What a week. What a motherfucking week.

On Sunday, we slept for the first time in what I now have several reasons to think of and will continue to refer to Mayberry, RFD. We’ve time warped into a 1950s sitcom village. It just ain’t right. But, anyway, we slept here.

And we woke up here. Apparently, we’re now living here.

And, on Tuesday, we watched some serious history being made. I pretty much had given up on ever voting for a winner after eight years of hating my country for it’s almost majority choices. In 2000, I sat up all night and into the next 17 days, thinking who are the fuckers who voted for this man and knowing and believing that not as many folks, in fact, had. In 2004, I was distraught, disheartened and incredulous that anyone could see the prior four years and the quickly devolving war and go for more.

This election, though, holy shit, I really do feel “hope.” That’s a change.

There is nothing else I can really add that hasn’t been said better by others. So, onto the mundane.

If you want to see the destruction and reconstruction of moving day on Sunday, it’s here. Unbelievably, we got it done. I even eventually got caught up at the paying job after taking a couple of days off and stressing out. It took me until late today, but I’m actually feeling mildly less jangled. God, I fucking hate moving.

We’re ass deep in boxes and will have to stay that way, because we have to fly out to a trip to Vegas we started booking (and paying for) well before the house-buying notion became an idea, let alone a reality. We’ll also need plenty of time to be able to remember where the light switches are, figure out the doors and locks, and generally navigate around not as visitors but as owners.

We’re just not yet suburban homeowners to our cores. For example, there was the Halloween raccoon incident — When we foolishly left out candy for possible trick or treaters, and I showed up the next day to find a porch full of tooth-mark-studded Milk Duds. Experienced suburbanites know about the critters.

Tonight, we got a little lost wandering the streets of identical tract houses. We knew we had gone too far when we hit the creek and saw a pasture with horses.

On Tuesday, it was my leaving the garage door wide open all damn day, because I forgot to press the little clicker button as I drove away. From up the street as I was coming home, I smacked myself on the forehead realizing about nine hours too late the error of my ways. Within seconds of pulling into the driveway, our new neighbor just the other side of the garage I had neglected came rushing up to introduce herself and let me know that her husband had been home a chunk of the day and kept an eye out.

I’m living in a neighborhood where our two, not inexpensive bikes, in plain view, unlocked, in a wide-open garage, stayed there all the damn day and into the dark of night unmolested. Who are these people?

Topping that off on the way to work the next day, I stopped for fossil fuels to fire up my vehicle and make the new commute. As I pumped my gas and thought about nothing but the smell of the large, iced coffee on my passenger seat, up popped John. I call him “John,” because that was the name on the patch on his clean uniform shirt. John proceeded to wash all my windows, my windshield and my mirrors. He then wished me a good morning. I returned the sentiment and drove away.

Who knew there was any gas station left in the country pumping service with a smile? I only wish his name had been Gomer.

I’m becoming pretty suspicious. If things keep up this way, I’m certain an alien abduction or streets of cannibals can’t be far behind. Somewhere there is an ugly dark Steven King heart.

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