The weirdest part about being in a new house is the sounds. I hear kids laughing and falling down and riding bikes. And we have birds, so many birds. Our next door neighbor is one million years old and deaf, she's lived in the house next door since it was a chicken farm and there were no other houses for acres around, her stories fill afternoons. High school boys walk thru the alley in baseball uniforms on their way to games at the ball fields a block away. I can see the neighborhood kids congregate through my kitchen window. On a sunny Saturday you can hear the crack of their bats and the cheer of their families. Instead of walking to work I now take the bus which is both amazing (I can read twice as much now) and annoying (seriously, can't you just show up on time and please can the other people waiting for the bus not be icky dudes who leer at me? Please!). Oh yeah and I have a garden. A real honest to goodness garden with herbs and flowers and vegetables and blueberries of course. I have a gardening knee pad and gardening gloves and gardening tools. Our front yard is like an oasis in the desert. Everything smells amazing (lavender, rosemary, fresh cut grass, roses, strawberries, tomatoes) and you can kindof sink into a sunbeam and feel like the city and everything involved does not exist. After a week of being here I already know every creaky board and crack in the wall. Home has been redefined. The bluejay, the grass, the worms in the earth, the basement door and every creaky board is ours and that feels amazing in a huge way. If the house starts caving in I will do everything I can to hold it up. I love it. Its part of our family now. I love it even though the bathroom is so small you have to sit sideways on the toilet and there are slugs in the yard because its my family and you forgive those little indiscretions.
For every box I pack I spend an equal amount of time not packing. Every box is color coded with the room it's contents contain. In my mind I have already unpacked at the new house and everything has its place. Every object I wrap up in newspaper and every book I box up has its own spot. The Seattle Worlds Fair glasses that Jenny & Robin gifted us from their wedding are perfectly arranged on the display shelves in the kitchen. The curtains I've picked out have been hemmed and hung in the kitchen. Our honeymoon polaroids will live above our desk in the office and all of our records, books, notes and records will be stored in the custom built in my dad & I will design on the opposite wall. My mason jars full of cotton balls, Q-Tips, make-up brushes, and earrings will sit in order on the bathroom shelf. My corkboard will hang in the kitchen by the fridge. The living room will house all of our bigger books, our best pictures and a new tv. But I digress, I've already wasted time by planning our guest bedroom and typing this post. All of my fabric and sewing supplies are awaiting boxes (they will end up in the basement on my soon to be sewing station) and they won't pack themselves.
Tonight we offered our hearts in hope of a house. Cross all fingers, toes, hearts, hands, legs, knees, ribbons, laces, and more for us (we're going to need it).
My birthday this year was very quiet. French toast and milk. Mexican food and margaritas. Lily and Erik. I will celebrate more later this week. In the meantime I will walk around the neighborhood in my new boots, listening to Zooey Deschanel on my headphones and make lists for NYC.
