Movin' and Groovin'

O faithful blog readers! How patient you have been.

I have existed this past week in limbo - a confusing whirlwind of cardboard boxes filled with my beloved possessions, unsure where to sleep, without such things as the internets or television sets, and somehow settling in what still feels like a stranger's home.


I now live on the lovely third floor of a charming brick building near adorable shops, and a mere moment's bike ride from downtown. The neighbourhood is swarming with both hippies and yuppies, who seem to coexist seamlessly among in a way I can't quite comprehend.


The particular apartment in which I now dwell and dance is a one bedroom beige-thing. I, being too lazy to paint it, have been feeling a little lost amidst that atrociously dull colour. However, over the past several days, due to my painstaking moving and decorating efforts, I can begin to feel a sense that this place may someday feel homey. The kitchen is too new for my antique-lusting taste, and there is a fireplace that doesn't quite fit my simple lifestyle, but I feel silly complaining about luxuries.


Besides, the remote-controlled gas fireplace is central to my planned seductive routine to turn the place into a sex-lair, preceeded by a dimming of the lights, and followed by the click of another remote cuing Marvin Gaye's Let's Get it On.


My favourite nook is undoubtedly the front closet - now an oasis of beautiful vintage accessories and jackets. The density of all the loveliness, like the beautiful pashminas a friend brought back from Qatar for me, the ever-expanding collection of cute clutches, the jackets an coats from the 1970s that all seem to fit me perfectly, the pretty vintage silk scarves, the gigantic sunglasses, the fabulous opera gloves, and shoes, oh god the shoes, all make me as happy as I hope you can imagine.


Moving, I have learned, is a difficult task for a stubborn and independent broad like me. I recommend to all obstinate introverts to suck it up and ask for help when you move. It's been a hellish week carload, box by box, climbing the stairs, and putting each beloved object in its place, alone.


I hope to never see a cardboard box again, save the one upon which my wineglass rests on my afternoon-sun-soaked balcony.