So the move-from-Hell is done. The last five days feel like 50, and we're still not completely unpacked yet.
Aside from a dresser drawer, nothing got broken, so there's that. But wow, do I have too much stuff.
The one thing about moving into what turns out to be a smaller place than the last one (I warned by wife, but she liked too much else about the place) is that it forces you to unpack quickly, find a place for everything, and get rid of anything that doesn't have a place.
Which wasn't the case with the last apartment, that had been closets that boxes could disappear into.
So we're making things fit. Initially we crammed the futon into the living room with the couch, but it didn't really fit. Then someone else moving into this building offered us a loveseat that he didn't have room for, so we swapped it out for the futon.
We left the futon near an elevator, with a note in the elevator stating that it was a good futon, and that someone should take it. It was gone within an hour.
So the circle of life continues.
We have two parakeets, and I drove them over one night with their cage in the backseat. I probably should have covered the cage, because soon they were clinging to the side nearest to me, giving me this frightened what-the-hell look.
I briefly worried that they'd never be the same, but I decided that maybe that was a good thing, since the female wouldn't get close to me anyway, and the male is a finger-biter. So rebooting the birds can't hurt, though now they just seem more nervous.
My ankle healed enough so that I could do way too much work during the move, though as soon as the move was over I tweaked it again, and I'm largely back on one crutch again. But it's healing.
I haven't had a chance to do any work, or any writing. But if you sent me a script for notes, I should be turning it around soon.
I also haven't had a chance to see any movies, at all. So I need to spend a day this weekend sneaking around a multiplex.
Otherwise... it's 2008. I have a double-handful of scripts in various stages of completion, and it's time to hammer them out, and then sell one.
If this writer's strike ever ends.
Too much to do, no time to do any of it.
But at least we're out of Woodland Hills.