a new life chapter. (And will keep the Trader Joe's wine flowing until we feel sane again.)
