the best kind of date

Starts with a handshake and ends with a kiss. I'm just sayin'.

8 Weeks

Without the desert. Without the mountains. Without A. Without Casa 921. Without what had been a large chunk of my support system. Without the monsoons and every day sunshine. Without liberal hippiness that permeates everything. Without good Mexican food. Without Mexico a mere 70 miles away.

And surprisingly, I'm doing just fine. How are you?

I have many stories and observations and pictures to post, but little time in which to do so right now. We're heading into crunch time, or as I like to call it, We Are Effing Crazy Time. I finally moved into my real, permanent apartment yesterday and have begun the long, arduous task of unpacking and the not so arduous task of decorating. It's a little strange having been divorced from most my belongings for nearly 6 weeks. When I began hanging up my clothing in my giant walk-in closet, I found so many pieces I'd already forgotten I owned, merely because they've lived in suitcases for this last month and a half. Last night, I began unpacking my linens. When I opened the box, the freshly-laundered-6-weeks-ago sheets smelled movingly familiar--of Alison and Aaron and Casa 921 all rolled together. And this morning, as I arranged my books on the built in bookshelves in my bedroom, it was like running into hundreds of close friends.

More later, friends. I miss you all.