What a long day, a long weekend and a long week of prep. Closing the door on the old place, it was looking like it would need more than the Maid Brigade M. had already called. Although the remnants were merely paper and trash and detritus from living daily.

We’re here now. Hard by the Pacific Ocean. We’re in the suburban dream that I fled, a fast and decades long flight. The kind of neighborhood with kids playing football in the street and seriously hardcore Halloween decorations. Actually the hardness and coreness of the decorations gives me hope. You got to be a bit of a step from Stepford to climb on the roof and line up giant spiders crawling from the foundation, up the exterior walls to chimney.

The moving truck out front was the sad beacon that alerted the ‘hood to our new presence. John next door was carrying a pizza with toy boys trailing. As I drove up like maybe 10-15 minutes after M., he’d already heard that John was divorced and his ex lived a couple streets away with the boys and shared custody. Holy shit, it couldn’t have been 90 seconds of instant suburb intimacy.

Later that same day, Eileen the neighborhood watcher, who the prior owners had told us about introduced herself. She’s been here 54 years and knows the dope on all the houses. Our update was only two other couples had lived in this place, a young couple who left long enough ago for the next couple to live here 30 years. Followed by the non-dwelling flippers, who she let us know worked morning and night on the place.

It’s like I moved into a fake sitcom America. Only thing keeping this world from being Sarah Palin’s America is the distinctive left tilt — Obama signs and “No on Prop 8.” Thank fucking christ.

We have one room stacked high with boxes. I saw deep in the box that says “Dee’s clothes inc. underwear.” It worries me to have to dig deep for clean panties.

The HD cable is seemingly well-connected and the intertubes, hence this weblogging thang. The sofa, though, has apparently fallen prey to appendicitis. At least that ultimately was the story when we both tag-team called Macy’s and finally got an answer as to when/if the couch would be delivered. Salesperson James apparently didn’t get through placing our order into some delivery system before being stricken. Alas.

Hope James is alright.

It will be a long slog getting stuff out of boxes and into normal. It will likely be a longer slog to feel “home,” mortgage payment or no. But, home it is and will be.

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