It's been a week since that last fluttering, passing update which announced our continued survival and indeed, our arrival in Tennessee. And now, for the first time in the last seven days, I actually have (a). a few minutes to sit here and play catch-up, and (b). something to sit upon, which is a not-altogether untrivial factor in my failure to blog.

My husband and I have spent the last decade living in apartments smaller than 800 square feet (and sometimes as small as 430 sq. ft.), so you can safely deduce that we didn't have a lot of furniture to start with ... or, um ... any furniture except our bedroom set. So for most of this week, it's been an echo chamber up in here. We've had to run out and buy an entire household.

I never thought I'd see the day when I was sick to death of shopping; nay, the hunting and gathering instinct is strong in me. But right now, I am utterly wiped out by the hypothetical prospect of even darting down to the Walgreens (I know, I know, some things never change) for some face soap. I just can't stand the thought of it.

Therefore, I sit on this awesome new couch instead, trying to type around the fluffy round ass of a freshly flea-bathed house cat. But that's another story. I'll circle back around to it.

Yes, well.
We moved in.

Some lovely friends showed up to help us unload the truck, and in the wake of that, we spent a few days unpacking everything we'd unloaded; and then we bought more things to put places, and figured out all the small, weird, unexpected things we still needed; and then we went out and bought those things too.

The husband had a few Requirements, and I had made some Promises with regards to our lifestyle upon our return to Tennessee - not least of all that he could have the house's parlor for his study, complete with wingback chairs and whatnot; and also I vouched for the inevitability of a porch swing, since we have a lovely wrap-around porch to accommodate that sort of swinging.

Naturally, the chairs and the swing were the most grueling items to acquire. Wingbacks because they're a bit out of date, and the porch swing ... shit, I don't know. You tell me! This is southern Tennessee at the start of summer - yet whenever we inquired after a swing, people acted like we'd asked for some crayons so we could make soup.

Eventually we found our way to a big patio-specific retail location, and we unlocked achievement: porch swing. But it shouldn't have taken four days, fer chrissake.

The wingbacks I eventually found in a truly hilarious showroom out near the mall. I've driven by it a million times, assuming it was closed - an inexplicably abandoned piece of prime real estate, with a huge parking lot in which I'd never seen another car. But Thursday, on a whim, I thought I'd give them a try.

The salesman who greeted me was a charmingly cadaverous older fellow, a genteel southern Lurch in an ascot. I told him I was looking for wingback chairs. He nodded slowly, lifted one long finger, and curled it - telling me to follow him.

I did follow him, wending my way through a tasteful collection of what might best be described as "new old-fashioned" fine furnishings.* (I don't mean to sound disparaging, because that isn't the intent - what I mean to say is this: I love old-fashioned styles, and I was thrilled to see that someone, somewhere, still makes these things.) And there, in that weird gallery that felt peculiarly out-of-time, I found the husband's dream chairs. We bought them. They arrived the next day. And now the whole parlor smells pleasantly of good leather.

Yesterday, our bed arrived. This was somewhat momentous, because in the entire time the husband and I have lived together, we've never had a proper bed.** Best of all, we didn't have to put it together! I say "best of all" because I've long said that I would be a Real Grown Up on the day I owned furniture I hadn't been forced to assemble. The bed was the last major item, and so far, we haven't assembled a damn thing.

[:: fist pumps ::]

Around dusk, I met a couple of our next-door neighbors - a guy about our age and his toddler daughter. They brought cookies! They came inside for awhile, and then we went out on the porch and watched bats fly out of the belfry at a nearby church. It was delightful.

But yesterday wasn't all wine and roses. Yesterday we learned that the house's previous owners - a lovely couple who we liked quite well - left us one ... icky ... little ... present. By accident, no doubt. But it's the gift that keeps on giving. To our cat.

Fleas.

The kitty had been acting weird since shortly after we arrived, but hey, no shock there, right? She began shedding like a fiend, and horking up hairballs so massive I swear to fucking God this one time I thought she'd eaten a bunny. Of course, it's late spring/summer here, and she'd been losing her "winter coat" even in Seattle; and obviously there'd been a lot of upheaval in her recent life. We thought she was stress-grooming.

Nope. Fleas.

I discovered the fleas while my husband was out running errands. So I called him (repeatedly) trying to walk him through the supplies required to rid her of the problem. Apparently I'm the only dumbass on earth who didn't know you could get Advantage at any petstore these days, so thanks for bringing me up to speed, Twitter and/or Facebook. The name-calling really wasn't necessary, but up yours, too, haters.

Eventually the husband returned with a bottle of good flea shampoo, some spray, and a six-month supply of Advantage For Large Cats. (Over 9 pounds, that is.) The For Large Cats bit is important, because Spain weighs almost 12 pounds - as we know for a fact, given that we just took her to the vet less than a month ago.

Not that I could convince anyone of it. Not with pictures like these. It's funny, how much tinier she looks when wet - but I promise you, that is a very large sink. And she is, in fact, a total fatty. My husband's big-ass hands are just hiding the folds of tummy chub.

Before long, the worst was over. She recovered her dignity swiftly, and seems much happier today. Mission accomplished.

Hm. What else?

Well, I painted my office - which once was a kids' bedroom, and a shade of yellow that I just wasn't "feeling." It's now a soft lavender, with a lot of black and gray and white furnishings, and an awesome daybed. Frankly, it's an eldergoth paradise. I am proud of my handiwork.

The Perplexing Back Room will remain a game room/guest space/whatever for awhile. Our plans to yank out the carpet, throw down hardwood, and make a formal dining room came into conflict with our budget, but such is the way of things. Right now it's The Cat's Room, and also the room where we store everything we're too lazy to tote all the way out to the garage.

The Unfortunate Master Bath remains unfortunate. But you know what? Everything works, and it's a large space with a spacious linen closet and also, um, the household fuse boxes. Not the first place you'd look for fuse boxes, no, but the house was added-on-to in the thirties, and the bathroom used to be the exterior wall of the house. So we have fuse boxes in the bathroom, okay? They're in a closet. We keep the closet shut. It's not an issue. It's just kind of funny.

My next post will probably be about the Unfortunate Master Bath. There will be pictures. Undignified pictures. Stay tuned.

But for now, I think this post has run long enough. Thanks for being patient with me, and thanks for reading; thanks for all the well-wishes and congrats, and I'll be back online tomorrow. Still playing catch-up, sure. But I'll be back.

:)

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* If you're any fan of Faulkner, it'd be 100% accurate to say that Miss Emily would have shopped the ever-living shit out of this place.

** Proper bed: Mattress, boxsprings, headboard/footboard. We've never had anything but the mattress/boxspring on rails, except for one brief, unpleasant foray into one of Ikea's low-slung, boxless sleeping systems. Which was awful.