nesting

My schedule is changing yet again, but it means that I’ll have an extra day off every other week. (I bollocksed that up with my impending vacation, so Friday was my last Friday working until the second week in February.) In a perfect pay period, I’ll work nine hours a day for eight days and theoretically leave after eight hours on the ninth day. I’m OK with this, because that’s one less day of commuting to Charlottesville and a full weekday I can use for errands, appointments, enjoying Richmond and restarting my writing regimen.

Additionally, I can finish setting up this place.

It’s been a little more than 90 days, and it’s starting to look like a place.

$2.50

I’ve begun hanging art.

putting this rug down was unnecessarily complicated.

Along with a coffee table, we now have a rug, so the couch stops gliding across the wood floors.

The LOC system is odd sometimes

My books are in shelves and sorted by the Library of Congress system.

I bet Mary Tyler Moore wished her M lit up.

I bought a frivolous piece of decoration.

A coat rack is on the way.

Other than setting up the guest room part of the office/my closet, we just need a kitchen table, an armchair and a proper TV stand.

This place is starting to feel like home, and that makes me happy.

Sure, I fully unpacked in the Charlottesville house and there was (nearly) a place for everything, but it never had that certain je ne sais quoi that made it truly feel like La Maison Robinson. I think the difference here is all about location. And that damn sexy exposed brick and wood timbers.

I’m excited about making this place look like a home, a real adult home.

I want a table so badly. I want to invite people over for dinner. I want to take their coats and put them on the rack. I want to show a friend to the guest room and offer a couch — not a bed, not a futon.

I want a return to normalcy so badly. There was a solitude in being halfway up a mountain in Charlottesville that never set well with me. Being ready for guests is the first step to regaining what we lost there. Sure, the world kept turning and some of the people who would hang in Chimborazo just to hang either aren’t around anymore or matured, but I grew up in a home that all but placed a pineapple at the front gate.

I do declare, I’m almost ready to place mine.

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