One week ago, I moved in with my lady. A cold, which turned my voice in to a croaking amalgamation of Tom Waits and a frog with a menthol habit, put a damper on the experience’s nervous joy. But bit by bit, I’m starting to feel moved in and not just a long-term visitor. Books are on shelves. Her special editions mingle with mine. Clothes are unpacked. Laundry done, and redone. Schedules are being worked.
The cats… are still a work in progress. Having never met other cats, my boys still think the hissing and growling her girls make when they are nearby means “Yes! Do come play with us!”
I still have paperwork to handle: insurance forms to update for the car, licenses to change, rental agencies to contact about getting the old homestead on the market. And then there’s cleaning up the old homestead: wall scrubbing, bit of paint here and there, some tile work.
Over Christmas the old desktops need to be cared for: she needs a new motherboard, I need a new HD.
And somewhere in there, I have to start writing again. And by that I mean more than a few odd sentences here and there. I mean sitting down and writing. Time and tide wait for no one.