Yesterday my closet door fell on me. But, huzzah! I gracefully caught it, and then yelled for Ricky to come take it from me as I was slowly sinking under its weight.
We've been in our new house for three weeks now. (Yay!) No more extended-stay motel. (Yay!) We have our own beds. We have our own stuff. (Yay and ahhh.) The cockapoo is no longer confused, and she has reclaimed her favorite chairs and couches and pillows into which she curls up. (Woof!)
The only thing now standing between us and our suburban serenity is the repairs. There is nothing majorly wrong with the house, but every little thing is a little off. Or missing. Or needs a little love, as they say on HGTV. One of the most important first purchases was the spools for the toilet paper holders. And that, folks, is the extent to which Ricky and I know how to repair anything.
So there has been a parade: appliance delivery and installation, pressure cleaning and painting, tree trimming, cable/phone/Internet installation, alarm setup, caulking, exterminating, minor roof fixing. Each of these tasks has been done by a different person or set of people. It has been three weeks of color swatches, toilet kits, door knobs, and light bulbs.
But it is home.
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