Home is where the bookshelves are.

I'm a good girl. Last night, I began poking around amongst my friends, looking for companionship and distraction. I was fully prepared to go out and make a night of it, despite the responsibilities that loom at home. But fortunately for me, no one was to be found or to be enticed. So I spent the whole of the evening moving furniture and unpacking stemware and putting books on shelves and talking on the phone and just generally getting a lot done and feeling good about it. I think I pulled a muscle in my neck moving those nightmarish bookshelves that cause me so much woe during my move. It's my own fault, though. I was ambivalent about where I would place them, so I had my dad set them up in the guest bedroom, but I was never happy with them in there, and I ended up moving them last night back into the dining room, which is where I think I originally imagined they would go. Serves me right. I guess I had contemplated buying a wall unit or a china cabinet or something, but that doesn't seem to be getting any forward motion. And, of course, it occurs to me that I shouldn't burden myself with a whole heap of space-hogging furniture when I can probably expect not to live in this apartment for the rest of my life. Even my little dining table, which had looked so insufficient in the middle of the huge lot of dining room I have, looked modest but acceptable when I finished with everything. And I've cleared it off so that a meal can actually be had at it. That's splendid, I think. I've had too many meals on my lap in front of the computer or at the coffee table. That's not living.

So, bravo for accomplishment, even of things mundane and seemingly unfulfilling. More needs to be said about the value of having a comfortable living space. As I make this place more and more my own, it welcomes me commensurately. And I have been in need of that.

If only a little flock of elves would sneak in while I sleep and make me a bunch of curtains.