Moving Update, or "Where Did She Learn to Talk Like That?"

Thanks for all the warm anniversary wishes!  The week since my last post has been a whirlwind of unpacking, shifting, sorting, arranging, rearranging, swearing, rubbing Icy Hot on aching muscles, applying cold packs to sore bruises, swearing some more, scrubbing out appliances that were left in less than pristine condition (understatement of the year) by the people who lived here before, still more swearing, and cleaning and painting our loft back in Massachusetts so that our new tenant won't have to do as much swearing as I've done over the past week.  Seriously, I'm starting to sound like a sailor.   

Moving was easier when we were 23.  Our muscles and bones were still made of rubber, and we owned a mattress, some books, a lamp or two, and couple of pairs of Doc Martin's that we'd bought slowly, painstakingly on layaway with little bits and pieces of our tiny paychecks.  Twenty years later, we own far, far too much stuff, and our bodies seem to have transformed into wood (creaky knees and back) held together with random bits of wire and knotted string.  I feel this morning like a bedraggled puppet and am telling myself a long walk along the ocean later will improve all.

My physical condition may be a little fragile this morning, but my spirits are high.  How could they be otherwise?  Seagulls, fresh tomatoes from the neighborhood market, sunshine on the porch, and a day ahead of me slated for organizing my new study (which Todd has dubbed The Magpie's Workshop).  Hot damn!  

See, there I go again with the swearing.