As of Friday, we have moved in to the new place. The floors, which we've paid to have sanded and refinished, are coated in a fine layer of silt despite my constant mopping. The backyard has standing puddles in it (the man who has been doing the gardening while no one lived here seemed to be going for a Florida Everglades-type feel). Our entire dining room is filled with boxes. Our bathroom has no central light, so we've had to import a desk lamp, which now totters on the small counter between shower and sink, shadeless. The new cable box hums so loudly that you can't carry on a conversation if you're sitting next to it. Every shutter from every single one of our windows is currently lying in our garage, ready to be given a new coat of paint. (The painter--who is coming more and more to resemble Elton from Murphy Brown-- promised us he would be done last Tuesday). And whenever any faucet or toilet is activated, the entire house shakes, and a noise roughly akin to that of an army of angry gnomes toiling with jackhammers to demolish the foundation, issues forth. This FREAKS OUT the dog who, having been uprooted from a quiet, cosy carpeted nook in a place he knew to a large, loud, linoleum-covered kitchen in a place he does not, is already freaked out almost beyond what he can bear. (He's refused to eat or drink for the last twenty-four straight hours and spends most of his time yowling and scratching at the kitchen door.) That means that going to the bathroom late at night is a bad idea because it will wake him up, freak him out, and precipitate a half-hour of door banging from the kitchen which is highly injurious to calm, anxiety-free sleep.
Still. I own a home. Yes!