We have arrived. At the new apartment, at least.
Everything is in except for the living room furniture, which is coming tomorrow. That is not to say we have completely "moved in." Our clothes are still scattered across the bedroom floor, the refrigerator is empty save for a six-pack of beer and half a bottle of wine, and this month's bills are hiding somewhere in all the mess. As far as I'm concerned, the bills can stay hidden, but the rest of my stuff has to be in order before I feel truly at home.
I love living on Main Street. The past couple of nights, without television or computers, we've sat by the windows and watched people walk by. Saturday night is amateur night; people from neighboring towns, dressed in suits, wandering in and gawking at the lesbians walking hand in hand. The noise from the street is loud, so for sleeping I've rediscovered earplugs, Flent's Stopples, and man do those things block out noise. They're really quite disgusting, waxy little plugs, but they're far more effective than foam plugs, which always end up popping out of my ears in mid-sleep. The added bonus is I no longer have to listen to Jeff snore, or wake him up in the middle of the night to move to "non-snoring position," which is really just spooning. It gets him off his back, stops the racket for a while.
Jeff bought a bottle of wine last night to celebrate our moving in together. (Actually, it was the second try; I'd smashed the first bottle on Sunday trying to move it to the apartment. Yes, I'm that clumsy. Shards of glass on the cement and a stream of wine running down the road. Hi, I'm your new neighbor.) He left the bottle on the kitchen table next to a card he'd bought for me at the Dali museum in Florida. It was the most traditionally romantic thing he'd ever done.
Mind you, I'm not one for hearts and flowers and big sappy displays either. I was married by a Justice of the Peace, in a private room, a 45-second ceremony at most, and I still blushed and stammered through my short vows. I have been to weddings with the bride and groom reading personal and touching original vows, gazing into each other's eyes and crying in front of the audience, and I don't get it.
Hand me a beer, scoot over on the couch, and scratch my back. Most of the time, that's all the romance I need. If you really wanna go over the top, put Dylan on the turntable and watch me swoon.
I'm exhausted. Bear with me. I'm waiting to become interesting.
