Halcyon evening

We busted our butts, and I think it was worth it. The real estate agent came by tonight to take photos/footage. (I wasn't home at the time, or I would have snarked, "The house is ready for its close-up, Mr. DeMille!" which would probably have earned me a scowl or blank looks--either one deserved.) Dearest, however, reports that she was pleased, judging by her "You guys have been busy!" comment.

Such ridiculousness, this charade of living in a dollhouse while it's liable to be looked at. But if that's what tips the balance in a buyer's mind, I refuse to feel like a fraud: "Never tell the truth to anyone not worthy of it." Or something like that.

Still so much to do...but right now I'm savoring the milestone...and the illusion that it's all a downhill coast from here--with sun and flower-scented breeze at our backs, no less. Now to bed, and, hopefully a smidgeon of decompression/healing.

Forward momentum

There's just something inexpressibly sad about packing up books. It's like telling friends that you don't have time for them right now, and honestly don't know when you'll be able to get together with them. Packing the dollhouse I've had since grade school is a bit rough too--that's become a de facto symbol of having roots in the ground.

I'm not sniveling, mind you. Not in the wake of taping up U-Haul boxes a week ago with nothing less than fierce joy. The pace of this week will be nothing short of grueling--with Dearest bearing more of the brunt of it than I. Then again, pound-for-pound, working for me and mine always spices the exhaustion with exhilaration.