It is not happy making in my little brain when writing falls on my “to do” list and doesn’t feel like anything I want to make done. Generally, it means shit I no likey has overwhelmed that funny little thing called joy.

M. is making me totally dig the moving thing. He’s like an entire season of the Jeffersons just moving on up. Heretofore, the man has been only vaguely interested in home furnishings and what not. You might have read about nesting? He’s veritably gathering twigs and grass as I write this sentence.

(OK, I’m lying, it’s unlikely we will furnish with sticks. And, if offspring is implied, no, that’s not happening either. I mean, unless he’s smuggling in an orphan I don’t know about.)

His optimism, while incomprehensible to my brain, is something to behold.

Finally, I haven’t written about the decline and fall of our current address. Nick hasn’t mentioned any nibbles on renting, but the signs and portents of his invading our space are ongoing. Seriously, you don’t have the personality for being a landlord if you are so OCD that you have to move charcoal from one side of a patio to another in some incomprehensible pattern.

But, the beauty of our moving is the actual decay we’ll be leaving. The other morning we got in the car to find this sight:

The carport is collapsing in chunks of plaster it would seem. Rats from a sinking ship I think.