The problem with hosting a party is that once all the guests have left, one is morally obligated to eat any remaining food.
I hosted a party today at Trout Towers. There were several people coming who I had never met, which always makes me nervous. The timing was perfect, though, because I was getting into one of those un-nesting moods.
Do birds do that? The ones who reuse their nests, I mean. Do they occasionally look around and say, "who put this twig and bit of string here and why?!?!" Then they rip the whole silly thing apart and get rid of all the discarded feathers and old socks and straighten up a bit?
That's the mood I've been in.
I filled a contractor's bag and sent it out the door with the Upstairs Neighbor who reported that it made dingalingalingaling sounds all the way to the dump. Fortunately, Studley and Sugarplum were not within earshot to identify the broken but not quite dead toy. Do birds catch grief from their families when they un-nest?
I spent yesterday clearing and organizing and, finally, hanging pictures. I was not embarrassed when friends of friends showed up at my house and saw Trout Towers for the first time - which is new for me. And then of course the people who have been here before showed up and said OH MY GOD WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR HOUSE? which totally blew my cover.
Now I'm the only one awake (and that barely), sitting in my livingroom, listening to music and enjoying my house. Finally. Why did it take so long to feel at home in this particular part of the house?
I just rifled through some of my posts from last summer, trying to find one that explains how we moved downstairs so we could take better care of my mother-in-law. Trout Towers is a two story home with a full kitchen on each floor, making it possible to live away from one's in-laws if one so chooses. This is what we did for years, until we were needed. So we packed up and came downstairs, after stripping every surface and painting everything that didn't get out of our way. Sorry, slow-moving mice.
I couldn't find an authoritative post because oh my lord. It took at least a month to get things moved out so we could move in. And then I was all "honey! sand faster! paint already!" while Chris pretended he couldn't hear me over the sander. He picked a fine time to start being a perfectionist, let me tell you.
Why the rush? Our friends, The Upstairs Neighbors, needed a place to live. And because our home is bigger than it needs to be, we invited them to take over the upstairs while they were looking for more permanent digs. They were moving things in, up the outside staircase, while we were moving things out, down the inside staircase. Having them here has sweetened the deal in so many respects, there are not enough keys on this keyboard to explain sufficiently.
And yet, almost a year later, it didn't feel like home. And now it does. And for this, I am grateful.
And exhausted. And uncomfortably full of feta dip.