Well we've done it. We got our keys late Monday afternoon, spent the week pulling groins and throwing backs, and today, Saturday (the clock just struck midnight), our living room, kitchen, bedrooms, and bathrooms are mostly complete. Though, if the apartment were a freshly trimmed pubic area, the dining room would most certainly be the neglected, unruly testicular undercarriage.

What can I say. Rome wasn't built in 5 days.

The move-out from Ridgecrest was more emotional than I expected, and not just because my postpartum hormones/menstrual cycles have been about as predictable as Texas weather. Those were 5 solid years, man. 5 years in which I began as a part-time gallery attendant, dating a rarely-there Jekyll and Hyde, dreaming of a life independent, perhaps. In the many months without light, in the many years without furniture, I wrote like a girl very much in love. Somewhere down the line, I acquired a George and my drunk disappearing act hatched from his wood barrel cocoon, spread his Good Man wings and flexed his baby maker. I swear, it happened just like that. 

My water broke in that bedroom! And I hope that the next couple that moves into that apartment know that the place is riddled with small miracles. 

So! The new place. It's a 2BDR, 2BA, 1,000sqft'er. Deceptively large, I must say. Upon first, second, and third glances, I thought for sure the place was going to be entirely too small to fit four adults, a baby, AND a George. Lo and behold, not only is there enough space, but we might even still have a corner to spare. The community seems like most. Quiet. Full of big doggies. George is loving every minute, I'm sure, as he was mostly cooped up the last so-many months I lived with my parents. He's back to being clean, involved, and adored. The neighbor fellow seems nice. He's got a dart board and I'm not-so-subtly wondering when it would be kosher to invite myself over to throw darts with him.