Something nags at me to sit down in this space and type a bunch of letters that make sense. So.
Isn't there some rule where you shouldn't work on two houses simultaneously? We're nearly finished with the seven-year excavation of the Brandon Street house basement; this afternoon I got all the way down to vinyl, which I mopped, until the mop did itself in. This is the rule: stuff fluffs. When you think you're finally done with most of the stuff, the remaining stuff plumps up to fill the newly vacated spaces. It's not just a rule: it's a law. The Law of Stuff Plumping. My advice? Throw it away. Now.
My son informed me that the furnace died today, and I discovered that the main floor shower is leaking and rotting out the floor. (%$#&*$!) (But mostly just $$$.) (Again: #%$&*#!)
The Redmond house, where I actually do most of my living, is boxed and dismantled for painters. And then it will be the wood-floor refinishers, and then the carpet installers. It will be beautiful, eventually. But the general lack of order and disarray addles my brain. This morning I continually tripped on box edges, caught my elbow on stacks of bowls sticking out from where they don't belong. At one point, fallen nearly face-flat, I decided it was wise to just lie there and straighten my banged knee for a few moments, let the sharp sting of the tumble pass. All balance is askew, all centers tilted to the left.
But the good news is that Spring has officially kicked Winter off the calendar. Not much in the way of seedlings in the garden yet -- a few straggly daffs, some teensy violas. And we have new neighbors -- from Hungary -- who pre-empted us yesterday in the Welcome Wagon department when they showed up at the door with a plate of Hungarian apple cake. Neighbors! Friendly neighbors! Almost feels like I'm back on Brandon Street.